Artemis

  The stables smelled of hay and damp earth, the chill of morning still clinging to the air. A lantern guttered low, throwing a thin gold on dust and plank walls. My breath fogged when I spoke to my horse, and his ears flicked, patient as stone.

  I’d been there before first light, my horse already saddled, tack checked twice, then a third time. Leather creaked under my palm, oiled and familiar. I ran a cinch, tugged the breast-strap, slid a finger under the girth, checked the bit ring and the stitching along the reins. I wiped a fleck of grit from the stirrup and did it all again. The motions kept my hands busy, even if my thoughts refused to still.

  Her words from the night before hadn’t left me. I don’t need you stepping in every time someone looks my way.

  They pressed like a blade against my ribs, sharp and unrelenting.

  Maybe she was right. Maybe she didn’t need me, not the way she thought. What future was there in leaning on someone like me? I’d lived too long on the road, carrying more scars than stories, leaving wreckage behind me whether I meant to or not. I’d seen what being close to me cost others. Even now, with her, every step I took seemed to draw danger closer.

  And there was the other truth, the one I couldn’t speak. If she knew what I was – what I truly was – would she still look at me the same way? Or would she see only the years between us, the weight I’d carried long before she was born? I could shoulder a hundred wounds without flinching, but not that. Not the moment she turned from me because she finally understood.

  The sound of boots on packed dirt drew me out of it. Celeste stepped into the aisle, her hood pushed back, the ruby at her throat catching in a stray shaft of light. She didn’t look at me at first, just at the stall where her mare waited, pawing restless at the straw.

  She moved with practiced efficiency, brushing down the mare, checking the cinch, but her motions were too quick, almost sharp. The brush snagged once in the mare’s mane and she yanked harder than needed before smoothing it with a guilty pat. Her jaw stayed tight, lips pressed thin, shoulders rigid under her cloak. Even her steps were clipped, boots striking harder than the hushed quiet of the stables called for.

  She kept her eyes on the leather and buckles, never on me. But the stiffness in her back, the way she pulled the reins a fraction too taut before loosening them again, spoke louder than words.

  A silence hung heavy between us, thicker than the scent of hay.

  “You meant what you said.”

  Her voice cut through the quiet. Not loud, not sharp, just steady, as though she’d been holding it since last night.

  I tightened the last strap on my horse before I answered. “I meant enough.”

  She paused, one hand on the reins. “Then why are you still here?”

  A hundred answers pressed against my teeth, all of them wrong. I’d tried to leave before dawn, but every step away twisted into something I couldn’t stomach. That I knew where she was heading – toward walls and chains she couldn’t tear down alone. That the thought of her falling back into the hands of men who would break her, cage her, strip the light from her again was more than I could bear.

  But it wasn’t just the fortress. It was me. The years… and the life I’d carved alone on the road, the scars I carried that never stopped taking from those near me. I could bear her anger, but I couldn’t bear the look she might give if she knew the truth and decided she wanted no part of it.

  For a hearbeat, I almost told her anyway. That I couldn’t leave because the thought of her chained again would kill me faster than any blade.

  But I didn’t say it. I couldn’t.

  “The roads don’t care what we meant,” I said instead, flat. “It only keeps going.”

  Her eyes narrowed, searching mine, but I gave her nothing more. She swung into the saddle without another word. I mounted beside her, the silence between us as sharp as any blade, and together we rode out of Asholt with the morning mist curling low across the fields.

  We rode in silence. The road stretched long and narrow through the fields, wagon ruts filling with water from the night before, mud clinging to the hooves of our horses. The mist burned away slow, giving way to a gray sky heavy with clouds.

  She didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at her. Every word from last night pressed between us like a wall neither of us would climb.

  By midday the air shifted. A cold wind swept low across the fields, carrying the smell of rain before the first drop even struck. The sky darkened in slow degrees, heavy clouds sagging low, and the horses grew restless under the pressure.

  The rain started in scattered drops, soft at first, soaking into the ruts and grass. Then the storm broke all at once, a hammering downpour that slicked the road into mud and sent rivulets coursing off the fields. Water ran from the horses’ manes, plastered their ears flat, and streamed down our cloaks in cold sheets. Celeste hunched deeper in her saddle, her mare tossing its head at the sudden downpour.

