Chapter 33 - The Hunger’s Return
The bell above the door chimed, and Alena stepped into Inkwyrm & Co., brushing the autumn chill from her sleeves. The air inside was warm, steeped in the scent of coffee, parchment, and something faintly spiced. She set her satchel down with more weight than usual, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
From behind the counter, Devon looked up from a small stack of books he’d been arranging. Instead of the polite nod she’d grown used to before the house gathering, his mouth curved into an easy smile.
“Well, look who decided to grace my establishment again,” he said, voice light. “Seat by the window’s free. I’ll be over in a minute.”
It was the same tone he used with Neia, she noticed. That familiar, teasing ease. The kind of warmth that said she was no longer a stranger here. Alena settled by the window, leaning into the soft chair cushions. She could feel the week catching up with her. The long hours translating a particularly stubborn set of psionically warped runes had left her eyes aching, and the endless zigzagging across Korth on deliveries hadn’t helped. By the time Devon slid into the seat across from her, she must have looked it.
“You look like you’ve been fighting demons all week,” he said, studying her with an arched brow. “What happened?”
She gave a small, tired laugh. “I’ve been working on this old translation that’s been frying my brain. And between that, I’ve had so many deliveries. All over the city. North Highcourt in the morning, Outer Wards in the afternoon. My legs are staging a rebellion.”
Devon’s expression softened, the banter giving way to something gentler. Without thinking, he leaned forward and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. Her breath caught. His palm was warm, steady.
“Not hot. Good.” He pulled back, already standing. “Stay there.”
Before she could ask what he was doing, he was behind the counter, moving with the kind of easy confidence that came from knowing exactly where everything lived. Moments later, he returned with a steaming mug and set it in front of her.
“Chamomile and lemon balm. Best thing I’ve got for headaches,” he said. “If you start feeling cold, I’ll grab you a blanket.”
She curled her hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into her fingers. Her mind tried to remind her this was probably just something he did for all his friends, but her heart wasn’t listening. Get a grip, Alena. It’s just tea. Perfectly normal tea… made by a perfectly lovely man who’s now watching you drink it.
Devon leaned back in his chair, one ankle resting casually over his knee. “Been trying to avoid Caelan’s divination requests this week,” he said, swirling the last of his coffee. “Figured I’d give myself a break. But apparently, no matter where I hide, he finds me. I could be tucked inside a dumpster in some random alley and he’d probably still knock on the lid and tell me I’m late.”
Alena laughed, the sound easing the weight in her head. The tea helped too, fragrant and warm in her hands, but mostly it was the way he looked at her while telling the story, like they’d known each other far longer than they had.
Eventually, the sky outside began to dim, the café’s golden lights reflecting in the window beside her. She stood, feeling lighter than when she’d arrived.
“Thanks for the tea,” she said.
“Don’t stay up late working tonight,” he replied, giving her a mock stern look. “Or I’ll revoke your tea privileges.”
She waved him off, smiling all the way to the door. And as she stepped back into the cool air, she couldn’t help thinking that the walk home felt shorter than usual.
Settling in for the night with her well-worn romance novel and a steaming cup of tea, Alena pressed the heel of her palm to her temple. The dull headache she’d been nursing all afternoon suddenly sharpened, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Somewhere beneath the pain, a voice, low, alien, and threaded with static, whispered that danger was near.
Something stirs, little star… Danger comes with the shadow that walks.
It spoke in a tangled riddle, words bending around her thoughts like smoke. A shiver worked down her spine. It had been years since she’d heard Acamar’s voice, if it was indeed her patron, but the strange cadence was burned into her memory. The surprise tightened her chest. Naïve as ever, she obeyed the pull of the voice. She stepped outside her cottage into the cool night air. Down the narrow lane, beyond the moss-covered fences, a ribbon of smoke curled upward into the starlight.
For a moment, she wondered if one of her neighbours’ homes had caught fire, but the houses lining this part of the village road were long abandoned, their sagging thatch roofs used only to shelter tools or grain.
Her stomach knotted. She snatched her crystalink from the table, thumb hovering, then pressed the first name in her recent contacts. “Caelan,” she said as soon as the connection clicked. “There’s smoke. I think something’s on fire. Near my cottage. I—”
She didn’t finish. She was already pulling on her boots, out the door and into the chill, her breath clouding in the air. The glow deepened with every step until she reached the lane’s end and saw the blaze for what it was. Up close, she saw it: a storage shed belonging to the wheat farmer who supplied half the city. Flames licked at its sides, casting jagged shadows across the field.
