1. Salt and Stars #2
The morning passed in a pleasant blur of transactions and gossip.
A good haul meant good coin, and we'd brought the best of the beds to market.
Thatcher had wandered off, predictably, leaving me to manage the remaining customers.
I caught sight of him across the square, leaning against a wall and charming a smile from the blacksmith's daughter.
A momentary lull gave me the chance I'd been waiting for. I ducked behind our stall, into the narrow space between buildings where no one could see. Glancing around once more to ensure my privacy, I turned my palms upward and concentrated.
The stars weren't visible in the daylight sky, but that didn't matter.
They were always there, always connected to me in ways I couldn't explain.
The familiar tingle numbed my fingertips, then the cool rush of power as tiny points of light appeared above my palms, swirling into a miniature constellation.
I shaped the lights with my thoughts, forming them into a small fish that swam through the air above my hands.
The light cast blue shadows across my skin, beautiful and forbidden and terrifying all at once.
This was the secret that could destroy everything—the power I'd been born with, the reason we could never leave Saltcrest.
A sudden prickle at the back of my neck made me close my fist, extinguishing the lights. I stepped back into view, arranging my face into simple indifference as I straightened the remaining oysters.
Thatcher appeared a moment later, the blacksmith's daughter forgotten. "Practicing again?" he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.
"Just a little," I admitted. "It's been building up."
He nodded. My power was like a well that constantly filled; if I didn't release it in small, controlled ways, it would eventually overflow. And we certainly couldn’t allow that to happen.
"Be careful," was all he said, but I caught the undercurrent of worry. Thatcher had spent our entire lives being careful on my behalf, watching for signs of attention, distracting suspicious eyes, creating cover stories when needed.
"Always am," I replied, bumping his shoulder with mine. "Besides, I've got you to watch my back."
It had been this way for generations now—mortals manifesting powers that once belonged solely to the gods.
It began centuries ago, when the veil between the divine and mortal realms thinned, allowing cosmic energy to seep into our world like water through a cracked dam.
At first, just a few drops. Small gifts, barely noticeable.
But over time, the leak widened. More mortals began showing signs of divine blessing. The ability to manipulate fire, to speak with animals, to heal wounds with a touch. But that type of power was never meant for mortal hands. And the gods noticed, of course. How could they not?
So they created the Trials of Ascension. Every decade, those with gifts were gathered, tested, broken down, and rebuilt in the gods' image. A few would ascend to join the pantheon. The rest would die, their power reclaimed by the Aesymar.
That was the story spread by the priests—that the gods benevolently allowed worthy mortals to join their ranks.
What the stories didn't say was that participation wasn't optional.
Those who refused the honor were taken by force.
Those who hid their abilities were hunted down, sometimes executed as examples.
By late afternoon, our baskets were empty and our coin pouches satisfyingly heavy.
As we packed up our stall, I noticed an unusual level of activity around the harbor.
Additional boats were arriving, larger vessels than the everyday fishing skiff.
My stomach knotted as I watched the fine ships with their pristine sails.
The priests of the Aesymar always arrived in such vessels, beautiful and terrible in their perfection.
They came for the Trials, yes, but also for their quarterly duties—collecting offerings, ensuring coastal shrines were properly maintained. Mortal servants of divine masters, wielding borrowed authority that made them nearly as feared as the gods themselves.
Thatcher followed my gaze, eyes narrowing. "Early arrivals for the festival."
The word sent a chill through me despite the warm afternoon sun. I'd been successfully ignoring the approaching date, pushing it from my mind whenever it surfaced. The festival marking the start of the Trials was still two weeks away.
The cooper's son hurried past, nearly colliding with our stall. "Sorry!" he called over his shoulder, not slowing. "Have to tell Keth, he’ll need to begin preparations!"
"It's fine," Thatcher said quietly, reading my tension through our bond, the one we’d had since birth. When we were close enough, our voices could travel down the string connecting us. Otherwise it was just feelings or ghosts of thoughts.
But it wasn't fine, and we both knew it. The festival was always preceded by priests searching for those with gifts. The blessed, they called them.
