Page 19 of The Awakening of Essensia

“You cannot refuse a summons from Caerthalyn,” he said.

Her throat tightened. Heat rushed to her face. Her palms tingled, hot and sharp like a burn. Pressing her hands into her knees, she tried to steady her breathing.

The letter still sat between them on the desk, silently watching them. A promise, and a threat.

Vaelira didn’t return home immediately. The letter weighed too heavily on her mind. She took it out of her pouch. Unfolded it, then folded it again. And again. It was her first official order, and every instinct in her wanted to fight it.

Her boots struck the cobbled streets, the spire of the chapel rising like a tall idol, judging her from above the rooftops. She turned away sharply and headed towards the market.

The streets were alive with the usual morning rush. A woman passed by cradling a bundled infant, another child tugging at her long skirts, nearly pulling her sideways as she navigated the crowd with a woven basket.

Vaelira’s breath caught. For a moment, she was certain the child would fall and be swept away into the thrum of people, but he hurried along with his mother and out of sight.

The market square opened before her, sunlight pouring into the wide space. Stalls bursting with colour lined the edges; crimson apples stacked neatly in rows, polished gemstones wrapped in copper wire hanging from chains, the woman behind the stall claiming they warded away demons. Loaves of bread, still steaming, wafted their buttery scent through the chill morning air.

She skirted around the stalls, watching the organised chaos. Old men haggled. Children darted between legs. A girl chased a small kitten as it ran through the crowd, her long braids flying wildly behind her.

These were the people she had trained to protect.

A flour covered hand lifted in greeting. The baker, Marten, beamed at her from behind his stall and she returned the wave, smiling back.

She remembered the first winter after their father died, Jon had been too proud to ask for help, her too young to know how. The baker had dropped a warm loaf into her arms, claiming he had baked one too many that morning.

Others had stepped in without being asked. Kili, with her gentle hands and sharp tongue, bringing herbs and broth for Jon when his fever wouldn’t break. Her husband, Hames, carting them firewood even when they had none to spare. Loklan, the short-tempered stablemaster, who put them to work shovelling muck and rewarded them with riding lessons, insisting every decent person knew how to ride.

Through it all, there had been Commander Lysander. He was the one who set their spine straight when grief might have buckled it. He never let them drift, and in his own way, he made sure they didn’t break apart. He’d carried the weight of the whole town, but somehow still found time for them in the moments that mattered. They’d had no guide and no plan, just each other and this town.

Part of her had joined the guard to repay that kindness. To protect what they had built. Now, with her boots already pointed away, it felt more like desertion.

They had never owed her anything, but she owed them everything.

The Sanatorium always stank of vinegar, the sharp scent undercut by the earthier aroma of herbs, heartviolets, and whatever else Kili used to brew her tonics. Vaelira padded softly down the row of cots, her fingers toying with the cord of her pouch.

Freya was propped against a pillow, one leg still splinted, the other bent towards her chest. Her faded gold hair was wrangled into a bun and tied with a strip of leather that looked like it had once belonged to someone’s boot. She still looked beautiful, even with shadows rimming her emerald eyes.

“You didn’t pass?” Freya said, reading Vaelira’s expression. Her mouth dropped open. “Those halfwits. They don’t know a sword from a soup ladle. If I could stand, I swear on all the forgotten gods, I would go down there and beat some sense into them with my crutch.”

She shifted like she meant to get up, reaching for the wooden crutch propped next to the bed.

Vaelira rushed over and pressed a hand to her shoulder. “You’ll break your other leg, fool.”

“We’ll both take it next year,” Freya declared. “And we’ll make a scene this time. Show everyone up so badly they write ballads about it.”

Vaelira smiled faintly. “Like we said we would the first time we saw the Guard ride past.”

Freya snorted. “You cried when they didn’t let you try on their cloak.”

“You dared me to ask,” Vaelira muttered. They both laughed, and Vaelira sighed. “It’s not that.”

Her fingers brushed the stone in her pouch before closing around the letter. She held it out for Freya.

The folds had worn soft, but the golden seal still caught the light.

Freya’s brows furrowed as she read. Her eyes widened, narrowed, then flew back to the top to read it again. When she finally finished, she let out a long, low whistle.

“Well,” she said, “this is not what I expected.”

Vaelira didn’t answer.