"To be seen, one must first survive."
The warmth of that presence still clung faintly to me when my eyes cracked open again. Morning light pressed in thin, wavering stripes through the canvas walls, bright enough to make me squint. My body still ached — not the sharp burn of wounds, but the lingering fatigue after the choker's grip had been broken, Linette's power only just settling back into place.
A faint purr stirred within me, low and steady — the sound of Linette settling, like an animal curling back into its den. Despite myself, the corner of my mouth lifted.
The camp was already humming when I stepped outside. The air carried the scent of smoke and boiled grains, voices rising and falling in the rhythm of morning. I followed them, drawn toward the makeshift cooking pit where a broad-shouldered man stood hunched over a blackened pot.
I hovered at the edge for a moment, unsure, then took a few hesitant steps closer. The man glanced up as I drew near. His face was thick with lines, his nose crooked, and his accent was so heavy it made me pause before I caught the meaning.
"Food's still hot. Y'look like y'need it."
Before I could answer, he ladled steaming stew into a bowl and pressed it into my hands. I blinked at the unexpected kindness, mumbling a soft "thank you" as I clutched the warmth. The first spoonful loosened something in my chest, as if I hadn't realized how hollow I felt until that moment.
When I scraped the bottom of the bowl, a strange determination rose in me, thin and trembling but steady all the same. I set the dish aside, fingers curling nervously against my skirts before I found the courage to speak.
"I… I want to help."
His eyes narrowed, not unkind, but weighing. Testing. I straightened a little, shoulders pulling tight, eager to show I could be of use — that I wasn't just another burden to feed and shelter.
Namen grunted in approval, then jerked his chin toward a pile of crates stacked just outside the tent flap.
"Take them over by Brittany. She'll see 'em placed right."
I turned, spotting the young woman he meant. Her braid slipped loose as she hauled a sack across the ground, shoulders broad and steady with the effort. She worked like she'd been at it since before dawn, movements deliberate, practiced.
My stomach knotted. I couldn't match that kind of strength—not with my arms still aching, not with the fatigue clinging to my bones. But my magic…
The air shimmered faintly as I drew on it, a whisper of energy wrapping around the edges of the first crate. My fingers twitched as the box lifted from the ground and hovered unsteadily, trembling like it shared my own weakness.
Sephanie.
Linette's voice stirred, low and edged with irritation. Careful. We don't have the reserves to waste on proving yourself.
I ignored her, teeth gritted, and forced the box forward. One step, then another, the weight dragging invisible threads through my chest.
Brittany straightened as I neared. For a heartbeat her eyes flicked over the floating crate, then to me. No malice there, just a tight crease in her brow—like someone too busy for nonsense. Annoyed, perhaps, not by me but by the risk of me slowing things down.
Heat flushed my face. I ducked my head quickly, guiding the crate to the ground with more force than I meant. The moment it touched down, a wave of fatigue tugged at my limbs, like the energy had been pulled straight out of me. Inside, Linette gave the faintest flicker of irritation—wordless, sharp, and unmistakable.
I pressed my lips together, ignoring it. If Brittany thought me a burden, then I'd prove otherwise. I'd show her—show all of them—that I was worth Henry's coin.
No one else seemed to notice the effort it took — and that was what mattered. Straightening quickly, I brushed the back of my hand over my forehead and turned back toward Namen.
The old cook was no longer alone. Two figures had come to stand nearby — one broad and scarred, the other lean and restless-eyed.
Rowan's gaze lingered a breath longer than Brittany's had. There was no judgment in it, not exactly — just a flicker of curiosity, like he was weighing what sort of creature I might be.
Beside him, the taller one didn't bother to hide his disdain. His scarred mouth tightened, and he cut me a sharp look that felt like a warning: stay in your place. My stomach twisted, and I dropped my eyes at once, heat prickling my cheeks.
By the time I straightened, both men had moved off, leaving only the scrape of their boots fading into camp. I forced my feet forward and returned to Namen, trying not to look as rattled as I felt.
The old cook was watching me with the same even stare he'd given since morning. When I reached him, he scraped the bottom of his pot with a wooden spoon and gave a small grunt.
"Rowan," he said, tilting his chin toward the direction the leaner man had gone. "Quick hands, quicker mouth. Good at both, for better or worse."
His ladle shifted. "Tharn. Don' let the look fool you. He's the kind who's seen more winters than most an' lived mean through every one of 'em. He'd gut a wolf with bare teeth if the steel was outta reach."
Namen's tone carried a rough respect, but there was no warmth in it—like pointing out a stormcloud on the horizon.
Rowan and Tharn had already drifted away, the former casting me one last, curious glance, the latter leaving a warning weight in the air behind him. I exhaled slowly, trying not to let it rattle me.
These weren't just strangers in a camp. They were Henry's people. Men who trusted his judgment, who followed his lead. If I faltered—if I gave them reason to doubt me—it wouldn't just be me they questioned. It would be him. I wouldn't let that happen.
