The night stretched long after the reed-hat man left. Jay sat near the hearth with his bowl empty, the book under the bench like a stone tethered to his shadow. He didn't touch it again. Every time his fingers twitched toward it, he caught the dog's watchful eyes and stilled himself. Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under. His dreams smelled of wet earth and smoke, flickering between the lecture hall and the moor until neither felt real.
He woke to the scrape of chairs and the thud of boots. Morning light pressed at the shutters, pale and thin, as though reluctant to enter. Foss was stacking bowls behind the counter. A few villagers muttered quietly, tying cloaks or adjusting belts. The smell of barley porridge lingered over the room. Jay sat up, stiff and sore, and blinked toward the door.
The book was still there under the bench. For a moment, he wondered if he'd dreamed it all. Then the welt on his palm reminded him otherwise.
"You've got an hour," Foss said without looking at him. He gestured vaguely toward the south. "Best be early. He doesn't wait."
Jay rubbed his face. His body screamed for more rest, but his thoughts pulled in too many directions. He reached down, fingers brushing the spine of the book. Warmth pulsed faintly through the leather, softer now, almost coaxing. He pulled his hand back as if it had teeth.
He stood, thanked Foss quietly, and left the inn. The dog didn't move from its corner, but its eyes followed him until the door shut behind.
The village at dawn looked different. Smoke rose from only a few chimneys, the mud lanes still empty of carts. A cockerel crowed somewhere distant. Dew softened the edges of the moss-covered walls. Jay walked south, each step heavier than the last, though nothing pressed on him but his own indecision.
The south gate wasn't a gate at all—just a pair of leaning posts and a gap in the low wall where the road widened toward the moor. Mist hung thick beyond, hiding the horizon. A single figure stood waiting, reed hat tipped low, lantern unlit at his side. The man looked as though he hadn't moved since the night before.
Jay slowed, his burned hand flexing against his thigh. He half expected the book to have followed him somehow, slithering from under the bench to his side. But he'd left it behind. He reminded himself of that with every step.
"You came," the man said without turning. His voice cut cleanly through the mist.
Jay stopped a few paces away. "You said you'd teach."
The reed-hat man turned at last, ash-colored eyes narrowing against the pale light. "I said you'd need a teacher. Needing and having aren't the same."
Jay swallowed. "Then what do I have to do?"
The man tilted his head toward the open moor. "First, walk."
The mist shifted, swallowing the road ahead. Jay glanced once back at the village—its roofs still damp, smoke curling, safety no less uncertain than the moor itself. Then he stepped forward, following the stranger into the gray.
The mist thickened as they walked, swallowing the outlines of the village until only the soft crunch of their boots on damp earth reminded Jay that ground still existed beneath him. The reed-hat man set a steady pace, neither hurried nor slow, and Jay matched it with effort. Every so often he glanced sideways, hoping to catch something in the man's expression, but the hat brim shadowed his face too well.
After a time, Jay asked, "Do you have a name?"
The man didn't break stride. "Names are earned. For now, call me nothing."
Jay frowned but held his tongue. The silence pressed at him harder than the mist.
They crested a low ridge, where the air grew clearer, and Jay saw the moor stretch out like a slate washed clean. At its center, a ring of stones jutted up, each taller than a man, each scarred with grooves that caught the weak sunlight. Ravens wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and cold.
The reed-hat man stopped at the ring's edge. "Here," he said. "You want to learn? Then begin by forgetting."
Jay blinked. "Forgetting what?"
"Everything that book taught you. Every spark, every promise. It is poison. If you try to cling to its shape, you will fail."
Jay glanced down at his burned palm. The ache pulsed, memory etched into skin. "And if I can't forget?"
"Then you'll burn again."
The man stepped into the circle, gesturing for Jay to follow. Reluctantly, Jay obeyed. Inside, the air felt denser, charged, as if a storm had paused just above the clouds.
"Magic here," the man said, "is not bought with blood or pain. It lives in the air, in the breath, in the silence between words. You don't force it. You align with it." He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and the grass around his boots bent inward as if bowing.
Jay watched, pulse quickening. "And I'm supposed to just… do that?"
"Try."
Jay shut his eyes. He listened: the wind weaving through the stones, the rasp of ravens, the slow beat of his own heart. He reached, not for fire or light, but for the stillness the man had described. For a moment he felt nothing. Then—something faint, a coolness against his skin, like dipping his hand into clear water.
His breath caught. The sensation slipped away instantly, leaving him grasping at emptiness.
The reed-hat man's voice cut through the haze. "You felt it."
Jay opened his eyes. "Barely."
"That is enough. A seed doesn't look like much either, but it grows."
The words should have comforted him, but Jay's gaze strayed toward the village hidden in mist, and further still, in memory, to the cursed book glowing with easy answers. His chest tightened with the urge to reach for it again, to chase the sparks that came without patience.