  I kept my eyes ahead, knuckles tight on the reins. I almost let her fight it. Almost. She’d made her stance clear enough last night, and pride cut sharper than any rain. But the sight of her cloak sodden, hair plastered to her face, shoulders bowed under the weight of it. Something in me twisted. For a flicker of a moment, I saw her not on the road but in a cell again, water dripping from stone, her breath shuddering in the dark. The thought gutted me.

  With a breath, I nudged my horse closer, lifted my hand once, then let it fall again. The air bent to me, the rain curving as though it struck glass. A thin barrier shimmered around us both, dulling the storm to a muted hiss.

  Her head turned sharply. “How are you doing that? You’re not even…” She lifted her hands slightly. “You’re not holding your hands to keep casting.”

  “Not holding it, no.” I said. “At least, not with my arms.”

  Her brow furrowed. “So you can just… make it happen? Without channeling it down your arms? What about the lessons?”

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  “It isn’t that simple.” The barrier flexed under another hard gust, the water breaking and sliding off its curve. “Most casters can refine their control to a point. A skilled Wind Caster might blow across his lips and stir a breeze without lifting a hand. But the strength won’t match what he could summon through his arms.”

  She studied me, her voice low against the patter of rain. “But you could. Stronger than that.”

  I kept my eyes on the road. “Stronger, yes. My vessel runs deeper than most. But even mine has its limits. A windstorm poured from my hands will always outmatch a gust from my lungs.”

  The silence stretched again. The rain hissed against the barrier, collapsing uselessly before it ever touched us. She stared at it like she could see the threads holding it together, her expression unreadable.

  “So… how are you keeping it steady?” she asked, her eyes flicking to the faint shimmer overhead. “You’ve held it this whole time. Where are you channeling it, if not through your arms?”

  Her tone wasn’t sharp now. More curious than anything, the same voice she used during our casting lessons.

  I breathed slow, feeling the current flow through me, steady as the rain. Teaching was simpler than untangling what lay between us. “You’re thinking of casting as if it starts in the hands,” I said. “That’s where most stop, because that’s all they’re taught. But the flow begins deeper, always. Each element moves differently through the body, and the body only shapes where it goes.”

  She frowned. “So it’s different for each element?”

  “It has to be.” I guided my horse around a rut, the barrier flexing to follow. “Fire pushes. It’s heat and pressure and it has to be vented, so casters drive it down their arms and out through their hands. Wind’s the same. Projection. That’s why most settle into that path, because it’s the cleanest outlet.”

  She thought on that, chewing her lip. “But water’s not the same.”

  “No,” I said. “Water isn’t just energy. It’s weight. Shape. A Water Caster can turn their energy into water just like a Fire Caster burns theirs into flame, but it doesn’t launch the same way. They can cast it out through their hands, but without something to push against, it falls flat. That’s why most of them rely on rivers or lakes. The bigger the source, the more they can command.”

  Celeste’s brow furrowed. “But that’s not what you did. During our fight with those bounty hunters, you made it out of nothing. Enough to stop three of them at once.”

  I felt her eyes on me, but I kept mine on the road. “Not nothing. There’s always moisture in the air, in the ground. I pulled it together, but that wasn’t enough on its own. The rest…” I let out a breath. “The rest I forced into place with my own casting. Think of it like a net.”

  Her brows knit.

  “You tie together what’s already there, strand by strand, but there are always gaps. Holes. I wove those spaces shut with my own energy, turning it into water. It’s hard to explain… closest I can come is saying I used fire’s path, the way a Fire Caster pushes outward, but I replaced the flame with water instead.”

  She blinked, silent a long moment, the rain sliding down the barrier around us. “So, you can break the rules.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Her gaze lingered on the faint shimmer overhead, the rain breaking and sliding down its curve instead of soaking us through. “I get the part of channeling,” she said finally. “But how are you holding it? You’ve kept it steady this whole time.”

  “Wind gives it shape,” I answered. “It bends the drops outward, pushes them away before they touch. But wind alone leaks. Always does. So I weave water through it. Thin enough to catch what slips through, to fill the gaps.”

  “So it’s both.”

  “Both,” I said. “One without the other would falter. Together, it holds.”

  She was quiet for a moment, watching the barrier as the rain hissed against it, sliding harmlessly to the ground. “Most casters couldn’t do that.”

