The wind split at her back.


    She twisted before the strike could land—barely—the pressure of it skimming her ribs, cold as a blade’s flat edge, thin as the air against her sweat-slick skin. She pushed off the ground—bad angle.


    Foot too far forward, knee too stiff. Momentum out-pacing balance.


    She didn''t fight it. Let the fall take her, let her shoulder slam into the dirt, pebbles grinding against her spine as she rolled. The taste of bitter red beneath her tongue. A sting of black soil in her nose—damp rot.


    Up. Springing upright before her pulse could catch up.


    The trees blurred as she vaulted through the undergrowth, bare feet slipping over damp roots—moss slick, leaves slapping against her legs—the cold breath of the earth snaring for hesitation.


    The moment she slowed, it would know her again.


    She couldn''t have that.


    She dropped low, fingers grazing the damp earth, mud set between her nails. Then, a push, her calf burning as she vaulted through a rotten log. Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, misting against the dark.


    Eron matched her stride. Unhurried—pacing.


    She spun, tracing a curve of steam as she ducked between jagged pillars in a corridor too tight, too fast. The movement jerked her damp hair against her cheek, strands catching at her lips.


    A boulder loomed ahead—no time to go around. She planted a foot against it, the impact biting into her heel, launching herself sideways.


    Palm scraped against rock—skin torn, blood lost. She left a streak behind. Not intentional, but it was there. A mark.


    She felt him before she saw him. His breath wouldn''t leave a trail.


    "Why do you run?"


    His voice wasn''t strained. He wasn''t running.


    Too close.


    Too close.


    Her palm found the rough scales of a gnarled tree as she spun past, fingers—heels cutting in—gouging as she leapt, knees drawn.


    Her fingers moved instinctively, chipping symbols into bark as if edging for tree sap.


    Shallow, jagged lines cut into wood—another mark. The tree shuddered like a struck limb—tremor sinking through the roots—but she was already gone.


    A breath later, it fell.


    Frost feathered from the gouges she''d left , seeping through the wood in ghostly veins. The brittle sigh of something turned hollow.


    The trunk caved inward, fibers shattering into pale silvers, flaking into glinting dust that gusted away as wood met soil.


    For an instant, it felt as though she had felled it. And maybe she had. But she knew better.


    A footstep on splintered bark.


    It wasn''t enough.


    Closer now.


    The air behind her stilled.


    Leaves whispered, then chattered.


    Raindrops met skin with a brittle snap.


    Slow.


    Each movement gilded.


    Her eyes cooled—sight pleating—though, she wouldn''t let an eyelid fall. His gaze prowled the dark.


    She jumped.


    The cliff’s edge retreated underfoot too fast—her stomach lurching.


    Nothing to grab hold of.


    She flailed, her body stretching beyond what her bones allowed.


    The wind howled in her ears as her weight pulled against the sky, grasping, crawling about her ankles like spider silk. The dark was growing near.


    Her bow.


    She twisted midair, yanking a thread of twine with her teeth, breath short, throat raw.


    Once—twice—until the curve of her sway locked into place, bowstring taut as her breath.


    Her mouth opened, though her lungs were empty.


    She flicked her wrist, notching an arrow in one practiced motion, pressing the bow’s limb between her teeth, steadying. She drew the arrow back, its inscribed length pressed against her paling cheek. The string hummed.


    Blood flaked against old ink, staining the script buried in her knuckles. The letters tensed—pooling into creases like second skin. Her fingers tightened around the nock.


    She blinked, eyes scouring the ridgeline above.


    Her breath stilled, her sight cleared.


    Nothing.


    He wasn''t there.


    ???


    It was a relatively clear day out, the incessant winds scattering clouds like errant sheep. The sun beat down without relent, a burn that rode on the tail of the air. As expected of Gale, the height of the bright months.


    The siblings were out on a stroll this morning, walking a path toward the market. The air felt thin, but the warmth underfoot promised the heavy heat of the hours to come.


    The roads they traveled were paved with sun-warmed stones, their edges scoured smooth by the wind as if bone of weathered sandstone.


    The pair veered toward the outer edges of the road as they approached a bustling lane. Their movements were habitual, careful. The middle trail was set aside for carriages, merchants, and those too pressed for time or too full of purpose to acknowledge the rhythm of the city, a rhythm Maline had learned to distance herself from.


