Page 63 of Unseen Eye (Aetherian Chronicles #1)

The outside of the cottage hasn’t changed since I was here a few weeks ago, still bearing the scars of the commander’s attack.

Burn marks stretch like shadows across the walls of Kendry’s workshop, the windows still shattered, shards of glass catching the faint light.

The sight makes me wince. Even now, the wounds of that day remain raw, a constant reminder of what’s been lost and the truths Kendry hid from me.

This place should’ve been safe. But it wasn’t—not from the battles that seem to follow me wherever I go.

Theo’s gaze shifts from the cottage to me, his brow furrowing. “You sure this place is livable?” His voice is laced with doubt, and I can see the regret in his eyes, the weight of his decision settling over him. “I mean, it looks like it might collapse any minute.”

“It’s fine,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “I’ll just avoid Kendry’s workshop. I can make do.” I force a smile, the kind I’ve gotten good at wearing even when everything inside feels off balance. “I can take care of myself here.”

Theo makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” He shakes his head, but there’s affection in his gaze, despite the worry.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I tease, but the truth is, I’m not sure which of us will get through this unscathed.

He sighs, looking at me one last time before his expression hardens into something resolute. “Don’t forget the stone in your pocket. You know what to do if anything goes wrong. Even if a bear shows up. Let me know, all right?”

I nod, my fingers instinctively brushing the stone hidden in my pocket.

Theo mutters something under his breath about how Cal is going to kill him, and then he’s gone, vanishing with the same quiet speed he always has.

Watching it is like seeing a shadow fold in on itself and disappear, leaving an empty space where a person used to be.

No matter how many times I’ve seen it, it still feels weird—like reality itself hiccuped.

The door creaks as I push it open, stepping into a space frozen in time.

Dust clings to every surface, and on the counter, the jars Callon had been examining still sit where he left them, their contents untouched.

The faintest memory of his voice drifts back to me, a reminder of the questions we couldn’t answer.

I brush my fingers over the cracked table, Kendry’s empty chair, the frayed curtains.

The memories press in—laughter over shared meals, late-night talks by the fire, moments where the world outside didn’t seem so heavy.

I can still remember the good—the sound of Kendry humming while he cooked, the smell of fresh herbs hanging to dry, the quiet peace of mornings when everything felt.

.. possible. But now, it feels more like a monument to everything I never chose.

I set to work cleaning, if only to keep my hands busy.

Dust clouds the air as I sweep, as I try to bring some semblance of order to this place that used to feel like home.

But every inch of it carries a reminder of Kendry’s lies, of the choices he made for me, the secrets he kept.

Anger rises again, simmering beneath the surface, but it doesn’t burn as brightly as before.

Instead, questions linger in its wake. Why would he have lied?

What was his motivation? Kendry wasn’t cruel, wasn’t careless.

He was kind and decent, so what drove him to feel like he couldn’t trust me?

My hands shake as I set a chair back in place, as if somehow putting the cottage in order will help me find some kind of stability. I know it’s foolish, but it’s something to cling to, something to keep my mind from the weight of all the betrayal, the choices taken from me.

As I clean, memories of Cal drift back. His smile, the quiet moments we shared, the times he made me feel seen, valued, like I was more than just the prophecy’s pawn.

But now, every memory feels tainted, as though it was all built on a foundation of lies.

How can I forgive him? How can I forgive any of them?

For a long moment, I sit in silence, letting myself absorb it all.

Then, a faint memory surfaces, slipping through the pain—my mother’s laughter, soft and warm like sunlight through leaves.

It’s a dream that’s hazy, distant, yet it feels more real than anything Kendry ever told me about her.

It’s something I can hold on to, something that feels untouched by lies.

Maybe she would’ve believed in me, trusted me with the truth.

And in that silence, I know one thing—I may not be ready to forgive Callon, or anyone else who’s lied to me. Not yet. But for now, here in this ruined cottage, I can find my own strength, my own choices.

