The Ascended — Chapter no 3

Chapter 3

The Last Light

"YOU'RE GOING TO DROP THAT," THATCHER SAID, WATCHING ME WRESTLE with the wine bottle Sulien had shoved into my arms at the last second.

"I'm not going to—" The bottle slipped, and I caught it against my chest. "Shut up."

He laughed, the bastard. "Want me to carry it?"

"I've got it." I shifted the basket to my other hip, trying to find a grip that didn't make me feel like a pack mule. Around us, other people were making their way down the path toward the caves.

"Jorik's already three sheets to the wind," Thatcher observed, nodding ahead where the fisherman was swaying slightly as he walked.

"Smart man."

The past two weeks had passed in a blur. I'd gone out with Jorik's crew every day the weather allowed, throwing myself into the work and staying as far away from dry land as possible. When the boats couldn't go out, I was shucking oysters and mending nets in our own shed rather than venturing into the village proper. Better to be exhausted than risk being seen.

The path to the caves was packed. It wasn’t just our people. Traders who'd come early for the festival marched along with us.

"There's Marel," Thatcher said, and his tone had me snapping my head

up.

"So?"

"So nothing. Just pointing him out."

I caught sight of blonde hair near the front of the group. "Don't start."

"Start what? I'm not starting anything." But he was grinning in that way that meant he was absolutely starting something. "Though he asked about

you again."

"When?"

"This morning. Wanted to know if you were coming tonight."

The flush hit me hard and fast. "What did you tell him?"

"That you'd be here. Unless you decided to throw yourself off the cliffs

instead."

"Thatcher."

"What? It's accurate." He cocked an eyebrow. "You've been walking

around like someone died all week."

"Someone might."

I heard the cold in my words too late, and Thatcher's teasing expression sobered. We walked in silence for a moment, the weight of tomorrow settling between us like fog.

"Hey." His voice was quieter now. "We're going to be fine."

I wanted to believe him. Gods, I wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.

"Yeah," I said. "Okay."

He studied my face for another moment, then nodded. "Good. Now come on, before Lira starts the whole thing without us."

The caves were already half full when we arrived. Someone had lit the torches early. Their flames whipped and sparked, casting flickers of shadow across the cave walls. I loved this place—had since I was a kid. The way the cave curved inward created perfect acoustics, your voice coming back to you changed and richer. This was where the village came to celebrate everything. Births, marriages, good harvests, surviving storms.

"Thais!" Lira waved us over to where she'd claimed a spot near the center. "Perfect timing. I need someone to hang these."

She handed me a string of sea glass. For a moment, I froze, staring at the way the glass seemed to pulse with its own rhythm, wondering for a second if it had come from me. But no. Just a normal trick of the light.

Thatcher plucked it from my hands.

"I'll do it," he said easily. "Thais is afraid of heights."

"I am not afraid of—"

"Terrified," he continued, already moving toward the cave wall. And then I realized what he was doing—stepping in to distract from whatever he

thought I had done. Always saving me, that one. "Absolutely paralyzed by anything more than three feet off the ground."

"Are you two going to bicker all night?" Lira interrupted, but she was smiling. "Because if so, I need to get more wine."

I settled onto the blanket she'd spread out, finally managing to set down the basket and bottle. The cave was filling up steadily—families finding their usual spots, friends clustering together, kids running between the

groups like excited puppies.

"Wine?" Lira offered.

"Gods, yes."

She poured, and I took a grateful sip. It was good stuff—better than what we usually drank at home. "Where did you get this?"

"Trader brought it in yesterday. Said it was from somewhere south." She lowered her voice. "Cost me half a month's pay, but I figured… well.

Special occasion."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Around us, the celebration was starting to take shape. Elder Keth was making his way toward the fire pit with a bundle of kindling while Henrik tuned his fiddle. I readied my ears for what would undoubtedly be a loud evening of these drunken bastards screaming songs out of key.

Keth crouched beside the cold fire pit, his weathered hands steady as he arranged the kindling just so. The flint and steel had belonged to his grandfather, and his grandfather's grandfather before that.

The fire caught, small flames licking upward. In the growing light, faces emerged from the shadows—some I'd known since birth, others newer to Saltcrest but no less welcome for it.

"To those who came before," Keth raised his cup. "And those who'll come after. And to tonight, which is all we get for sure."

"To tonight," everyone echoed, and drank.

That was it. No grand speeches, no elaborate ceremony. Just acknowledgment of time and mortality and the simple fact that we were here together.

"Cards?" Thatcher appeared at my elbow, already eyeing the traders who'd clustered near one of the side alcoves.