I drew a steadying breath, but before I could gather myself further, a stir of movement caught my eye. Across the camp, men and women shifted from their work, shoulders squaring as their gazes turned toward the same point.
Then Henry's voice rang out, clear and commanding, cutting through the morning clatter.
"Gather in!"
The murmur of tasks and chatter ebbed, replaced by the shuffle of boots and the low thrum of anticipation. Even the air seemed to tighten, as though the camp itself held its breath.
I straightened instinctively, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and glanced toward the sound.
Henry stood tall near the firepit, his presence drawing eyes the way a flame drew moths. This was different from the quiet man who had brought me stew in the tent—this was the captain, the leader.
And all around me, his people answered. The camp drew in around the firepit, bodies forming loose arcs of shadow and flame. I edged closer, careful to keep to the side, half-hidden among the ring of faces.
Henry stood at the center, waiting until the last of the chatter faded. His gaze swept over the company—steady, commanding—before settling on the man just off his right shoulder.
"George," Henry said, his voice low but carrying. "Lay it out. What's our best path home?"
The man stepped forward. Leaner than most, his cloak worn at the hem, George carried himself with a precision that marked him different. His words, when they came, were clipped and deliberate, like pieces set carefully on a board.
"Two paths lie open to us," he began, lifting one hand to sketch a line through the air. "We move under cover of night, skirt the roads, and keep ahead of the patrols. Quicker, quieter—but the lords here will not take kindly to strangers in their fields. We've no welcome in these lands."
A silence followed, heavy and wordless. Henry's jaw tightened, but he offered no answer, and no one else filled the space. Still, I felt it—the weight of something unspoken pressing on the air.
George's hand shifted, drawing a second path.
"Or…" He glanced once at Henry, then continued. "We take the Misty Woods."
At once, Brittany jolted upright, her braid snapping over her shoulder as she rose. "The Woods?" Her voice cut sharp, disbelief flashing like steel.
Henry lifted a hand before Brittany could say more. The gesture was calm, but final. She dropped back into her seat with a sharp snort, muttering under her breath. "Stupid mage."
George's mouth pressed into a thin line, though he said nothing. Instead, he pushed his frames higher on the bridge of his nose, eyes flicking once toward Brittany, then back to Henry.
"I understand the worry," he said evenly, his tone carrying the quiet weight of someone used to being doubted. "Yes, there are demons in the Woods. Yes, the stories aren't pretty. But if we go that way, we not only gain speed…" His gaze lingered on Henry, voice sharpening with intent. "We make it back in time for the Winter Solstice."
A ripple passed through the gathered company. Small—an exchanged glance here, a furrowed brow there—but unmistakable. Everyone understood. Everyone but me. I tucked the word away like a stone in my pocket, heavy with meaning I couldn't yet grasp.
Before silence could swallow the fire, Tharn's voice cut across it, low and iron-thick.
"Whatever waits in those Woods—demon, beast, or worse—it'll fall all the same. Nothin' walks this earth that won't taste the polish of my steel."
The firelight caught in his scarred face as he spoke, his hand resting on the hilt at his belt. No boast—just promise.
Henry's voice rose above the murmurs, steady and commanding.
"Then it's decided. We move through the Woods. At first light—"
The rest was swallowed by the sudden thunk of wood splitting.
An arrow quivered in the dirt between us, its black-fletched shaft vibrating inches from Rowan's boot. He leapt back with a curse, hand flying to the dagger at his hip.
For a heartbeat, the camp froze. Then came the sound—high-pitched chatter, guttural and sharp, carrying from the treeline.
"Goblins," Tharn spat, already unslinging his blade. "Filthy little rats."
Another arrow whistled through the firelight. This one buried itself in the side of a supply crate, so close I felt the breeze of it graze my cheek.
"Positions!" Henry barked, all trace of calm gone. The air shifted—suddenly everyone was moving, Brittany hauling a shield into place, Rowan vanishing into shadow, George scrambling to gather whatever wards he could.
And me—heart hammering, pulse loud in my ears. My palms tingled with raw magic, the taste of it sharp on my tongue. This was no test, no spar, no chance to prove myself.
This was survival.
The camp erupted, but not in panic.
Brittany had her shield planted before the fire even hissed, cutting off the clearest line of sight. Rowan vanished into the shadows without a sound, a knife flashing once before disappearing with him. Tharn strode forward, not a hint of hesitation in his step, his blade clearing its scabbard with a ring that carried over the chaos. Even George, though slower, was already moving his hands, shaping unseen wards into the air with a muttered incantation.
I, by contrast, stumbled into the press of it, pulse hammering, feet tripping over loose stones as I tried to find anywhere I could stand without being in someone's way.
"Hold the line!" Henry barked, his voice like iron snapping into place. The crew moved with practiced precision—Tharn cutting down the first goblin that rushed the firelight, Rowan's dagger flashing from the dark to take another in the throat, Brittany driving a third into the dirt with her shield's edge.