She turned, scanning for water, but her search froze mid-step. Just beyond the shed, four robed figures slipped into view. Two carried a crude torch of bundled reeds, its flames sputtering in the wind. Her breath caught. Could they have been the ones responsible?
One of them hissed and pointed. “She saw us!” All four turned and charged.
They’re going to kill me, she thought.
She bolted, only to trip in the dark, the earth scraping her palms as her attackers drew closer. Panic clenched the breath in her lungs, weight pressing against her ribs with ruthless hands. Somewhere in the trembling blur of her mind, she mouthed a wordless, frantic plea, not to any neighbour or guardsman she could name, but to the one entity she had not spoken to in years.
Help me.
And then it came. Not from within her, but through her. A rush of power not her own. Acamar slid into the hollow corners of her awareness with easy, practiced malice, as if he’d never truly left. She sank backward into the dim fold of her own mind, watching from a seat behind her eyes as her hands lifted in measured grace. Light gathered there, spilling between her fingers in an eerie, rippling glow.
Her lips moved, words surging forth in a language whose meaning she never knew but whose power was endless. The sound of it bent the air, reality warping as if under sudden heat. Tethers — thin, luminous strands — whipped outward from her hands, anchoring themselves to the four shapes charging toward her. She felt, distantly, the pull of their bodies beneath the connection, and with a single, deliberate gesture of her glowing fingers, Acamar turned them. All four halted mid-stride, spun toward the inferno, and walked.
She wanted to scream, to tell them to stop, to remind Acamar of the limits of her Bewitching Whispers; that it was never meant to lead people into certain death. But where her magic stopped, his kept going, merciless and exact. Two of the robed figures strode into the gaping mouth of the flames without pause, their silhouettes jerking and twisting as heat and fire claimed them. Their screams tore loose into the sky, flayed raw by agony. Alena’s eyes burned with tears, as much from helpless horror as from the sting of the smoke.
The voice inside her savoured it.
The other two wrenched free from the spell and lunged again. “Monster!” one spat. Acamar moved her hand of his own will, muttering more of that alien tongue, and in the next breath an invisible cube of force locked one of them in place. Smoke and heat pooled within the space, scorching the man’s boots. The air inside thickened to suffocation. His voice, once loud with rage, broke into hacking coughs. He crumpled, curling in on himself as flames crawled up the cube’s edges, licking his clothes, his hair. Each second was its own brutality.
No. No more. With everything she had, body, mind, and spirit, she slammed against Acamar in her head. It felt like an implosion, and then… silence. Haunting silence.
The sound of running feet dragged her back fully into the moment. The surviving attacker roared, sword arching upward in his grip as he closed the last stretch between them. She tried to lift her arms, to call up a shield, but muscle and magic refused her. Every breath was a knife in her chest. This is it, she thought, hands rising by reflex rather than plan. I’m going to die.
And then — steel on steel.
A glaive’s long, gleaming blade carved between them, the force of the strike ringing into the bones of her ears. A low growl rolled past her, and she recognized the voice even before she turned. Caelan. The light of the burning shed turned his tall silhouette into something unmistakable, carved in flame and shadow. His coat, black, long, and flowing behind him, caught the wind and shifted like a living thing. His stance was unmovable, his hands strong on the weapon’s haft as he pressed the robed attacker back, strike after merciless strike until the man’s blade clattered to the ground. A final, deft sweep of Caelan’s weapon knocked the man flat in the dirt.
Mages in uniform emerged from the darkness beyond, hands already traced with conjuring sigils. They raised their palms in perfect synchronicity, summoning great clouds of water that unfurled into the blaze. Steam hissed upward in thick billows, cloaking the scene. Caelan’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and controlled, commanding one of the soldiers forward to seize the captive.
Caelan turned back to Alena and drew her gently up from the ground. He closed the space between them, his free hand sliding up to steady her by the arms. His thumb brushed away the grit on her cheek, then the smears of dirt from her palms. “Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low, almost gentle, though the edge of battle still hummed beneath it.
Her throat tightened until her voice splintered. The words tumbled out, raw around the edges: she had killed them, three of them, she hadn’t meant to, she was so afraid, she didn’t want to die.
Behind them, what remained of the three bodies lay sprawled and blackened, unrecognizable. His eyes flicked toward the charred remains, then back to her. “You are alive,” he said, his tone firm, almost grounding. “That is what matters now.”
The surviving attacker suddenly laughed, his voice ragged. “That little bird is strong. She should be one of us. Only strength ensures survival.” The grin widened enough to show blood smeared across his teeth. Before anyone could react, he jerked his shackled hands upward, toward himself. Power gathered in his palms, a sickly black-green light swelling between them. The blast erupted point-blank into his own skull with a crack that echoed across the field. Half his face was simply gone, the burst snapped him backward into stillness, already lifeless as he hit the dirt.
