CHAPTER 15

The rogue camp was quieter now.

Not silent, not ever but softer in its rhythm. The clang of swords still rang through the air each morning, the fires still crackled with meat and conversation, but something about the way the rogues looked at Aria had changed.

She no longer felt like a trespasser.

She wasn’t quite one of them either… not yet, but the edge of their suspicion had dulled.

Perhaps it was the way she stood taller now.

Or maybe it was the way she didn’t flinch anymore when someone tossed her a weapon.

Maybe it was the fact that she survived all three trials and walked out of them bloodied, bruised, haunted, but unbroken.

She was still here.

And in a place like this, that meant something.

That morning, Aria helped haul crates of dry grain to the supply tent. Her arms ached, fingers blistered from rope burn, but she didn’t complain. Not even when a few younger rogues grumbled about her pace.

“It’s not the load that breaks you,” Maela had once said while patching a torn tent flap, “it’s the way you carry it.”

So Aria lifted, pulled, dragged. And when she collapsed onto a worn log beside the cooking fire, panting and flushed, she felt something that surprised her.

Pride.

“Here,” came Nessa’s voice, bright and eager. The little girl shoved a carved wooden bowl into Aria’s lap, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. “Hotroot stew. You like spicy, right?”

Aria blinked at the thick, red broth swimming with potatoes, greens, and something that looked questionably like squirrel.

“I… love spicy,” she lied.

Nessa’s grin could’ve lit the entire camp.

Corin plopped down beside them, his own bowl in hand. “She’s lying,” he told Nessa, elbowing Aria gently. “She nearly choked last time Maela added wild peppers.”

Nessa giggled.

Aria rolled her eyes and took a cautious sip. The heat hit her tongue like a slap. She coughed.

“I’m building resistance,” she wheezed, eyes watering.

“Right,” Corin smirked. “You’ll be breathing fire before winter.”

“Won’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done,” she muttered.

They ate together, laughter spilling more freely than it had in weeks. A few other rogues drifted by, nodding to her, even offering a joke or two. It was subtle, but Aria felt it… acceptance loosening its fingers around her throat.

Later, she trained.

Not with Selene, she was still gone without a trace but with Corin and two others from the northern patrol. The drills were intense, but rhythmic. Like dancing with blades instead of feet.

Corin corrected her stance, nudged her elbow into alignment, taught her how to pivot with grace instead of brute force.

“You're too rigid,” he said. “The fire wants to flow. Let it.”

Aria had no idea if he meant it metaphorically or literally.

But she tried.

She didn’t win every match, didn’t land every strike. But she didn’t fall either.

Not today.

As the sun began to dip, washing the world in amber, Aria wandered to the river just beyond the eastern fence.

She loved it there, the hush of rushing water, the quiet hum of the forest. It was one of the few places the camp didn’t press on her skin like a bruise.

She sat on a flat rock near the bank, letting her toes skim the icy current.

“Didn’t peg you for the hiding type,” a voice said from behind.

Her breath hitched.

Kael stepped into view, the fading light brushing gold into his hair, shadow clinging to his jawline.

“I’m not hiding,” Aria said, a little too quickly.

He said nothing, just walked to the opposite edge of the riverbank and crouched, running a hand through the water. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t sharp. It felt… tentative. Like both of them were waiting to see who would speak first.

“I used to come here with my mother,” Kael said finally. “Before things fell apart.”

Aria looked up. His profile was hard against the sky, cut from stone and secrets but his voice was softer now, like the river had stolen some of his sharpness.

“She said the water made her remember who she was. Before the war. Before the Council. Before the loss.”

Aria swallowed. “Do you remember who you were?”

Kael didn’t answer.

Instead, he sat down beside her, just far enough that they didn’t touch, but close enough that she could feel his warmth through the cool evening air.

“I don’t know what I am now,” he admitted. “But when I see you fight, when I see you survive, I remember why I started all of this.”

“Revenge?” she asked.

“No,” he said quietly. “Hope.”

Aria’s breath caught.

He didn’t look at her, but his voice grew raw. “The others, they fight to live another day. But you… you make them think we could have more than that.”

She turned her gaze back to the river. “What if I don’t want to be their symbol?”

“Then don’t,” Kael said. “Just be you. That’s enough.”

The silence settled again, but it was different now. Warmer. Closer.