They didn't just fight. They flowed. Every move answered by the next, like gears in a machine.
And me? My palms sparked with magic, but when I tried to loose it, the air slipped from my grasp. A bolt fizzled uselessly against the dirt, so pale and thin it drew only a scowl from Brittany as she shoved past.
Heat crawled up my neck. I wanted to scream at her that I could fight, that I wasn't just some stray Henry had dragged in. But then another goblin shrieked and came barreling through the smoke, and all I could do was duck and scramble, Linette's voice sharp in the back of my skull:
Focus, girl. Or you'll get us both killed.
Tharn's blade cut another goblin down, but as he stepped forward a glint caught my eye—an arrow, loosed from the treeline, slicing straight toward his unguarded back.
I didn't think. My hand shot up, magic lancing outward in a thin, trembling wall. The arrow struck it, shattering into splinters before it ever touched him.
Tharn half-turned, eyes narrowing in surprise. For the briefest heartbeat, his hard mouth curved into a wolfish grin—an acknowledgement, sharp and wordless, before he turned back to the fight.
The breath tore out of me. My chest burned, the spell dragging more from me than I wanted to admit. But then I saw them.
Movement. Shadows slipping past the firelight—half a dozen goblins creeping in from the far edge of camp, too low and too fast for the others to notice. And they were coming straight for me.
Sephanie. Linette's voice flared hot in my skull, no longer irritated but urgent. You cannot falter now.
I staggered a step back, magic already sparking in my fingertips. My body screamed for rest, but there was no one else to stand here. No one else between those goblins and the heart of the camp.
So I braced myself—and pushed.
The goblins broke from the shadows in a ragged line, yellow eyes flashing in the dark. Their blades were crude, jagged things, but sharp enough to spill blood all the same.
My pulse pounded in my ears. Every instinct screamed to call for help, to let the fighters handle it. But they were all locked in battle elsewhere—Rowan darting like a fox between blades, Brittany's axe biting through shields, Tharn a storm all his own.
This flank was mine.
The first goblin lunged, snarling. I thrust my hand out, the spell spilling from me in a half-formed shield. The creature hit it headlong, skull cracking with a dull thud before it dropped at my feet.
Another came. And another. The strain was a fire in my chest, my reserves unraveling thread by thread.
Hold, Linette urged, her presence pressing against mine. Hold, Sephanie.
But it wasn't enough. Not just a wall, not just a trickle—I needed force.
Teeth gritted, I dragged deeper, pulling at the wellspring I wasn't sure I had. The air lit around me, threads of silver fire spilling from my fingertips. With a cry I hurled it forward, the magic bursting in a wave that slammed into the cluster of goblins.
The ground quaked beneath the blast. Dust and sparks flared, goblins thrown screaming into the dirt. Two didn't rise again. The rest scrambled, broken and bleeding, vanishing back into the trees.
Silence. My knees buckled, breath tearing ragged in my throat. The world swam, Linette's voice a distant hum in the back of my mind.
And then—movement. Tharn's head turned from across the fire, eyes locking with mine. He gave a sharp, wolfish grin, not mocking but edged with approval, before turning back to his foes.
Heat flushed through my exhaustion. I'd done it. I'd stood my ground.
The camp still roared with steel and fire, but for the first time, I felt like part of it.
Then the burn inside me shifted, sharp and tearing. My chest seized, and I doubled slightly, a hot copper taste flooding my mouth. Blood spattered the back of my hand before I could turn away.
Panic flickered. Not now. Not in front of them. I swiped it quickly against my sleeve, forcing my breath steady, praying no one noticed.
But when I lifted my head, George was watching. His spectacles caught the firelight, hiding his eyes, his expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, I couldn't tell—did he know what he'd seen? Or was it only suspicion?
Before I could decide, he looked away, already calling out another order to Henry, his voice crisp and measured as though nothing had happened.
I swallowed hard, heart still racing. Whether he'd seen or not, I couldn't be sure. But the fear lingered sharper than any goblin's blade: if they discovered what this magic was costing me… would Henry regret ever bringing me here? The last goblin shrieked, a ragged, broken sound cut short as Tharn's blade tore it clean in two. He stood over the corpse like a nightmare incarnate, blood painting him in brutal strokes, his chest rising and falling with feral satisfaction.
Around us, the camp settled into the uneasy silence that follows battle. My limbs trembled, the spell still clawing at my strength, leaving me hollow and raw.
Henry's voice rose above the stillness. "Well fought," he called, sweeping his gaze across the camp. "Every one of you."
His eyes found me, steady and deliberate. "And you, Sephanie." He gave a short nod, voice carrying enough weight for all to hear. "You've earned your place tonight."
Heat climbed my neck before I could stop it. Pride, sharp and unbidden, settled in my chest despite the ache.
For the first time since stepping into this camp, I felt—if only for a heartbeat—that I belonged.