Artemis
The sun finally found its way through the clouds by the time we reached the next village, though it didn’t feel like mercy. The light only made the dirt roads brighter, the roofs lower, and the faces at the edge of the street easier to read.
The road narrowed as we came towards the village. A child’s face flashed and vanished behind a curtain. Two crows sat the ridge-beam of a roof and didn’t bother to fly. We marched past a trough filmed with rain and oil where someone had washed blood from a knife and hadn’t scrubbed hard enough.
They’d heard us coming. Doors half shut, windows dark, the smell of bread still in the air but no one daring to sell it. Fear traveled faster than an army.
The column slowed at the edge of the square. A stone well stood in the middle, ringed with puddles and weeds, and a few figures waited near it as though they’d been standing there since dawn. One man stepped forward, a little stooped, clothes worn but clean. His eyes kept flicking toward the soldiers’ banners, then to the man on horseback at their center. He didn’t speak, not yet.
The Magister looked down from the saddle, the plume as high as his pride. I’d seen men speak faster under less weight. The trick of power was in how long you could let another man hang in his own fear.
The villager tried not to fidget, his hands folding and unfolding.
The silence stretched until it grew too heavy to bear.
“We’ve paid our dues this season,” the man began, voice tight with caution. “The last levy took more than we could spare.”
The Magister didn’t answer at once. The plume on his helm swayed faintly with the breeze, and the horse beneath him shifted, iron shoes thumping the ground underfoot. When he finally spoke, the sound cut through the square like something calculated and rehearsed.
“We’re not here for your coin,” he said, voice flat as stone. “We’re here to spend it. The Triarchy rewards truth in its subjects. Those who declare their gifts earn silver for their loyalty. Those who hide will serve without it.”
The words landed like a dropped blade. The man’s brow furrowed, confusion giving way to dread. “Men? But we’ve already… there was a conscription here not five months past. They took every name on the rolls.”
The Magister’s helm tilted a fraction, as if weighing the claim the way one might weigh grain.
“Then we’ll take what was missed,” he replied. “The Triarchy has learned from its mistakes. The first levies took volunteers and fools eager for pay. This one takes what’s useful.”
A low murmur rippled through the onlookers, head turning toward one another. I could feel the question moving through them – how far would useful reach?
The villager shook his head, hands half-raised in disbelief. “There’s no one left to give. You’ve stripped the fields bare.”
The Magister’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, though there was no warmth in it. “Then we’ll see which fields you’ve hidden.”
A gesture from his hand, and a rider dismounted. The soldier unlatched a small iron case from his saddle and set it down near the well with careful reverence. Its seams were banded with runes that caught the sunlight, pale and thin.
The Magister didn’t look at it. He didn’t need to. Every soldier within sight straightened, the easy posture of the column replaced by something taut and reverent. Even the air changed, thinner somehow, as though it knew what was about to be called out of it.
The elder took an uncertain step back, boots sucking at the mud. “We swear,” he said, voice catching. “There’s no one here who Casts.”
The Magister’s gaze found him. For a heartbeat, even the laughter of the soldiers fell away. “If that’s true,” he said, “then you have nothing to fear.”
A soldier knelt and unlatched the clasp. The case opened with a sound like a breath drawn through hollow metal. When the lid fell open, the thing inside caught the sun and turned it sickly. The Stone wasn’t smooth but fractured, its veins glowing dull red as if blood still moved through them.
The nearest villagers edged back, their reflections caught faintly in its surface.
The Magister dismounted, the motion unhurried. His boots struck the mud with a sound too soft for the weight it carried.
“Once more,” he said, his voice even. “If any among you Cast, step forward and you will be paid for your honesty.”
No one moved. The square might as well have turned to stone. A woman clutched a child tighter. Muted whispers went through the crowd.
“Very well.”
He gestured with two fingers, and the soldiers moved. They seized a man near the front – a farmer by the look of him, well-built but hollow-eyed, hands still rough with work. He struggled once before the haft of a spear drove him to his knees.
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“Are you a Caster?” the Magister asked.
The man shook his head, voice breaking. “No, my lord, I swear it. I’ve no gift.”
“Do you know of any who are?”
His gaze darted through the crowd and then fell to the mud. For a moment his mouth worked soundlessly, torn between fear and something like guilt. “No,” he said at last.
The Magister’s tone didn’t change. “We’ll see.”
The soldier beside the iron case drew in a breath and laid his palm against the Stone. A faint hum rose, the red veins inside flaring to life, crawling like molten thread through obsidian. Another soldier forced the farmer’s hand down beside his. The glow deepened, pulling at the air between them.
At first, nothing. Then the Stone shuddered.
The sound it made wasn’t loud, as though it was felt more than heard, a vibration thrummed the air. The farmer convulsed, his back arching as though struck by lightning. A small light bled from his palm, stretching thin like mist. The glow brightened for a heartbeat and then died.
The man slumped forward.