"Go fleece them," I said. "Just don't be too obvious about it."

"I'm never obvious. I'm subtle as a passing breeze.” He was already moving away, that easy charm sliding over his features.

"You're subtle as a brick through a window," I called after him, but he just laughed and kept walking.

"He's going to clean them out," Lira observed.

"Probably." I watched him settle into the group, already dealing cards with the practiced ease of someone who'd been running games since he was sixteen. "They look like they can afford it."

Henrik's fiddle cut through the chatter with the opening notes of a song.

The first one was always "Fisher's Dawn," and everyone was expected to sing along whether they could carry a tune or not.

The voices rose around me, blending together into something bigger than the sum of its parts. I found myself singing too.

Salt wind and morning tide, Nets cast upon the foam, Every sailor knows the sea will call him home.

It was a working song, something to keep rhythm when you were hauling nets or mending lines. But here in the caves, with voices echoing off the stone walls, it sounded more like solidarity.

"Dance?"

I looked up to find Marel standing over me, hand extended. He was smiling, but there was caution in it.

"I'm comfortable here," I said, which wasn't entirely a lie.

"Come on. It's tradition."

"Since when?"

"Since right now." His smile deepened. "I'm starting a new tradition.

Dancing with stubborn women who pretend they don't want to."

"That's oddly specific."

Lira snorted into her wine. "Just go dance with him, Thais. Before I throw up from all this romance."

I shot her a look, but let Marel pull me to my feet. The space near the fire had already been claimed by other couples, and Henrik's fiddle turned

slow.

And intimate. Too intimate.

Marel was a good dancer. His hands were sure on my waist, and he led without being pushy about it. We moved through the steps, spinning and stepping around each other in the pattern everyone in Saltcrest learned as children. I found myself watching his face, trying to summon the feelings I should have had after so much time together. There was affection, certainly

—even desire—but the deeper current that should have run beneath it was conspicuously absent.

"You've been avoiding me," he said as we came together for the closer

portion of the dance.

"I haven't."

"Really? Because I've been to the oyster beds three times this week and somehow never managed to run into you."

I stepped on his foot, probably harder than necessary. "Sorry."

"You know, most people would consider it rude to step on someone's foot and then lie about being sorry."

"Most people would consider it rude to interrogate someone while they're dancing."

"I'm not interrogating. I'm making conversation."

"There's a difference?"

"One involves thumbscrews."

I couldn't help it—I laughed. And once I started, I couldn't seem to stop.

Maybe it was the wine, or the stress of the week, or just the sheer absurdity of discussing torture techniques while dancing to Henrik's fiddle. But I found myself laughing until my sides hurt and I had to lean against Marel's chest to stay upright.

"Better?" he asked when I finally got myself under control.

"Better," I admitted.

The song was winding down, other couples beginning to separate and applaud. But Marel's arms stayed around my waist, and I found I didn't

want to move away just yet.

"Thais," he said quietly.

"Don't."

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"I know that tone. That's your serious conversation tone, and I'm not drunk enough for serious conversations."

He was quiet for a moment, his hands warm against my back. Around us, the celebration continued—more music, more laughter, more stories being told by the fire. But it felt separate somehow, like we were standing in a bubble of stillness.

"At some point," he said finally. "In the future. Will you talk to me? I mean, are we ever going to have the conversation, Thais? You're twenty-six,

I'm nearing thirty. I don't see anyone else the way I see you. Are we going

to keep dancing around this forever?"

"Marel—" My throat tightened.

"I know your brother is fine spending his life like this, but is it what you really want?"

I stopped, taking a step back. "We're not talking about this here."

Because I couldn't bear to see the hurt in his eyes when he realized the truth —that I cared for him deeply but not in the way he wanted, not in the way he deserved. He sighed, eyes going dim as he pulled me back to him.

"Just promise me you'll talk to me. At some point. That's all."

"I promise," I said, and meant it. Even if I couldn't keep it. Even if the conversation we needed to have wasn't the one he imagined.

"Good. That's good." He smiled then, the real one that made his whole face change. I'd become so accustomed to taking what he offered—comfort, normalcy, affection—while giving back only what I could convincingly fake. And still, he looked at me like I was everything.

The dancing went on for another hour, songs flowing into each other without pause. I danced with Marel, then with Henrik when he handed off his fiddle to someone else, then with Jorik who was drunk enough to be truly entertaining. Thatcher appeared at one point to claim a dance, spinning me around until I was dizzy and laughing.

"How much have you won?" I asked when he set me down.

"Enough." He looked pleased with himself. "The one from Millhaven is terrible at cards but keeps betting anyway. It's like watching someone throw

money into the sea."