Dinner that night was a strained affair. Our father, Sulien, had clearly already heard the news about the priests' arrival. Though he said nothing directly, it showed in the extra drinks he poured, in the lines around his eyes as he glanced between Thatcher and me.
"Good haul today," he commented, pushing food around his plate.
"Sold everything," I confirmed. "Got Breen to pay extra for his wedding order."
Sulien gave a strained smile. "That's my girl. Always driving a hard bargain. "
Thatcher kicked me gently under the table, a silent signal passing between us.
I gave a tiny shake of my head. I knew what he wanted me to say, but I had no intention of bringing it up.
Instead, I launched into a story about Dorna's gossip from the market, drawing a reluctant chuckle from our father.
"So, the Priests…" Thatcher said suddenly, shooting me a look.
Sulien's hand tightened around his cup so hard I thought it might shatter.
"They’re early this year," I added when he said nothing.
"It’s an inevitability." he finally replied, his voice low and tight. He refilled his cup, spilling drops of dark wine that looked like blood against the wooden table. "The festival approaches. They always come."
"Two weeks early though," I pressed, unable to stop myself. "That's unusual."
Sulien drained half his cup in one swallow. "Nothing about them is usual. Nothing about them is right."
The bitterness in his voice silenced us all for a moment. We so rarely spoke directly about the gods, about what had happened to our mother.
"What if we left?" I suggested softly, not for the first time. "Go somewhere else."
"Where?" Sulien laughed without humor. "The cities? Where priests walk every street? The mountains? Where every traveler is scrutinized? At least here we're just oyster farmers—no one looks twice at us." He shook his head. "This tiny village is the closest thing to safety you'll ever have."
His words hung in the air like a death sentence. I stared at my plate, appetite gone. Thatcher's hand found mine under the table, a brief squeeze of solidarity.
"He doesn't deserve to still have this power over us," I whispered, the rage I usually kept carefully banked flaring hot in my chest. "After what he did to her."
Sulien's eyes snapped to mine, but softened at whatever he saw in my face. "No," he agreed quietly. "He doesn't."
She'd traveled inland for the solstice twenty-seven years ago. The grand temple there drew thousands for the God’s descent.
She'd gone with other young people from the village, seeking blessings for marriage and healthy children, never imagining she'd catch the attention of a member of the Twelve.
Just another faithful worshipper in the crowd when he arrived in all his golden glory—when a young woman could vanish for three days and her traveling companions would be told she'd fallen ill, staying with temple healers.
Sulien said she never spoke of those missing days. Not even to him. But when she returned to Saltcrest hollow-eyed and quiet, when morning sickness came months later, he'd pieced together the truth.
There was only one fate for any mortal woman who carried a half-blood child to term. Death. At least in Elaren.
Only one mother had ever survived the birth, and she had done so in the divine realm.
A heavy silence fell over the table, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. I could feel the weight of unspoken fears, the same conversation we'd danced around for years finally demanding to be acknowledged.
"You remember what you promised me," Sulien said quietly, his eyes finding mine across the table. It wasn't a question.
My throat tightened. "I remember."
"Never reveal yourself." His voice cracked. "I couldn't survive it. Not after what it cost your mother just to bring you into this world."
I'd made the promise years ago, when my power first manifested. Sulien had made me swear on our mother's memory that I would never seek the priests out, never reveal what I could do. The man who had raised us as his own, who had loved our mother more than anything—I couldn't break his heart.
"I know," I whispered. "I won't. "
Thatcher's eyes moved between us, understanding the weight of what bound me even if he couldn't fully share it.
We'd always expected Thatcher to develop gifts too.
Divine blood ran through his veins just as surely as mine, and most powers manifested in adolescence alongside the first stirrings of maturity.
But years had passed, and while I'd learned to hide constellations between my fingers, Thatcher remained stubbornly, safely normal.
By the time we'd reached our twenties, Sulien had stopped watching him with the same careful anxiety he reserved for me. We'd all quietly accepted that whatever cosmic lottery had granted me abilities had passed Thatcher by.