Uncertainty is Grounded in Me
1524 Words
I stood alone in the quiet chamber, the faint pulse of the runes echoing like a heartbeat in the stillness. The Mage’s words lingered, sharp and unsettling.
“It would do you nicely to learn how to wield magic.”
The sting of his disdain burned beneath my skin, but beneath that, something else stirred—an ember of truth. I was far from ready. Not just in skill, but in understanding.
Magic wasn’t some tool to be grasped on a whim. It was a living force, wild and ancient. The Mage’s warning echoed louder in my mind: without it, I was a pawn. A dangerous thought, but one I couldn’t ignore.
And yet, the offer to teach… grudging though it was, it was a thread. A fragile lifeline in this vast, uncertain quest.
Could I really learn to master something so vast? Could I become more than the princess who chased legends?
I clenched my fists, the weight of destiny settling heavy on my shoulders. The road ahead was darker and more perilous than I’d imagined, but turning back was never an option.
No matter his disdain, no matter the challenge, I would rise.
For the orb. For the Empire. For myself.
The moon outside the Tower’s narrow windows was already climbing, pale and steady. The first step had been taken—and there was no going back.
We stepped out of the Tower into the deep amber of early evening. The sun hovered low over the rooftops, casting golden light through the alleys and igniting the edges of the clouds in soft flame. The streets of the mage’s quarter were calmer now, most of the apprentices retreating indoors, shadows stretching long across the stone.
Ashvin was waiting just outside the doors.
He didn’t speak as I approached, only dipped his head in a quiet bow. I returned a small nod, grateful for the steadiness of him—solid as the sword on his back, as familiar as the path beneath my boots.
We began walking, our steps falling in sync.
“He didn’t blast me into ash. That’s... something,” I murmured.
Ashvin gave a slight breath of amusement, more exhale than laugh. “I counted that as a success.”
I looked ahead, letting the silence stretch a little. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Not with him. But I could feel something behind it, like a thread pulled taut, waiting to snap.
“He agreed to teach me,” I said finally. “Though he made it very clear he’s doing it out of necessity, not goodwill.”
“I expected no less from the Imperial Master Mage,” Ashvin replied. His voice held its usual control, careful and proper. “He’s never known for warmth.”
“No,” I agreed. “But he’s right. If I want to survive this—really survive it—I need more than bloodline and good intentions. I need to understand what I’m trying to claim.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Then, softly, “You’re stronger than you think.”
I looked at him, brows raised. “That’s generous.”
“It’s not generosity,” he said, eyes fixed forward. “It’s truth, Your Highness.”
I said nothing, only turned my gaze back to the golden-streaked street ahead. He always called me that—even now, away from the palace, away from the Court. I wondered if he ever let himself forget who I was, even for a moment.
My stomach growled faintly, breaking the silence, and I sighed. “We should eat. I’d like to have one quiet moment before I have to stand under his scrutiny again.”
“There’s a tavern I know,” Ashvin said. “Nothing grand, but decent food. Safe.”
“Then let’s go before I lose my nerve and skip straight to exile.”
That earned a small smile from him. “As you say, Princess.”
We turned down a narrower street, the sky bleeding slowly into dusk above. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and something spiced—cinnamon or clove, maybe. Lamps began to glow, casting flickering halos of gold through windows and across cobblestone.
After a few minutes of quiet walking, I spoke again. “Do you ever think about it?”
He glanced sideways. “About what?”
“Your home. Paceum. What it was like before you became what you are now.”
Ashvin’s steps didn’t falter, but his voice dropped slightly. “Sometimes. But I serve where I’m needed.”
“That sounds like something someone older would say.”
“I’ve had to grow up fast.”
I looked down at the path, the heels of my boots clicking softly against stone. “So have I.”
We didn’t speak again until the tavern came into view—a quiet place nestled beneath ivy and fading light, its door propped open to let out the scent of bread and roasting meat.
He opened the door for me, as he always did.
I paused in the threshold, catching his eye. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking,” he replied simply.
“About what?”
He hesitated. Then, almost too softly to hear, under his breath—“Loyalty.”
The word was barely a sound, lost in the evening air.
I frowned slightly, unsure if I’d imagined it, but he was already walking ahead, his face unreadable once more.
And just like that, the moment passed—like so many between us.
The tavern was warm, humming with quiet conversation and the comforting clatter of plates and mugs. Ashvin and I sat in the far corner, tucked beneath a warped wooden beam strung with dried herbs. The food was simple—bowls of stew and a shared plate of flatbread—but after the day we’d had, it felt like a feast.
We didn’t speak much. Ashvin’s silence was thoughtful, and I wasn’t sure if mine was exhaustion or something heavier pressing down on my chest. The Imperial Master Mage’s words still echoed in my mind.
But the quiet didn’t last.
From across the tavern, near the hearth, a weathered voice cut through the chatter.
“Stories are like wounds,” the old man said, waving his mug lazily. “Some heal clean. Some fester in the dark.”
I glanced up.
A handful of patrons had gathered around his table. The man’s face was leathery with age, but his eyes gleamed sharp. A storyteller, or a drunk. Maybe both.
“They tell the tale wrong, you know,” he said. “The one about the Sun and Moon. Say it was love—two sisters orbiting the world in balance. That the Moon gave her light each night, and the Sun warmed her by day.”
He scoffed. “What they don’t say is this: the Earth God didn’t gift the Moon with his love. He gave her power. The Orb. The divine seed of creation. And the Sun, golden and prideful, was his chosen. His bride.”
Ashvin stilled across from me. I barely breathed.
“But he gave the Orb to the Moon instead,” the man continued. “To her sister. Her twin. And the Sun—furious, betrayed—struck first.”
Someone near him frowned. “I thought the Sun tried to protect the realm. The Moon was the one who disappeared.”
“Oh, she disappeared, all right,” the old man said. “But not because she was weak. Because she knew she’d be hunted. The Sun, in her fury, tried to kill her. Tried to take the Orb back by force. But the Moon used its power to seal her sister’s rage in the heavens.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice, but not enough to stop it from reaching us.
“That’s why the days are short now. Why the Sun never burns quite as long as she used to. The Moon keeps her chained in time—locked behind dusk. The balance is a lie. It’s a prison.”
A hush followed. One of the younger patrons let out a shaky laugh. “That’s not how it goes. That’s not what the temples teach.”
“No,” the man murmured. “Because the temples serve the Sun.”
Ashvin’s hand slowly wrapped around his mug, his knuckles taut. I stared at the man, my heart drumming. The tale was twisted, but the roots were familiar.
The Earth God. The Orb. The betrayal between sisters.
I looked down at my food, no longer hungry.
“Do you believe it?” Ashvin asked softly.
I shook my head. “I… I don’t know.”
But something about the way the old man spoke—the bitterness, the weight of old truth—made the story feel less like fantasy and more like a scar long hidden.
“It’s just a story,” I said, almost to myself.
Ashvin didn’t answer.
Outside, the sun had slipped lower, brushing the rooftops in copper and rose. I exhaled slowly.
Soon, the moon would rise.
And I would return to the Tower.
- Writer