    A merchant strode past, his retinue moving in brisk formation, handing out papered advertisements as they wove through the foot traffic. In their wake, the papers scattered the ground like autumn leaves.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    One such caught Maline’s eye in passing, its headline loud even in print:


    "The Count Beckons: A New Era Arrives!"


    She scoffed under her breath, flicking a stray paper aside and brushing past a knot of townspeople crowding a storefront. Gabe''s lip tweaked, though his eyes kept forward.


    Maline’s steps wove cleanly through the scattered papers, but Gabe’s boots found them with every stride, pressing ink into stone. She noticed—but made a point of looking away.


    “The stench,” she muttered, swatting at a stray Grenfly. “I’ll never understand the appeal.”


    “It’s an acquired taste,” Gabe replied, oddly terse. “To each their own.”


    Maline feigned a scandalized look, tilting her head to eye him up and down. “Don’t tell me—you’ve had a taste?” She stepped across him as they walked, angling her head up.


    When he didn’t answer, she pressed on, grinning. “Well, if Tonem cuisine is so delightful, why don’t—”


    Before she could finish, Gabe’s hand found her shoulder, yanking her closer just as a carriage wheel rolled past.


    She staggered, barely catching her footing—only to find him doubled over, laughter shaking his frame.


    “Really, you should try—” he wheezed, struggling to get the words out, “...try it sometime.”


    “Oh, cut it out.” She spat with a roll of her eyes, grabbing his collar to pull him forward.


    The streets were densely flanked by wooden buildings, though occasionally a stone-pillared structure—likely governmental—broke this uniformity. If it were not necessary, this would likely not be the case. Those affluent held higher privilege in where to do business.


    After crossing a few intersections, Gabe turned to his sister and asked, “Would you want to visit the institute? We can see if they have any spots open.” He looked on with expectation, “The year’s end approaches; you might secure a place for next year.”


    Maline briefly lagged in her stride. Gabe understood their situation better than anyone. He would know that there was no way they could afford something like that.


    While they walked, her gaze shifted from the pavement to her brother. “No, that’s fine.”


    Seeing Gabe''s dispirit in his expression, she jested, “Have you come across a fortune? We could buy ourselves a manor if that were the case.”


    “Besides," she continued,"all of the attendees are wealthy. I certainly wouldn’t fit in. I figure it’s too late for that anyway... I’m almost seventeen.”


    As they’d nearly reached their destination, Gabe accepted her reasoning, but insisted, “If you were forty, I’d still ask this of you. There are positions open for the gifted, and I’ve every confidence that you would fare well.”


    Maline chuckled at his comment, her voice carrying a hint of playful sarcasm. “Do you think me a scholar? I’d be butting heads with twelve-year-olds who know more than me. It would be an utter embarrassment.” She playfully nudged her brother''s shoulder as they strolled, their destination now just a few buildings away.


    Maline sighed, “I never understood why you never took classes yourself. I would consider you the gifted one between the two of us.”


    He went quiet at that, and they walked in a shared silence. They came to a stop near a building that could not be distinguished from others at first glance. It was made of wood of a familiar shade and had a dulled sign hanging from a nail embedded above its entrance, “Aunt Polly’s Bakery.”


    The two siblings took in the aroma wafting from the building in glee.


    “I could recognize this smell from anywhere,” Maline said, taking in a waft of air.


    This was their standard bakery that they purchased bread from. They usually abstained from the more luxury products, partly due to their cost and that they were only made at certain points during the month.


    Maline was the first to move, eager, almost impatient. She didn’t wait for Gabe to open the door this time. “They must be baking caramel tarnocks today!” she exclaimed, her voice rare of such lightness.


    A splintered jumble of wooden planks prodded at her fingertips. She would have winced at if she were unfamiliar with its touch. The door opened to a busy room. Chairs were set up near the entrance for anyone waiting for their orders, which was rare as most visitors had already made appointments.


    A counter divided the front room, showcasing pastries and baked goods. Some items were sold out, marked only by their labels. Lanterns hung unlit on the walls, ready for the late-working staff.