Alena’s breath hitched into a choked sob, but Caelan was already moving, stepping in front of her, one arm wrapping tight around her shoulders as he steered her gaze away from the ruin of a man. “Don’t look,” he murmured against her hair, the weight of his voice shielding her as much as his body. Behind him, the soldiers moved quickly, securing the scene even as smoke from the dying storage fire curled into the night sky. He commanded his soldiers to handle the scene and gather evidence, then walked Alena home.
Inside her cottage, she stepped just past the threshold and stopped cold, eyes fixed unfocused on a point far away. Wordless, he eased her dirt-marked jacket from her shoulders. His hands framed her face, thumbs tilting her chin slightly until she met his gaze. “You’re safe now,” he murmured. “I’m here.” His fingers threaded lightly into her hair, combing down in slow reassurances until her breath evened. Only then did he suggest she clean herself up. “I’ll make tea,” he said, as though normalcy could be built in small, simple ways.
In the shower, the hot water ran over her as she replayed it all: the scorched air, the screaming, the smell. And then, as if leaning over her shoulder, Acamar’s voice coiled through her mind.
You did good, my little star. My hunger has been sated. For now.
Her scream tore through the walls.
The door slammed open. Caelan strode inside without hesitation, though the sudden view of her through the steam caught him off guard. He averted his gaze at once, jaw tightening, as if the heat in the room had leapt into his own skin. Reaching past her, he shut off the water. He kept his eyes lowered as he wrapped a towel around her, the set of his shoulders rigid, voice low but urgent. Then, after a measured breath, he crouched and tilted his head to catch her expression. Nothing in her gaze told him she was here at all. Carefully, he gathered her into his arms, lifting her as though she weighed nothing, carrying her to the living room.
He returned to the bathroom for another towel, coming back to her side. With soft, deliberate movements, he began to dry her hair, which was still dripping onto the couch and the floor. Once her hair was mostly dry, he picked up his own coat and draped it over her shoulders, a gesture of both warmth and modesty.
Moving into the kitchen, he set the kettle on to boil. As the burner clicked to life, he pulled out his crystalink, thumbs moving quickly across the glassy surface:
Need an emergency favour. Come to Alena’s. Bring Gideon.
He set the device down, leaning against the counter, letting the hum of the warming kettle fill the silence before the frantic knocking came. Caelan opened the door to find Neia and Gideon standing on the porch, their faces etched with concern. Neia’s eyes met his, a silent question passing between them that confirmed she’d received his urgent message.
“Caelan, what happened?” Neia asked, her gaze immediately going past him to Alena on the couch.
“Come in,” Caelan urged, stepping aside. He gave them a brief, hushed account of the attack, the fire, and Alena’s… involvement. Gideon remained by the door, his expression grim. Caelan turned to Neia. “Could you take Alena to her bedroom? Help her get dressed.”
While the two women disappeared down the short hall, Caelan beckoned Gideon into the kitchen. “You can come in now,” he said quietly, setting the kettle on for tea. As the water began to hum, he recounted the incident in more detail, explaining how the last attacker’s robes matched those Gideon had seen in the alley, and at the festival.
“He said, ‘only strength ensures survival’,” Caelan shared, his voice low and troubled.
“I don’t think Alena’s safe living here alone right now.”
Gideon’s jaw tightened. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll bring her to live with me for the time being,” Caelan decided, his gaze firm. “I have a guest room.”
Just then, Neia and Alena emerged from the bedroom. Neia kept a reassuring hand on Alena’s arm, not letting go. Caelan explained his plan, then turned to Neia. “Could you help Alena pack some essentials? Clothes, amenities…” He looked around the small cottage, his eyes lingering on a stack of books by the couch.
“And Gideon,” he added, “could you help pack some of her books as well?”
Caelan walked over to Alena, who remained seated on the couch, still looking fragile. He knelt before her, offering a gentle, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about your home,” he promised, his voice soft. “I’ll send some of my soldiers to come by every once in a while to make sure it’s safe, and your plants will be cared for.”
He reached out, gently patting her hand. “I just want you to be somewhere safe, and with me, I know for sure you will be.” Alena, though still in shock, looked up at him, her lips quivering. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “For saving me.” Caelan’s smile softened further. He gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “You did an amazing job,” he told her, his voice sincere. “Fending them off. You did your best until I arrived.”
Later that night, with Alena’s belongings packed into several bags, the four of them made their way toward Highcourt Ward. And in the darkness behind them, the wind stirred the embers of a night that had changed everything.