The captive was gone by dawn.
Ashwyn stood over the pen he had woven from living shoots, running his fingers along the bent stems. The green was scored, sliced, ends curling back where a sharp blade had cut clean through. He didn't speak. The others stood in silence, faces heavy, waiting for him to say what they already knew.
"He had help," Nyx said at last, voice flat.
Brennar kicked the dirt. "Should've just buried him when we had the chance."
Rowan stayed quiet. The boy's grin haunted him more than the escape. The caravan you're going to die chasing. He hadn't been bluffing.
Ashwyn's eyes lifted toward the trees. "We go west," he said simply. "The strings pull us that way."
And so they went.
----
The day stretched long and restless. Toren trained as they walked, swinging his branch-sword in stiff arcs until Brennar barked corrections between strides. Ari scouted ahead, Oriel circling wider each hour. Nyx never left the shadows, Pan drifting where even Rowan lost sight of him.
They passed another village—this one not burned, not abandoned, but watching. Faces peered from shutter slits, eyes sharp with fear. A farmer raised a pitchfork when Brennar tried to fill a waterskin at the well. Ari stepped between them and said nothing, just stared until the man dropped his gaze.
Lyra bought bread at double price and handed out the coins without complaint. "Fear has a cost," she murmured.
Tamsin bristled, but no one answered.
By the time they reached the river bend that night, Rowan's shoulders ached from the weight of silence.
---
He carried the stew pot down to the shallows after supper, rinsed it, and then lingered, letting the water run over his hands. The current was slow, dark, steady. He thought of the way it had lifted him in battle, how it had surged and spun without his asking.
"Not by accident this time," came Ashwyn's low voice behind him.
Rowan almost dropped the pot. He hadn't heard the Warden come down the bank.
Ashwyn planted his staff in the silt and crouched, knees creaking. "You glow," he said, matter-of-fact. "The strings are tugging. Try."
Rowan swallowed. "Try… what?"
"Lift it."
Rowan frowned at the water. It didn't look like it wanted to be lifted. "I don't even know how—"
"Stop talking."
Rowan bit back a retort. He planted his feet, stretched out a hand, and pushed. Nothing. He pushed harder. The water sloshed against his boots, soaked his trousers, and went right back to being water.
Ashwyn chuckled like a tree creaking. "Again."
Rowan tried again. And again. Each time, the water rippled and fell flat. Sweat beaded at his temple. His arm ached as if he'd been hauling rope.
"This is pointless," Rowan muttered.
Ashwyn tapped his staff against his chest. "You think with here," he said, then tapped Rowan's stomach. "Not with here. Feel it. Don't shove it."
Rowan closed his eyes. Listened. The current whispered against stone, hissed against reeds. He breathed with it, slow, even. His hand twitched. Something tugged in his chest like a fish on a line.
The river stirred.
A thin sheet rose, trembling, no higher than his shin. Rowan's eyes flew open. The water shivered in the air like it was afraid.
"Yes," Ashwyn said quietly. "Hold it."
Rowan clenched his jaw, focused, and the sheet thickened, rising to his knee. His arm shook. Drops broke off and splashed back. But it was there—the river answering him, not in a surge, not in panic, but because he had asked.
He gasped. The water collapsed, soaking his boots again.
"Good," Ashwyn said. "Now again."
---
Shapes in the Water
It took another hour before Rowan could lift the stream more than a hand's breadth without it falling apart. By then, sweat ran down his spine, his arms shook, and his head rang with exhaustion.
But when it came, it came smoother. The river rose at his call, a column curling up like glass. Rowan laughed out loud, giddy.
"Shape it," Ashwyn urged. "Don't just lift. Bend it."
Rowan clenched his fist. The column wobbled, thinned—and popped into a spray.
He cursed, then tried again. This time he imagined the water as clay, something he could mold. The column bulged, rounded, and sagged into a wet ball hovering above his palm. It lasted three heartbeats before bursting.
Rowan whooped anyway. "Did you see that?"
Ashwyn's smile was small but real. "Again."
Rowan tried spikes next. They came out blunt, sagging, sliding into puddles before they reached shape. But once—just once—the water froze sharp along the edge of his harpoon. He slashed at a nearby sapling, and bark flew.
Exhaustion crashed over him, but so did triumph.
---
The Others Notice
He staggered back to the fire an hour later, dripping wet and half-dizzy. The others looked up.
Ari's brow arched. "You're getting faster."
Nyx tilted her head, unreadable in the shadows. "Or sloppier. Half the forest heard you splashing."
Brennar frowned, then smirked. "Making waves now, are we? Careful, or you'll drown yourself before the enemy gets a chance."
Rowan grinned despite himself. "I made a ball," he said, too tired to care how it sounded.
Toren laughed, honest and warm. "A ball? Gods help us, Rowan the river-juggler!"
Even Tamsin smiled, though she pressed a cloth into his hands. "Dry off before you catch something."
Ashwyn lowered himself onto a log, staff across his knees. "First steps," he said simply. "Hot and cold come later. And one day, the water you don't see. For now—sleep."
Rowan sat heavily by the fire, chest still buzzing, mind alight. He'd lifted it. He'd shaped it. Not perfectly, not for long, but it had listened.
As the camp quieted and Oriel's wings whispered high above, Rowan let his eyes close with a smile still tugging at his lips. Tomorrow would bring more raiders, more fear, more running. But tonight, he had proof—he wasn't just surviving anymore. He was learning.
Ari had taken the last watch, bow across her knees, Oriel circling overhead in the pale dawn. When the hawk dipped low, her eyes sharpened. She rose, scanning the far treeline. There—three figures slumped against posts at the edge of a ruined hamlet, barely more than shapes in the mist. Their heads hung, ropes biting into their arms. Captives. Ari's mouth set hard. When the others woke, she would tell them.