The morning light filters through the dusty window, waking me from a fitful sleep on my old cot.

The cold air of the cottage bites at my skin, and I pull a thick cloak around me, one I find laying in the corner of my room.

I recognize it immediately—it’s the same cloak I had given Kendry years ago for long, cold mornings in the woods.

For a moment, with its soft wool wrapped around me, I almost let myself believe that none of this has happened.

I close my eyes, trying to picture a simpler life, one without broken trust and betrayal.

Kendry is still alive, making coffee—coffee he didn’t lace with something to suppress my affinity.

Garet never lied to me and is most likely at the market, helping his father set up his stand.

These memories flood my mind, so vivid they make the walls feel like they’re breathing, like the cottage is coming back to life.

But when I step into the kitchen, reality settles in, sharp and unforgiving. There’s no aroma of coffee filling the air, no scent of warm spices, no Kendry clanging around in his workshop. Only silence and shadows, memories I can’t touch. I can’t stay here.

Every corner, every step in this cottage feels like being haunted by ghosts and thoughts I am not ready to face yet.

I grab the cloak tighter around me, draw the hood over my head, and step outside, making my way toward Pinebrook.

I don’t know what I expect to find there—maybe it’s not about finding anything at all.

Maybe I’m hoping the routine of familiar woods and winding paths will help me forget, even for a moment, that Callon isn’t here to share it with me.

That he’s somewhere else, and I don’t know if he’s thinking about me the way I’m thinking about him.

I move carefully as I near Pinebrook, ducking low through the trees and keeping to the shadows.

Callon’s warning echoes in my mind—if someone spots me, questions will follow, and I’m not ready for that.

I’m not ready to explain where I’ve been or why I left, not when I don’t fully understand it myself.

It’s better this way, I tell myself. Just stay hidden.

The thought settles uneasily, like a burden I’m too tired to shake off.

The village looks different now, the familiar homes reduced to charred skeletons, the land bearing the scars of the attack.

But there are signs of life still—figures moving about, voices drifting in the wind.

I keep to the edges of the village, my hood up, staying out of sight.

I pass the blackened remnants of homes I once knew well.

There, Mr. Ferris, the cobbler, bent over his work, his hands steady as he repairs shoes, the stoop of his shoulders somehow unchanged despite the destruction around him.

I keep my distance, watching from behind the broken walls.

As I wander, my feet seem to carry me toward where my bookstore used to stand.

The memory of its creaking shelves and the faint smell of ink and aging paper tugs at something deep inside me.

When I reach the spot, it takes me a moment to recognize it.

The roof has caved in, and what’s left of the walls is covered in soot.

But as I step carefully over the rubble, I spot the glint of something half-buried—a spine of a book, charred at the edges but still intact.

I crouch, brushing away ash and debris, my fingers trembling as I pull it free.

It’s heavier than I expect, the cover worn but familiar.

I sift through the rubble, finding more—fragments of stories, broken trinkets, and scraps of paper that flutter in the faint breeze like ghostly whispers of what used to be.

The ache in my chest deepens as I pocket a small, tarnished bookmark shaped like a feather. I don’t know why I feel the need to keep it—maybe it’s a tether to the past, or maybe it’s the absurd hope that one day, the world might make room for things like quiet afternoons in a bookstore again.

I don’t make a sound as I move through the village, careful to avoid anyone.

There are a few old villagers I spot—some working, others just walking through the streets as if the world hadn’t been upended.

I can’t help but feel like a ghost, wandering through shadows as someone who has been forgotten.

The soft murmur of voices reaches my ears, and my heart skips. I know that voice. It’s Finn.

I freeze, my breath caught in my throat as my heartbeat pounds against my ribs.

The instinct to run, to get closer, overpowers the fear that still gnaws at me.

I slip into the shadows, moving quickly but quietly, staying out of sight as I creep toward the sound of his voice.

I feel the pull to him, like a compass pointing me in the right direction.

My heart beats louder with every step, each one bringing me closer to his voice.