Page 28 of Keeper

The concept is so foreign, so alien, that I struggle to believe it.

Unconsciously, my fingers trace the red circle sewn onto my surcoat. The fabric is rough beneath my fingertips, a constant reminder of who I am—what I am.

An outsider. Different. Less than.

In Astarobane, this mark might as well be a brand seared into my flesh. It’s a scarlet badge of shame, a symbol of a defeat that happened long before I drew my first breath.

Many summers ago, the chieftain of the Bloodstone tribe was defeated, and a new man took over. He marked the previous chieftain’s entire bloodline. Unfortunately, I was born beneath that crimson shame.

I think of the sideways glances, the hushed whispers that follow me through the streets of my hometown. The way shopkeepers’ smiles fade when they spot the red circle. How children are pulled away by their parents when I walk by, as if my outsider status is contagious.

My throat tightens as memories flood in. The time I was denied entry to the harvest festival. And the day I overheard a group of girls planning their futures, only to fall silent when they noticed me nearby. As if I had no right to dream, to hope, to plan.

And now, here stands Morwen, casually dismantling everything I’ve known. Her words are a pebble dropped into the still pond of my understanding, sending ripples of confusion across its surface.

I want to believe her. Oh, how I want to.

Still, it’s impossible for summers of conditioning to vanish in an instant. The shame is rooted deep within me, tangled around my heart like a stubborn vine.

“Come with me, dear,” Morwen says, and I follow her to her tent.

Morwen’s wordsecho in my head as I stand beside her, kneading dough with a fervor that would make even the most zealous baker proud.“We don’t treat outsiders differently in this camp.”

It’s hard to believe, like trying to swallow a large stone—impossible and likely to choke me.

My entire life, I’ve been marked, judged, shunned. And now, what? I’m supposed to believe that here, in this camp full of Bloodstone warriors, I’m just...normal?

Impossible…

But as I glance around, I notice something. No one’s staring. No one even seems to care that I’m here. Well…other than Doran.

I attack the dough with renewed vigor, imagining Doran’s face on its pale, puffy surface.

Take that, you overgrown bully.

“Everly,” Morwen’s voice cuts through my dough-punching frenzy. “I think that’s quite enough. Unless you’re planning to bake rocks for dinner.”

“I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

Morwen’s knowing smile makes me wonder if she can read my mind.

I move on to chopping vegetables. The rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk is oddly soothing.

“You’re certainly efficient,” Morwen says.

“I try.”

Morwen hands me a basket of potatoes. “Why don’t you peel these? And try not to imagine they’re anyone’s head.”

“I’ll try not to,” I say as I grab a knife.

The day flies by in a whirlwind of chopping, stirring, and kneading. Before I know it, it’s time to serve dinner.

I carry two steaming bowls through the sea of hungry warriors. Their boisterous laughter and easy camaraderie make my heart ache.

What would it be like to belong so effortlessly?

As I set a bowl down, I catch sight of Cenric sitting near Praxis. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I nearly drop the bowls.

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