Page 3 of The Ascended
For us, some doors would always remain closed.
"I've always got your back, Thais. You know that."
I nodded once, returning to my work. Somehow those simple words from him I never doubted.
We finished the first batch just as the sun crested, painting the water gold beyond the shed windows. We stepped out into the fresh morning air, the village of Saltcrest stretching before us. Fishing boats dotted the harbor, early risers already pulling in the morning catch. Our cottage sat a short walk up from the shore, smoke curling from the chimney.
I paused, taking in the view I'd seen every day of my twenty-six years. Simple wooden houses with their weathered gray boards, the stone temple on the hill, fishing nets hung to dry between posts. Nothing ever changed here, which was exactly how we needed it to be. Perhaps that was why I launched myself into every tavern challenge, every wild swim, every midnight tryst.
Because I’d never been able to escape the feeling that, at some point, all of it was going to end.
The market square was buzzing with the usual morning activity when we arrived with our baskets of fresh oysters. Thatcher immediately began setting up our stall while I hauled the day's catch to the front, arranging the oysters in neat rows across beds of seaweed.
"If it isn't the Morvaren twins," called Dorna, the baker's wife, approaching with a basket of warm rolls. "You two are looking particularly haggard this morning."
"Speak for yourself, Dorna," I replied, flashing a grin. "I've never looked better."
She laughed, her round face crinkling. "Word is you and that brother of yours nearly drank the Sandbar dry last night."
"Only half-dry," Thatcher corrected, appearing at my side and snagging a roll from her basket. "We're saving the rest for tonight."
"Always the considerate ones," Dorna said with a fond shake of her head. "Your father must be so proud." She moved on to the next stall, leaving the smell of fresh bread in her wake.
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 daughterforgotten. "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 thehonorwere 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, largervessels 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.