“I miss her,” Aria said suddenly. “My mother. I don’t remember much, but sometimes I see her in dreams. And it’s like I’m five years old again, waiting for her to come back.”

Kael’s voice was low. “She was fire and thunder. She didn’t fear gods or monsters.”

Aria looked at him, eyes burning. “And what about me?”

He finally turned, eyes locking with hers.

“You,” he said, “are the storm that comes after.”

The world stopped.

Aria couldn’t breathe.

But before she could speak, before anything could crack between them, Kael stood.

“We should head back.”

He walked away without another word.

And Aria was left with her heart pounding like war drums in her chest.

That night, she tucked Nessa in early. The child mumbled something about stars and wolves, her tiny fingers curled around Aria’s wrist like a tether.

Once she was asleep, Aria sat outside the tent, letting the cool air sting her cheeks.

She felt it again, that shift in the world.

Like something was watching.

A shadow broke off from the tree line. Not large. Not loud.

But deliberate.

“Aria,” came a voice like rust scraping iron.

She stood slowly.

The boy was tall, broad-shouldered with the lean frame of a scout. Maybe seventeen or eighteen. His hair was cut short, jaw sharp, expression unreadable.

She recognized him vaguely.

Rogan’s son.

“Ezek,” she said carefully. “You’re out late.”

He didn’t smile.

“I came to warn you.”

Aria tensed. “About what?”

Ezek stepped closer, but not too close. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You’re not meant to survive this place.”

A chill danced up her spine.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

He tilted his head, eyes empty. “You’re shaking the roots of things that were buried for a reason. The prophecy. The elders. Even Kael.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” he said, voice flat. “It’s a truth.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the dark like smoke.

And Aria was left staring at the shadows, her heartbeat echoing the warning in his voice.

Aria didn't know whether Ezek's words were fear, envy, or prophecy. But they plant a seed of dread that won’t stop growing.

The night felt colder after Ezek vanished into the dark.

Aria stood for several long moments outside her tent, trying to shake the way his voice had wrapped around her like thorns. You’re not meant to survive this place.

Those words had weight. Not just as a threat, but as something else. A warning. A prophecy. A curse.

She pressed a hand to her chest, steadying her heartbeat, and quietly stepped back inside the tent where Nessa slept soundly. The child had kicked off her blanket again, tiny feet poking out into the cool air. Aria knelt and covered her carefully, brushing a curl from Nessa’s brow.

So small. So fearless.

And so much to lose.

She lay beside her for a while, staring at the canvas above, counting each beat of her own breath until sleep finally dragged her under.

She woke before dawn, as always.

Habit now.

The camp stirred slowly with groggy grunts and the clatter of boots. Aria dressed quickly, tucking her hair into a loose braid and lacing up her boots with steady fingers.

But the moment she stepped out into the rising light, her senses sharpened.

Something felt off.

The air was thicker, too still. The kind of silence that had weight. Whispers floated past her like smoke, carried on the lips of passing rogues who quickly looked away when she caught their eyes.

One even bumped her shoulder and didn’t apologize.

Aria blinked, stepping out of the path of a patrol heading to the training ring.

Corin stood nearby, speaking with two others. His face was tight, focused, but when he spotted her, his expression shifted.

He broke from the group and walked over, his voice low. “Something’s happening.”

“I noticed,” she said.

He glanced around and then leaned in slightly. “The elders met early. Rogan’s pushing something through, using Selene’s disappearance and your last trial as proof.”

“Proof of what?” she asked.

“That you’re a danger.” His eyes flicked toward the elder tent. “They’re voting again. On your place here.”

Her stomach dropped.

“But I passed the trials. I bled for them.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Corin said grimly. “Rogan's son is whispering poison. He’s calling you a symbol of unrest. Says you’ve cursed Kael. That ever since you came, more rogues have died.”

“I didn’t cause the attacks…”

“They don’t care,” Corin cut in, lowering his voice even further. “Fear doesn’t need a reason. It only needs a spark.”

Aria swallowed the bitter heat rising in her throat. “And Kael?”

“He hasn’t spoken yet. But he’s in that tent.”

Her heart squeezed tight.

He hadn’t defended her the last time.

Would he now?

She turned, gaze fixed on the elder tent across the square, its flap drawn tight like a wound. Her pulse pounded in her ears, loud as drums.

“I need to go,” she said.

