Celeste

  The afternoon sun filtered gently through the thick canopy overhead, splashing fragments of golden light across the forest floor.

  Art and I walked in silence, our earlier conversation fading into a calm, companionable hush. We’d been moving for hours, weaving through underbrush and skirting tangled roots. Every so often, I glanced his way, drawing quiet reassurance from his presence. His promise still echoed in my mind – he would help me fight when the time came.

  We’d made camp again the night before, farther south from the trail I had first taken into the forest. Art had managed to bring down a large boar, something he admitted was unexpected. According to him, most of the bigger game had already migrated deeper into the northern woods, following instinct as the air grew colder. With winter creeping in, only stragglers remained.

  After we ate, he spent the rest of the day tending to my injuries. He didn’t push me to talk or to move, just made sure I rested. Made sure I was strong enough to keep going. Strong enough to make it back to Rodin.

  This morning, the chill had crept in early. I hadn’t said anything, but Art noticed. Without a word, he pulled a thicker coat from his pack and handed it to me. It smelled of pine and smoke, like everything else he carried. I slipped it on and kept walking.

  “How much farther until we’re out of these woods?” I asked at last, breaking the quiet.

  Art’s gaze lifted to the sky, briefly tracking the sun’s position. “We’ll be walking another full day before we clear the forest.”

  My stomach sank a little, but I kept pace. It was ironic. After all the desperation I’d felt to escape that place… now I couldn’t stop thinking about going back. My only fear was whether I’d be too late when I finally did.

  We walked a while longer, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot filling the silence. My mind drifted, already turning toward the days ahead and the challenges waiting for us. Yet, despite everything, I wasn’t as afraid as I thought I’d be.

  Art glanced at me. “After you cast Healing for the first time, how often did you use it after that?”

  I thought for a moment. “After my mother recovered enough to walk, her stomach still had deep bruising and an open wound that wouldn’t stop weeping. The next night, I cast Healing again. It came naturally. I closed the wound and stopped the bruising. Only a faint scar remained.”

  I remembered that day clearly. I’d been so worn out after healing her initial wound, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t risk it getting infected, not when we had no other Healers in the village.

  And even then, I hadn’t fully understood what my abilities were capable of. I didn’t know if I could stop an infection or if casting worked the same for something that hadn’t set in yet. All I knew was I couldn’t take any chances. Not with her.

  “Do you understand what you are?” Art asked.

  I paused, confused by the question at first, but then gave a small nod. “I’m a Healer. But I can also cast Light. So that makes me an Aberration, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded. “It does. Healing and Ardor Light together – that’s not something most Casters are born with. Have you heard the term before?”

  “I have,” I said. “Just that it means someone can cast two elements. I’ve never heard of anyone with more than that, though.”

  He studied me for a moment, eyes steady.

  “Aberrations are rare. Most Casters are born with only one elemental affinity, and that’s all they’ll ever have. Healing alone is already uncommon. But Healing and Ardor Light?” He shook his head. “That’s something you don’t see often.”

  “You’re an Aberration too,” I said, thinking back to the four elements I’d seen him use. “What are you then, some kind of legendary version?”

  He gave me a crooked smile, almost amused.

  “You could say that. A high-tier Aberration, maybe.”

  Then, quieter: “I’ve only ever met one other who could cast three. Most can’t handle the strain. Plenty of Casters live their whole lives without ever unlocking a second affinity.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  He nodded slowly, as if considering how much to tell me.

  “When a person is born, they can only hold so much energy,” he said. “Think of it like a vessel: some are larger than others, but everyone has a limit. As you get older, that limit can stretch a little. With enough training and repetition, most Casters can push their abilities to the edge of what their body allows.”

  He paused, gaze drifting.

  “But that’s the thing. No matter how much you train, you can’t pour more water into a vessel that’s already full. You can make your casting cleaner, faster, more controlled—but the size of the well stays the same.”

  I stayed quiet.

  “There is a way to grow the vessel itself,” he went on. “To expand it. Change it. But it’s rare. Most people don’t even know it’s possible. And of the ones who do…” He glanced at me. “I’ve only ever seen it happen once.”

  He didn’t say it outright, but I knew he meant himself.

  After a beat, he asked, “Have you ever heard of Enervation?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. It’s what happens when a Caster pushes too hard and uses too much energy and drains themselves. We were taught it’s dangerous.”

  Art gave a slow nod. “That’s right. That’s what most people are told. And it’s not wrong. Enervation happens when you burn through everything in your well – when your body starts pulling from reserves it was never meant to touch. It’s the point where your strength collapses. Your pulse slows. Your breathing falters. For most, it ends there.”