The man seemed to sense it. "The first lesson," he said, "is hunger. If you let it drive you, the book will win. If you learn to quiet it, you might last."
Jay clenched his hand into a fist, pain sparking from the welt. He drew in a slow breath, trying once more to find that thread of coolness. It slipped again, but not completely. For the first time, he wondered if he could grow without being eaten alive by what he carried.
The man adjusted his hat and turned toward the next ridge. "Again," he said. "And again after that. Until your hunger obeys you."
Jay followed, the mist curling around his steps, the lesson already biting deeper than any flame.
The mist clung low over the ridge, curling around Jay's boots as he followed the reed-hat man. They didn't talk much—just the steady sound of steps on damp ground, sometimes a raven overhead, sometimes nothing at all. Jay kept glancing sideways, but the brim of the man's hat always shadowed his face. It felt like chasing a figure out of a half-remembered dream, one you couldn't quite piece together no matter how hard you tried.
The ground shifted as they climbed, patches of stone breaking through the mud, slick with rain. Jay tried not to slip, though his legs ached from walking since dawn. His stomach grumbled, but he ignored it. The man hadn't offered food, and Jay wasn't about to ask. He figured if this was some sort of test, complaining wasn't the right answer.
They stopped at a circle of stones, smaller than the last one. The stones stood crooked, leaning toward each other as though whispering. Carved grooves ran down their sides, half-worn away by years of weather. The man stepped inside without hesitation and gestured for Jay to follow.
Jay stepped across the invisible line. The air inside felt heavier, like a blanket had been thrown over the world. Sounds dulled, the breeze slowed, even the smell of wet earth grew muted. He shifted his weight, uncomfortable, and looked to the man for guidance.
"Here," the man said simply. "Try again."
Jay frowned. "Again as in…?"
"As in breathing, not burning. Forget the book. Forget fire. Listen instead."
Jay glanced at his burned palm. The welt was angry red, the memory of pain still fresh. He rubbed it against his hoodie and muttered, "Easier said than done."
The man's voice stayed calm, almost flat. "If you carry the book in your mind, it will bite you every time. Drop it. That's the first step."
Jay exhaled slowly and tried to unclench his shoulders. He closed his eyes. The mist pressed close, damp on his cheeks. At first, he felt nothing—just the itch of water seeping into his clothes, the faint pull of fatigue. He tried again, slower this time. He forced himself not to reach, but to notice.
There was the sound of ravens overhead. The faint drip of water down one of the stone grooves. The slow beat of his own heart. And beneath it, just for a moment, something else. A cool thread brushed his skin, so light he almost missed it. Like lowering his hand into a stream.
His breath caught, and the feeling slipped away.
He opened his eyes. "I think—I almost had it."
"That's enough," the man said. "You touched it once. Next time, hold it."
Jay wanted to argue, to ask why it had vanished so quickly. But he bit the words back. He could still feel the ghost of that thread, a memory fresh enough to cling to. He stepped out of the circle behind the man, the mist closing around them again.
The man tilted his head toward the next ridge. "Again."
Jay sighed, shoved his hands into his pockets, and followed. His legs burned, his boots heavy with mud. Yet the thought of brushing against that thread again pulled him forward.
They walked for another hour, climbing ridges and skirting bogs. The mist never cleared, but Jay started to notice its rhythms—the way it thinned at the edges of stone outcroppings, the way it clung tighter in valleys. Once or twice he thought he saw movement within it, a darker shape drifting, but when he blinked the mist smoothed itself blank again.
At the second circle, the man didn't bother explaining. He simply stood still and closed his eyes. Jay copied him. This time he found the thread a little faster. It brushed along his arm, cool and fleeting. He held it for a breath, maybe two, before it dissolved. His chest ached with the effort.
"Better," the man said. "But don't clutch at it. Let it linger on its own."
Jay scowled. "It's like catching smoke. How am I supposed to hold onto nothing?"
The man's mouth twitched under the shadow of his hat. "Exactly."
By the third circle, Jay's frustration simmered. His boots squelched with every step, his burned palm throbbed, and hunger gnawed at him. He wanted the book's warmth, its certainty, its sparks. But when he closed his eyes and let himself listen again, the thread returned—slightly stronger, like a trickle of water against his skin. He followed it with his breath, slower this time, steadier. It lingered for longer before fading.
When he opened his eyes, the man was watching him, unreadable. "Now," he said, "you are beginning."
Jay exhaled and shook out his shoulders. His lips curled into a half-smile despite himself. The thread was nothing compared to fire, but it was real. Real in a way that didn't bite.
They moved on, deeper into the mist, the lesson echoing in Jay's chest. Hunger tugged at him, but for once, he didn't let it lead.