  I let out a slow breath, some of the weight easing from my shoulders. “You’re right.”

  Her eyes flicked toward me, cautious but curious. “Could I? If I learned Water and Wind Casting, I mean”

  I glanced at her, then back to the road. “Maybe. Not yet. It takes refinement and control so fine, you can feel where the element frays and stitch it back together before it unravels. Most never reach that point.”

  She shifted a little on her saddle, though I saw the spark in her expression. “But you think I could.”

  I didn’t answer right away. The water continued to fall, steady and patient. “I think you could,” I said finally.

  The road stretched on, mud slick beneath the horses, the rain a steady whisper against the barrier. For once, the silence didn’t feel sharp.

  Celeste shifted again, knowing that meant another question was coming.

  “If it takes years for more to awaken, from training and the strain, then how long did it take you between them? How many years before you learned water, and then wind?”

  I glanced at her, the corner of my mouth tightening. “Wind came first.”

  Her brows lifted. “Oh. I thought–” She broke off, shaking her head. “Wind first, then. Still… how long between them?”

  I gripped the reins a little tighter. Fourteen years. But the number caught like a stone in my throat. Long enough for her childhood to pass. Long enough for the face of the man who taught me to fade to dust. I could almost hear his voice even now, sharp as gravel, pushing me past failure until I collapsed from the strain. He’d been dead for so long now, and still I carried his words like scars.

  But what good would that truth do her? What would she see in me if she knew that truth?

  “It’s not when you start that matters,” I said instead, keeping my voice even. “It’s how much you refine it.”

  Her mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing. “That’s not an answer.”

  I kept my gaze forward.

  She let out a sharp breath. “You always do this. Every time I ask you something real, you dodge it or twist it into some neat little lesson. And maybe that’s fair.” Her grip tightened on the reins, the leather creaking under her fingers. “I don’t really know you, not enough. Not yet. We’ve only been together for a short time, and I understand that.”

  Her voice dipped lower, frustration bleeding into something softer. “I just thought…” She shook her head, rain glinting off her hair. “I thought by now you’d trust me with more than riddles.”

  The silence stretched, heavy with the hiss of rain.

  When she spoke again, her voice was quieter still. “Maybe I rushed things. It all happened so suddenly, and maybe I read the wrong signals. I can live with being wrong about that.” Her grip tightened on the reins. “I don’t want to push you toward something you don’t want. I know too well what that feels like.”

  Her eyes flicked toward me, steady despite the softness in her tone. “But you’re the one who told me there couldn’t be half-truths between us. That this only works if we’re honest. So at least be honest with me now.”

  The reins creaked in my hands. For a long moment, I kept my eyes on the road. I’d fought casters stronger than me, survived chains and fire and blades, but nothing felt heavier than this.

  “Don’t twist my words,” I said at last, my voice low. “When I told you there couldn’t be half-truths between us, it wasn’t a bargain. It wasn’t me asking you to lay me bare. You think this short stretch between us is enough to undo a lifetime of silence? It isn’t. Trust doesn’t mean trading scars, Celeste. It means I keep mine buried so you don’t have to carry them.”

  Her brows knit faintly, confusion flickering in her eyes.

  “That was for you,” I went on, quieter. “For your training. For your casting. I can’t teach you if you’re hiding pieces of yourself, not when Ardor runs through you the way it does. I needed your honesty to keep you alive. But my secrets–” I let out a breath. “My secrets don’t change what you have to learn.”

  I drew in a short breath, the words dragging out of me like stones. “So don’t mistake this. I’ll give you every truth you need to survive, but not every truth I carry. Some things stay mine.”

  The barrier held, the rain bending off its curve in silver sheets, and the horses pressed on through the muck. For now, that was enough. Keep moving. Keep the storm at bay. That was all I could give her.

  But the silence between us was heavier than the storm itself, pressing down until every breath felt weighted. She didn’t speak again, and I didn’t risk a glance her way. If I looked, if I gave her even an inch more, I might unravel what little I’d managed to hold back.

  So I kept my eyes forward, fixed on the road vanishing into the downpour. Secrets had kept me alive this long. They would keep her alive, too, whether she hated me for them or not. Yet the thought sat like a stone in my chest: if the secret finally broke, it would strike harder than any flood.

  As always, thanks for reading!

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