  We stepped over a fallen branch. The forest was thinning, the sun dipping lower across the canopy. Dry leaves crackled beneath my boots, sharp in the quiet.

  “Most Casters spend their whole lives avoiding that edge,” he said. “And they should. Anyone who crosses it is gambling with their life.”

  I didn’t respond. I just kept walking, the memory of that day creeping in, uninvited.

  Lying in the dirt, waiting for Art to come back. Healing myself with shaking hands, cold pressing in. My vision had gone dark. I’d fallen asleep.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  I’d thought it was just exhaustion. I hadn’t realized how close I’d come.

  Art’s voice cut through the silence.

  “You’ve already done it.”

  I looked at him. It wasn’t a question.

  “You were slumped over when I came back. But your wound was healed. Slightly.”

  He said it matter-of-factly.

  “I didn’t realize how close I was,” I murmured. “I knew I was pushing too hard, but I couldn’t just sit there. I couldn’t wait for someone else to save me.”

  I paused, then added, quieter still, “I’ve already waited too long in my life.”

  He gave a small nod, a quiet knowing gesture. Like he understood more than I meant to say.

  “You did something few ever attempt,” he said softly. “But when you pushed that far, you didn’t just survive – you changed. You pulled yourself back from the brink and reshaped your well. Just a little bit.”

  He glanced toward the trees, voice steady and low, like he was reciting something he had repeated to himself before.

  “Think of your well like a muscle. It has to tear before it can grow. But unlike a muscle, growing a well can kill most Casters.”

  A brief pause. “But not you.”

  I looked at him, slow and uncertain. My brows drew in.

  He met my eyes, steady and calm. “Because you were born with a vessel that can stretch.”

  A beat passed between us.

  “Most people aren’t,” he went on. “Their limits are set. No matter how hard they train, no matter how strong their will, they’ll never push past the boundary they were given. At least, not like us.”

  I stared at him, unsure what to say.

  “There are only a few people in the world like that. Casters whose wells aren’t just deep, but elastic. And if they survive Enervation more than once, they don’t just recover. They evolve.”

  And then the truth clicked into place.

  “Healing,” I said quietly. “That’s what lets me survive it. What lets me keep growing without dying in the process.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. Your ability to heal – even when unconscious – keeps you from tipping over the edge. Most Casters, once they collapse, they’re gambling with their lives. But you?” He paused, his gaze steady. “Even when you pass out, your body keeps working to repair itself. It buys you time others wouldn’t have.”

  I let that settle.

  The wind stirred the branches above us, soft and cool.

  Then, without meaning to, I found myself asking, “Have you done it a lot of times?”

  A faint breath escaped him, almost like a laugh.

  “Yes,” he said. “Hundreds of times.”

  I blinked, unsure I’d heard him right.

  He didn’t elaborate right away. Just kept walking, eyes on the fading light between the trees.

  “It’s not something I do lightly,” he said after a moment. “Every time I push that far, I lose consciousness. Same as you did. For minutes, sometimes hours. And during that time, I’m completely vulnerable.”

  His voice dropped lower.

  “That’s why I only do it when I’m alone. Far from towns, far from people. Places like this.” He gestured faintly at the woods around us. “Pylin Forest is quiet. Untouched. I know its paths. I trust it to keep my secrets.”

  He fell silent again, and I didn’t press. There was something reverent in the way he spoke – like he was recalling not just pain, but something almost sacred. Like a ritual.

  Then he added, barely above a whisper, “It’s the closest I ever come to dying. And somehow, it’s what keeps me alive.”

  I watched him in silence, his words still sinking in.

  Hundreds of times.

  I tried to imagine it, choosing to fall like that. Not in desperation, but over and over again, willingly. Alone, knowing how vulnerable he would be. Faith that he would come back each time.

  That kind of trust… not in others, but in himself. In his healing. In the forest.

  It was terrifying. And awe-inspiring.

  The silence stretched between us as we walked. I didn’t break it. I wasn’t sure I could.

  Then he spoke again, quieter now. Thoughtful.

  “I have a theory.”

  I glanced at him.

  “I think the reason I can learn more than one affinity… the reason I’m an Aberration, it might be tied to this.” He tapped his chest lightly. “To the well.”

  My brows pulled together, but I didn’t interrupt.

  “I’ve never met anyone with multiple elements who didn’t also have a larger pool of energy,” he said quickly, like the thought had been waiting too long to stay quiet. “And I think – maybe that’s the key.”

  He glanced at me, his eyes searching, almost eager.