    Behind the counter stood a lady whom the siblings knew as Aunt Polly—a woman whose presence had always seemed to fill the room with an easy kind of affection.


    She was a middle-aged woman with a plump figure. Her hair was a deep brown, matched by her eyes. Her freckled face creased into a wide smile as she bartered. She didn’t need to ask names; her customers were regulars.


    Donning a green apron with a simple white garb underneath, her hair was tied in a bun under a hair net. Walking in, Aunt Polly caught sight of the pair, signaling something to an employee in the back room.


    Although this was not the first time the brother and sister pair had been here, they still marveled at the experience.


    Taking a discreet look into the baking room just behind the counter, Maline whispered eagerly, “I knew it, they’re making tarnocks! I smell cinnamon…”


    Gabe gave a slight smile, failing to hide his anticipation. After waiting for a while, it was time for the siblings to pick up their order.


    “Wait," Maline asked, her eyebrows quirking in surprise. "Have you already placed an order?”


    Gabe''s incredulity made her smile. “Of course… It was one of the tasks I attended to before I woke you.”


    “Ah, if it isn’t my favorite duo!” Aunt Polly chirped meaningfully.


    Maline’s laughter chimed lightly in the air as she responded, “As if we didn’t hear you say that to another pair but a moment ago.”


    Gabe’s smirk grew into a smile as he observed the two. “We’re here for our order. I believe I made it around two days ago.”


    Feigning forgetfulness, Aunt Polly joked, “How could I forget? You ordered two loaves of potato bread, yes? They’re all ready for you.”


    As Polly recounted his order, Gabe looked sideward at his sister, sensing no disappointment. Relieved, he thanked the kind lady and waited for her to retrieve his order.


    When she returned, she had two loaves of bread wrapped in thin layers of brown paper. “That’s right, two loaves of potato bread,” She said, carrying these with one hand, as her other was behind her back. Her expression was laden with poorly concealed glee.


    Then, with a flourish, she produced another bag, placing it down with a dramatic flair. It held items that the siblings recognized as two caramel swirl tarnocks. There even seemed to be cinnamon sprinkled on top. They were named as such due to the preparation method used during cooking. Smoked at a carefully measured distance from flame, they took on a char that flaked while eating.


    “Who said that you two weren’t my favorite? I practically melted the caramel myself!” Polly said, somehow observing the two as her smile narrowed her eyes.


    Maline was struck with immediate surprise, as was her brother. It had to be known that this gesture wasn’t a small one. The tarnocks were a kind gesture. Generous, but difficult. Maline knew well how costly they were.


    Just as she had saved for years to buy honey, the cost of these materials had driven the pastries’ cost skyward. Their earlier anticipation was one of yearning, not expectation. They could not fit items like these into their budget.


    “Pol’, we can’t,” Maline protested gently, though the sweetness of the gesture made her heart flutter. “We know how expensive they are.”


    Aunt Polly’s face fell dramatically. “You wound me,” she teased, clutching her chest as if the refusal had inflicted a mortal injury.


    Gabe tried to pick them up and give them back to her, but she shielded the whole order with her arms. “Well, if you’re not taking them, then perhaps you can retrieve your order some other day, hm?” Aunt Polly said, smirking with squinted eyes.


    After a few moments of half-hearted resistance, Gabe relented, and Maline, too, allowed the pastries to remain, thanking her. There was no sense in protesting further.


    “The more you eat, the longer life gets.” Aunt Polly chimed as they turned to leave.


    On their way out, Aunt Polly’s voice called after Gabe, “Now that you’ve robbed me of my precious pastries, I need more customers! You’d better bring a partner next time!”


    Maline burst into laughter, her brother widening his strides as he turned, embarrassment evident in his expression.


    ???


    Once outside, Gabe sighed while shaking his head, “She can be quite a handful sometimes.”


    "Handfuls” Maline countered, nudging the bag in her brother''s cradle.


    The pair continued walking, making their way home. “We could go home, or take a slight detour…” Gabe insisted once again, referring to the institute.


    Maline was going to refuse this time, too, until she saw the look of what could only be described as utter supplication on her brother’s face. She couldn’t help but reluctantly nod in agreement.


    Perusing the goods of a nearby store through a window in order to hide his smug expression, Gabe assured, “Good choice! It’s not far.”