"Careful."

"I'm being reasonable. Just taking enough to make it interesting."

The music slowed again, and couples began to drift apart. Some headed back to their blankets and wine, others gathered around the fire where Dorna was preparing to tell one of her famous stories.

"Ghost story?" I asked, settling back onto Lira's blanket.

"Something fitting for tonight," Dorna announced, settling herself more comfortably near the fire. "The old story about Morthus and his bride."

A few people groaned good-naturedly. "Again?" someone called out.

My stomach clenched. Not this one. Not tonight.

"It's the best one," Dorna shot back. "Besides, some of you young ones haven't heard it told properly."

I caught Thatcher's eye across the cave and saw my own discomfort reflected there. Sulien had gone very still beside the fire, his knuckles white around his cup.

She cleared her throat and launched into it, her voice taking on the cadence she reserved for the most dramatic stories. "You all know how it began—Morthus, Aesymar of death and King of Draknavor. Cold as winter stone, implacable as the tide. For millennia, he ruled his domain without passion, without mercy, without love."

"But the heart, even the heart of an Aesymar, is not so easily commanded," Dorna continued. "In his great temple stood a mortal priestess named Osythe. Beautiful, yes, but also brilliant. She managed his mortal temple with such reverence that even Morthus himself took notice. A woman who feared neither god nor mortal, who spoke truth even to those who could destroy her with a thought. And he fell in love."

A few appreciative murmurs hummed around the fire.

"Now, when Olinthar learned of this attachment," Dorna said, and my blood ran cold at the casual mention of his name. "The King of Gods reminded Morthus of divine law. No god may lay with a mortal, let alone take one to wife. Such unions are forbidden, an abomination against the

natural order."

Hypocrite, I thought bitterly.

"But Morthus had already fallen too deep," Dorna's voice rose dramatically. "He stood before the rest of the Twelve in their great council and declared his intention to marry Osythe properly."

Sulien's jaw tightened, and Thatcher shifted uncomfortably, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt.

"Axora demanded a trial by combat," Dorna continued. "If Morthus could defeat any champion they chose, then the law would bend to his will.

But if he lost, he would abandon this foolishness forever."

"Who did they choose?" one of the children asked.

"Pyralia," Dorna said with relish. "Aesymar of fire and passion. She stepped into the arena wreathed in flames that could melt stone, wielding fire that could burn even gods."

The story rolled on—three days and nights of fire against shadow, passion against death, until finally Morthus emerged victorious.

"The wedding shook both realms," Dorna continued. "Every god was forced to choose a side. And everyone, mortal and god alike suffered for it.

Those cracks still run through the heavens to this day."

"But here's the truly remarkable part." Dorna's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried through the entire cave. "When it came time for the wedding vows, Osythe refused Morthus's offer of ascension. 'I choose to remain mortal,' she declared. 'For that is what you fell in love with.'"

"So what did he do?" Lira asked, though she knew the answer.

"Something that had never been done before," Dorna said. "As god of death, Morthus had power over the boundary between life and the afterlife.

He reached into Osythe's very essence and simply… froze it in time. It wasn’t true immortality, wasn’t godhood. It was suspension. She exists now in the space between life and death—aging slowly, but still fundamentally mortal.”

At least she survived, I thought, anger rising in my chest. At least she got access to divine healers, to magic that could fix anything, heal everything. Unlike my mother, who'd been discarded back to the mortal realm—Elaren—to die.

"Osythe lives with her lover in Draknavor now," Dorna finished. "Their son ascended in the last Trials—Xül, Warden of the Damned. And every day, Morthus proves that even gods can choose love over law, compassion over command–”

"Very romantic," Thatcher called out. "Now tell us one we haven't heard fifty times."

"Ungrateful boy," Dorna huffed, but she was smiling.

I spotted Sulien sitting slightly apart from the chaos, watching the revelry with a soft expression I rarely saw on his weathered face.

"Mind if I sit?" I asked, settling beside him without waiting for an answer.

"Course not." He shifted to make room, his shoulder warm against mine. "Good night, isn't it?"

"It is." I followed his gaze across the cave, taking in the scattered groups, people swaying to the music, Dorna trying to convince a very drunk Tam to sit before he fell down. "Remember when Thatcher and I were too young for wine?"

"You were never too well-behaved to sneak some anyway." His mouth quirked upward. "Used to water down my ale thinking I wouldn't notice."

"We were very subtle about it."

"You once got so drunk that you tried to convince me mermaids were real because you'd seen one in the tide pools."

I groaned. "I stand by that."

