Page 63 of Unseen Eye
We continue on, reaching the outskirts of the village. I recognize the familiar path leading back to the cottage. My chest tightens as I step forward, every nerve braced for what I might find. Just as I take that first step, Callon gently turns me to face him.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer, searching my eyes. There’s a concern there I’m not used to, he’s seeing past the front I’m trying to keep.
I stare at him, unable to hold back. “No,” I whisper, voice breaking despite myself. “Honestly, I don’t know what I expected, but… I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought they’d at least try to rebuild, not just… abandon it.”
His hand squeezes my shoulder, the warmth steadying me in a way I didn’t know I needed. “Sometimes, when the damage is this deep, starting over is the only choice.”
I manage a small nod, shrugging off his hand as I turn to continue. My fingers instinctively curl around my necklace, its warmth grounding me as memories surge back. Callon falls back, giving me space, his quiet presence a comfort I won’t admit out loud. We walk in silence, our footsteps the only sound, broken only by the whisper of leaves rustling in the breeze.
Finally, we reach the edge of the forest, where my cottage once stood.
The sight takes my breath away. The house is mostly intact, but Kendry’s workshop bears the worst damage. Burn marks scar the walls, windows shattered, and debris scattered across the yard. My heart races as I stumble through the grounds, and my eyes scanning for any sign of Kendry, of anyone who mighthave come to investigate what happened here. My chest tightens as I reach a patch of disturbed ground in the corner of the yard—a grave.
I fall to my knees, the earth beneath my fingers rough and cool as I claw at it, desperate to feel closer to Kendry, as if somehow, touching this ground could bridge the gap of guilt tearing through me. “Kendry,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Please, please forgive me.” The words fall from my lips in a desperate litany until my voice gives out, overtaken by silent sobs that rack my chest.
A warm, steady presence wraps around me. Callon’s arms circle my shoulders, drawing me to him with a tenderness that shatters any last defenses I’d held. He doesn’t speak, just holds me, his hand stroking my hair softly, patiently, until the tears subside. When I finally look up, his face is etched with empathy. His gaze meeting mine with an intensity that’s both grounding and unguarded. The mask he so carefully wears for the world slips away here, and I wonder how much he’s kept hidden, just like me.
“Who… who do you think did this?” I manage, my voice hoarse, wiping the dampness from my cheeks.
“The Survivors,” he says, his voice tinged with quiet anger as he offers me his hand to help me up. He points to a mark on the stone nearby. “That’s their symbol.”
The symbol is a rough, uneven scar, jagged lines carved into the stone like a lightning strike that’s been hacked into the surface. It’s asymmetrical, the edges frayed and uneven, as if someone took a crude tool and tried to force something unnatural into the stone.
“The Survivors are a resistance group with a twisted sense of justice,” Callon explains, his voice tinged with bitterness.
The sight of the symbol stirs something deep in my memory. I’ve seen it before, I realize, on the spines of books Kendry kepton his shelf. I remember the strange meetings he used to host here, people arriving with books bearing that same mark. Did he have something to do with them? I blink, shaking off the fog, trusting myself to explore this later.
The front door gapes open, revealing a hollowed-out shell of what used to be a home. I tread inside cautiously, the layer of dust undisturbed, marking time in a way that feels too final. In the dim light, I see the furniture overturned, as if whatever battle had unfolded here started within these walls. My fingers trail over the spines of Kendry’s books—each title carefully selected, many of them fairy tales he used to read aloud to me. I trace his handwriting on the covers, feeling the grit of dust under my fingertips. But there are gaps on the shelves, empty spaces where books should be. Did Kendry hide them? Or were they taken?
“Here.” Callon’s voice breaks through my reverie, and I turn to see him holding a small bag. “For anything you’d like to bring back.” He shrugs as if it’s nothing, though his thoughtfulness almost makes me crumble all over again.
In my old bedroom, everything seems untouched, coated with a fine layer of dust, but intact. I sit on the edge of my bed, feeling as though I’ve stepped back into another life—one where Kendry’s laugh filled this room and my biggest worry was which book to read next. I reach under my mattress to find it, praying to whoever is listening it is still there. My breath catches as I pull it out— a worn journal, edges frayed, the cover faded from years of use. Scribbles, sketches, and words I barely recognize flood the pages—fragments of thoughts, stories, and dreams I once held close but had long forgotten. A lump rises in my throat, and for a moment, it’s as if the weight of all those lost memories crashes down on me. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed this, how much I needed to find it. I add it to the bag, along with a few books bearing Kendry’s hand.
In the kitchen, Callon examines jars of powders and driedleaves with quiet curiosity. “These jars,” he asks, turning to me, “what were they for?”
“Remedies,” I reply, smiling faintly. “Kendry always had a knack for making teas and potions. He’d have something ready for every headache, every bad dream.” The memory catches in my throat, but I push it down. “Why?”
He points to a jar of green powder. “This is Elderglow, found only in Skorda. And these red leaves,” he continues, holding up another jar, “grow only in Coire. This,” he says, gesturing to the last jar, “comes from Catalpa, from before the shadows took over.” He unscrews the top, and the familiar, sharp scent rushes out, overwhelming me.
“That smell…” I stagger back, realization dawning. “He put that in my coffee. Every morning.”
Callon’s eyes darken with a flicker of anger. “That’s why it took so long for your powers to emerge. This…” he gestures to the jar, “this suppresses aether. It was making you mundane.” “Are you serious?” My voice shakes, the words barely audible as the truth settles like lead in my chest. Every cup of coffee, every morning ritual, wasn’t kindness—it was a barrier. Anger, grief, and betrayal twist inside me, so potent I feel I might explode.
What. The. Fuck?
But then it starts to make sense. The day I met Callon and my light appeared, I hadn’t drank my coffee yet. The day before, I only had a sip or two.
“What’s on your mind?” Callon asks gently, closing the jars and moving closer, concern lining his features.
I’m a whirlwind of emotions—sadness, anger, and disbelief. I start to laugh—a harsh, disbelieving sound that echoes around us until my voice is hoarse. Maybe this is another stage of grief, or maybe my life is just that screwed up. Who knows? Callon’s head tilts in confusion, clearly unprepared for this reaction.
“I don’t know,” I say between laughs. “My life is too fuckedup to think straight.” Tears start to fall, and I quickly wipe them away—no, I’m not crying again. “All I know,” I say more seriously, “is I’m sick of people lying to me.”
His expression softens, his voice tender in a way I’ve never heard. “I’m sorry, Eva. You don’t deserve any of this. No one does.” He reaches out, his hand hovering near my shoulder before gently resting there. The gesture is so grounding, so quietly powerful, that I can’t help but feel a flicker of something new—a faint but undeniable pull between us, as real as the grief surrounding us.
After a final sweep of the house, Callon asks if I’m ready to head back.
“Can we make one more stop?” I ask, feeling an inexplicable pull toward a certain place.