  “Maybe Aberrations aren’t just born with extra affinities. Maybe they’re born with space. With potential. And then something happens – some kind of catalyst – and it ignites that potential, and the space just… fills.”

  He turned forward again, the energy slipping from his voice as the moment caught up to him.

  “It’s just a theory,” he said, quieter now. “But it would explain a lot.”

  I glanced at him, hesitation softening my voice.

  “If that’s true…, why isn’t it more widely known? Surely some Casters have had Healers nearby. Couldn’t they have worked through Enervation safely? Learned to grow their well that way?”

  Art didn’t answer right away.

  Instead, he looked at me. “How do you feel now? After going through it yourself?”

  I frowned faintly, caught off guard by the question. “Tired,” I admitted. “Bone tired.”

  He nodded once. “Do you feel any stronger?”

  I thought about it. Really thought.

  I shifted my awareness inward, the way he’d taught me to reach for my casting. Searched for any change, any sense of deepening or strength I hadn’t had before.

  But there was nothing.

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t feel different at all.”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “Exactly.

  He slowed his steps slightly, letting the weight of that word hang in the hush between us.

  “It takes time,” he said. “I didn’t notice a change the first time either. Or the second. Or even the tenth.”

  His voice lowered, calm and measured.

  “It wasn’t until I’d survived it a dozen times that I felt anything shift. And even then, it was subtle. Just a little more reach. A little more stamina.”

  He looked ahead, toward the winding path through the thinning trees.

  “Going back to your well being a muscle – one workout won’t change it. You wouldn’t notice the difference after a single strain. And if people didn’t already know their muscles could grow from pushing themselves past the edge, they’d never do it on purpose.”

  A pause.

  “And if that edge could kill them?”

  He met my eyes again.

  “They’d avoid it for the rest of their lives,” I responded.

  We walked in silence for a while.

  No more words, just the soft crunch of leaves beneath our boots and the distant rustle of wind through the canopy. A gray bird flitted across our path, wings flashing once before vanishing into the trees.

  I kept my gaze ahead, but my thoughts drifted – circling the things he’d said.

  Hundreds of times. At least.

  How many times had he willingly let his body collapse into the dark, trusting it would know how to pull itself back? How many times had he laid alone in the woods, breath shallow, pulse fading, with no one beside him if something went wrong?

  I wasn’t sure whether to feel awe or fear. Maybe both.

  I’d barely survived once, and only because he was there. Or because I was a Healer, I wasn’t even sure anymore.

  And yet he’d done it over and over, just to grow. To change what he was. Bit by bit. Quietly. Alone.

  Was that strength? Or madness?

  Or were they the same thing, sometimes?

  I touched my casting again, reached inward, but still felt no difference. No deeper pull, no shift in the shape of my well. Just fatigue. The kind that settled into your bones and made everything feel heavier.

  Still… the thought lingered.

  If what he said was true, if my well could stretch, if I had that kind of vessel, then how far could I go? How much more was hidden beneath what I already knew?

  And what would it cost to find out?

  The trees had begun to thin.

  We weren’t on the same path I’d taken in, I’d been sure of that for miles now. Art had chosen a different way out. Quieter. Hidden. He knew these woods too well to risk the same trail twice.

  The canopy above grew patchy, letting in streaks of late-afternoon sun. Somewhere ahead, past the brush and the slope of the land, the forest would give way to open fields.

  I didn’t want to leave just yet.

  Not because I feared what lay ahead, but because for the first time in a long while, the quiet between us felt like something I could breathe in.

  I glanced at Art.

  He hadn’t spoken in a while. His eyes were sharp, tracking the trees, listening in a way that made me instinctively do the same.

  And then I saw it.

  Half-buried in the mud just ahead… hoofprints.

  Deep. Fresh.

  Art stepped beside me, his jaw tightening as he crouched low. He pressed two fingers to the edge of the track, then looked back up at me.

  Then, quietly, “Multiple riders. Moving fast.”

  My chest tightened. “Are they tracking us?”

  He stood, eyes scanning the trees. “No. If they were, they wouldn’t be coming from that direction.”

  I looked behind us, then ahead. “Then why are they here?”

  He didn’t answer right away.

  Instead, he studied the tracks again, the tight set of his jaw giving away what he didn’t say aloud.

  “Could be coincidence,” he said at last. But his tone didn’t match the words.

  I waited, but he didn’t continue.

  So I asked, “You don’t think it is, do you?”

  A beat passed.

  He looked up, brow furrowed.

  “I think someone’s looking for you. And not just the ones you escaped from.”