Corin reached out and touched her arm. “Don’t go alone. Let me walk you.”

“No,” she said gently, pulling away. “If they think I’m hiding behind anyone, it’ll make it worse.”

He didn’t argue.

She walked alone.

The elder tent was dim and smoky, lit by a central fire and the golden glow of sun filtering through aged canvas. Inside, five elders sat in a circle. Rogan among them, his face carved from contempt.

Kael stood off to the side, arms folded. He looked… unreadable.

Aria stopped at the threshold.

“Ah, the Silverborn arrives,” Rogan said, voice cool and sharp. “Or should I say… the storm we invited into our midst.”

She said nothing, stepping into the circle with her spine straight.

“Speak,” another elder said, a woman named Jora. “We’ve heard much about you. Now we’ll hear from you.”

Aria drew a breath.

“I didn’t come here to stir rebellion,” she began. “I didn’t ask to be marked by prophecy. I didn’t ask for visions or trials or power that burns through my blood.”

She looked around the room, eyes landing last on Kael.

“But I’ve fought. I’ve bled. I’ve protected your children. I’ve cleaned your weapons and cooked your food and faced things I still don’t understand.”

She let her voice rise just slightly. “And I’m still here. Not because I want power. But because I want a home.”

Rogan leaned forward. “A home you intend to divide. You’ve turned Kael’s focus. You’ve stirred the camp. Even Selene is gone.”

“You don’t know she’s gone because of me,” Aria said, trying to stay steady. “And if you do, prove it.”

Rogan's lip curled.

Kael finally spoke. “That’s enough.”

Every eye turned to him.

His gaze didn’t move from Aria.

“She’s passed the trials. She’s earned her place.”

Rogan’s laugh was bitter. “Your judgment is clouded.”

“Then uncloud it,” Kael snapped, stepping forward. “If you believe she’s a threat, then make the vote.”

Jora glanced between them. “It’s already been made.”

Aria's blood turned to ice.

Jora stood. “You have until tomorrow at dusk. One full day to prove your loyalty. One act worthy of a rogue’s place. Or we will cast our vote to exile.”

Aria stared at her. “And what does that mean? Leave quietly?”

Rogan smiled thinly. “Or leave bleeding.”

Outside, the sun was too bright.

The wind too still.

She walked with numb legs through the camp, not really seeing the people or the paths, not feeling the stones beneath her feet. Whispers buzzed around her like flies.

One day.

She had one day to prove she belonged.

And for the first time since she arrived… she wasn’t sure what would be enough.

She found herself at the forge.

It wasn’t intentional. Her feet had simply taken her there, like they were searching for warmth in all the wrong places.

Maela stood with her sleeves rolled up, hair wrapped tightly in a scarf, hammering a blade on an anvil. Sparks flared, hissing like fireflies.

Aria didn’t speak at first.

Maela didn’t look up.

“I thought you’d come,” she said after a moment, placing the blade into a trough of water with a sharp hiss. “The wind’s been screaming your name since dawn.”

“They’ve given me until tomorrow,” Aria said. “To prove myself.”

Maela nodded. “Rogan’s been waiting for this since the moment you arrived.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

Maela turned, wiping her hands. Her face was streaked with soot and sweat, but her eyes were clear. Calm.

“You do,” she said. “But you’re afraid.”

Aria’s voice cracked. “What if I fail?”

“Then fail like fire,” Maela said. “Not a spark snuffed out, but an inferno that leaves a mark.”

Aria looked at her, heart aching.

“I’m tired,” she whispered. “I’m so tired of being a symbol. A weapon. A threat. I just want to be… Aria.”

Maela walked over and placed a hand on her cheek, rough thumb brushing her skin.

“Then start with that. Be Aria. Not the prophecy. Not the ghost of your mother. Just you.”

Aria nodded, but the lump in her throat was a mountain.

That night, Kael found her near the river again.

He said nothing as he sat beside her.

They sat in silence, the moon above full and watching.

Finally, she turned to him. “Did you vote?”

“No.”

“Why?”

He looked at her, and for once, there was no guard behind his eyes.

“Because I wanted to see what you’d do when the fire closed in.”

She held his gaze. “And what do you think I’ll do?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t look away.

And that, perhaps, was answer enough.

As Aria stood at the river’s edge, she closed her eyes and let the fire in her blood stir. Tomorrow, she’ll either rise… or burn.