"I’m sure you do. You spent an hour describing her in perfect detail." He took a small sip of wine. "Complete with what songs she sang and how her tail sparkled in the moonlight."

"In our defense, we had very active imaginations."

"Oh, absolutely. You once convinced half the village children to play pirates and held Elder Keth's goat for ransom." His voice held that fond tone he got when talking about our childhood. "Made him negotiate for an hour before you'd give poor Buttercup back. Thatcher insisted on being called Captain Dread, if I remember right."

"And you went along with it. Gave us actual treasure maps and everything." I smiled.

He glanced at me sideways. "You were always the brains of the operation, you know. Even then. Thatcher had the charm, but you had the plans."

Around us, the celebration continued at full volume. Someone had started another round of increasingly inappropriate riddles, and I could hear Thatcher's laugh rising above the crowd as he no doubt separated more traders from their coin.

"You know what I remember most about raising you two?" Sulien said

suddenly.

"What?"

"The questions. God, the endless questions." He shook his head. "Why is the sky blue? Why do fish live in water? Why can't we fly? And if I didn't know the answer, you'd just ask someone else until you found it."

"Naturally."

"I always loved watching you figure things out." He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You've got a good mind, Thais.

Sharp and curious and kind. Don't ever let anyone tell you different."

"Father–"

"And stubborn as a mule. Just like her." His voice grew soft, barely audible over the revelry. "She used to do that same thing you do when you're thinking hard. Bite the corner of her lip and get this little wrinkle right here." He touched the spot between my eyebrows gently. "First time I saw you do it as a baby, thought my heart might stop."

I leaned into his touch, this man who'd raised me as his own. "I love you, you know that?"

"I know." His arm came around my shoulders, pulling me closer. "I love you too, little fish. Both of you. More than all the stars in the sky."

It was something he used to say when we were children, when nightmares woke us or scraped knees needed kissing better. He hadn’t said it in years, and hearing it now made my throat thick.

The weight of it all hit me then. Tomorrow the priests would call upon those of age to step forward. Anyone sixteen or older with gifts was required to present themselves at the festival. Some would come willingly, drawn by dreams of godhood and immortal power. Others would be dragged forward by neighbors eager to curry favor, or by family members who genuinely believed the Trials were an honor their loved ones deserved.

Some were simply terrified of those with gifts living amongst them.

We'd been through this before. My powers hadn’t manifested for the festival when I was a child, but at sixteen, I'd spent the entire event barely breathing, terrified that every glance in my direction meant discovery. We'd managed to avoid suspicion this long, but that didn't mean we were safe.

I looked around the cave, trying to memorize everything. Everyone.

They had no idea. None of them knew that one of their own could bring destruction down on all of them. That my very existence was a threat to this —to Saltcrest, to Last Light, to every tradition and person I’d ever cared for.

And Sulien… God, what would they do to him if they discovered the truth?

"I—" The words stuck in my throat. How could I tell him that I was terrified not for myself, but for him? That the thought of him paying the price for my secrets made me feel sick? That I was most afraid of what my

discovery might cost him?

"I'm scared," I finally managed.

His arm tightened around me. "About tomorrow?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Listen to me." He turned me to face him, his hands gentle on my shoulders. "Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever the priests do or don't do, nothing—nothing—will ever change how much you mean to me. Or who you are. Everything else is out of our control."

Tears were threatening now, hot and urgent behind my eyes. "But what if—"

"No what ifs." His voice was firm. "You are my daughter. Mine. In every way that matters. And I am proud of the woman you've become.

Proud of your courage, your kindness, your wit." He smiled through his own unshed tears. "Your mother would be proud too. So proud."

Before I could respond, the sound of hooves on stone cut through the drunken singing and off-kilter fiddle. Conversations faltered as people noticed the rhythmic clatter echoing from the cave mouth, heads turning toward the entrance with expressions of growing confusion.

"Probably just someone heading home," a voice called out from the other side of the cave.

The hoofbeats drew closer, accompanied by the soft jingle of harness and the measured tread of horses.

Light appeared at the cave mouth—torchlight. As it drew closer, shapes emerged from the darkness. Riders in white robes.

The singing died completely as the lead rider dismounted, his boots silent on the sandy ground. When he lowered his hood, the firelight revealed features that were beautiful in the way sharp edges were beautiful —perfect and cold and somehow wrong.

"Good evening," he said, his voice carrying easily through the suddenly silent cave. "I do hope we're not interrupting."

Behind him, other figures moved with the same unnatural stillness, arranging themselves around the cave mouth like pieces on a game board.

The priest smiled, white teeth gleaming in the dying firelight.