The Magister watched him for a moment.
“Pity,” he said.
Two soldiers dragged the body aside. Mud streaked his face, his eyes stayed open, reflecting the red still fading in the Stone.
No one spoke. The crowd had gone still in that particular kind of silence that follows a scream you never let out.
I’d seen death before, but the order of it sat wrong in my gut.
The village elder took a faltering step forward, mud tugging at his boots. His voice shook, raw with fear. “Please. There’s no need for more. We’ll pay anything.”
The Magister turned his gaze toward him, unreadable behind the half-mask of his command helm. For a long moment, he said nothing. The rain had stopped, but the square still smelled of it.
“Anything?” The single word came quiet, more curious than cruel.
The elder swallowed, his voice barely more than breath. “Whatever you ask.”
The Magister studied him for a long, thin moment. The air between them felt like it was waiting for something to break. When he finally spoke, the edge in his tone was almost polite.
“Then let’s speak of what that means.”
He dismounted with deliberate ease and passed his reins to a nearby soldier. The leather slapped against the man’s palm, startingly loud in the stillness. Without another word, the Magister started up the road.
The elder followed, stumbling through the mud after him, his hands knotting and unkotting as he went, as if he was unsure whether he was praying or bargaining. The two disappeared toward the largest house at the far end of the square, shutters drawn tight.
The door closed behind them with a sound that carried through the silence, soft but hollow. The silence held for a long time after the door closed. Even the crows had gone quiet.
The soldiers waited at first, uncertain whether to hold formation or rest. Then, little by little, order began to fray. Helmets came off. Weapons leaned against carts. Someone laughed too loud, another spat into the mud and muttered something about the smell of the place.
“Guess the old man found his spine after all,” one said, voice thick with mockery.
The rest took the hint. A pair began rummaging through the wagons, knocking aside tools and grain sacks as if searching for contraband. One pulled down a length of cloth from a line and wiped his blade with it, smirking when a villager flinched.
The villagers stayed still, faces empty, every motion calculated not to draw notice.
That was when a soldier near the horses straightened, younger than the others, his cloak pinned with a silver clasp marked by a narrow triangular crest. Lieutenant.
He didn’t shout. Just looked at them, and they went still one by one.
“Hold formation,” he said, voice quiet but cutting through the noise. “You’ll have your fill when the Magister returns. Until then, act like you wear the crest.”
A few grumbled under their breath, but the laughter drained away. The air retightened, not with respect, but habit.
I kept my expression neutral. The emblem hadn’t escaped me. I’d recognized it the moment he stepped forward.
I’d played the dumb smith once before when the Magister asked about my past. Better to let them keep believing it.
Beside me, Viola flinched when one soldier tossed a loaf from a cart to another, the bread hitting the mud. The boy beside her whispered something soft, she nodded without looking up.
Idle men and too much time to themselves was never a good mix.
By the time the sun had climbed past its peak and settled back down again, smoke began to rise from one of the chimneys near the edge of the square. The smell of fat and spice drifted faintly through the air. A smell that should have meant comfort, but only reminded me of hunger.
A few soldiers started cheering when they caught the scent. The lieutenant said nothing, only watched the road that wound between the houses.
Then the Magister returned. The elder walked beside him, face pale, steps unsteady. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at anyone, just stared at the ground like the mud might swallow him whole if he waited long enough.
The Magister’s smile was faint and cold.
“It seems the village will feed us well,” he said to his men. “We’ll stay through until tomorrow. Make yourselves comfortable.”
His gaze turned toward the villagers. “As for your service to the Triarchy…” He paused just long enough for the quiet to deepen. “We’ll accept the one Caster.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Disbelief, then grief.
Two soldiers moved without needing to be told. Whatever passed between them and the Magister was silent. They dragged a young man from the line, barely sixteen by the look of him. His shirt was too large, sleeves hanging loose over his wrists.
“No!” a woman’s voice broke from the crowd, sharp and raw. She shoved forward, but a man who looked to be her husband caught her by the arms and held her fast. The boy’s eyes found hers for a single heartbeat before he was pulled away.
The Magister’s watched them, unmoved. “At least one among you still believes in loyalty,” he said.
His tone held no praise. Only finality.
He turned to the elder, resting a gloved hand briefly on his shoulder. “You’ve done well.”
The words might as well have been a sentence. The elder flinched like he’d been struck.
The Magister gave quiet orders to his men. Whatever the words were, they carried like a verdict. The soldiers began dividing duties, some to the livestock pens, others toward the well, a few toward the house at the rise.
The elder didn’t move, only falling to his knees, shame fixed in every line on his face.
The Magister walked past him without a glance, heading back toward the same house they’d come from.
A young woman waited in the doorway. She didn’t speak, only stared past towards the square. Her tears caught the light before slipping down her face.
The elder didn’t follow.
The Magister stepped through the threshold, and the door closed behind them, soft, but final.
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