Sweet Romance12 min read
"The Silver Stranger, the Zombie Mountain, and Our Little Tricks"
ButterPicks13 views
I remember the moment like a snap of cold light — the woods had been a quiet threat, the twelve of us pinned between fear and tiredness, and then I cried out what felt like the only lifeline I still had.
"Sage? Sage, is that you? Sage, Sage, Sage?" I shouted.
He materialized as if summoned by bad gossip: disinterested, pale, and unhurried. "You're noisy," Sage Chambers said. His voice was thin as frost.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I woke you," I blurted, hands lifting in an apology that tried to be humble and failed.
Everyone else froze. Shadowed faces, hands on talismans, bodies set to fight. They saw that silver-eyed stranger and treated him like a mountain that moved.
"Stand down," I said, stepping between Sage and the crowd. "He's one of us. Sage saved us."
Sage passed me a small wooden box like it was a trinket. I blinked at its plainness and asked, "What's that?"
"A sand-affliction," he replied, as if handing me an ant instead of a monster. The words made my palms go cold. I nearly dropped the box; Estelle caught it and held it like it mattered.
"Thank you for your help," Estelle said, still reluctant but polite.
On the way back to the inn, the junior girl, Kora, asked the obvious: "What is a sand-affliction? Why is it so strong?"
Estelle explained, steady as classwork. "They're sand-demons that used to live in deserts and feed on dune plants. Merchants stirred them up; they learned to swallow people with quicksand and rage. Once they become afflictions, they carry desert and death with them. Even one grain left behind can let them return."
"Oh that's terrifying," Kora breathed. "Estelle, you're amazing."
"That's textbook," Estelle pinched Kora's ear with a grin. Kora pouted and ran off, because she always did.
I wanted to ask Sage how he sealed the sand-affliction. Grayson — my disciple and the young sect scion — stood between us like a guard. I leaned forward anyway.
"Sage, how did you lock it?" I asked.
"It has no mind. It feeds on sand. I trapped it in an illusion: camels and caravans. It had no reason to leave," Sage said, almost bored.
"You're incredible," Kora popped up to praise. She'd learned flattery well.
Elijah elbowed forward, clumsy and proud. "We should have you with us," he said to Sage. "You could protect us."
Sage's face darkened when he realized he was surrounded between Grayson and Elijah; his mood sank three degrees. Still, he offered the tiny, unassuming thing on his finger: a jade bead.
"This looks like mine," I said, fingers reaching.
"It is like the one you had," Sage replied slowly, and placed it into my palm. I hugged that small stone like it might hold my life.
"Is it powerful?" I asked, blinking.
Sage shrugged. "It's mine."
"So why give it to me?" I pressed.
"Because I wanted to," Sage said.
I expected a puff of mist or a heroic lecture. Instead he said, unbothered, "This jade holds some of my power." That was enough for me. I wouldn't say no.
We returned to the cheap inn because, of course, we were not rolling in sect funds. The bathhouse had four tubs and we took turns. I soaked in speed-boost water, dried my hair with a quick charm, and dashed out before Sage could vanish like a gust.
He was seated at the inn entrance in that way of his: a still stone that made the girls in the street stare.
"Sage," I pulled him into the courtyard. "We should be low-key. You're... too tall on purpose."
Sage's face stayed blank. He did not argue.
"Your disciple has a Blue-Mountain restriction; he cannot use full power. Even so, your jade can't hold both of them," I blurted. "He's a promising one."
"Under me, he'll learn right," I promised, half bluffing, half hoping. Sage didn't answer. He merely lifted his finger and showed the jade on his hand — the same shape as mine.
"I made it to match yours," he said.
"Wow. Does it have power?" I touched it like a relic.
"Yes," Sage said.
I pretended to be offended. "But you keep most for yourself! You're centuries old, at least. Share more."
Sage gave me the kind of look that said 'annoying' and then, almost like a child, said, "Don't give it back."
"Wait, I—" I clutched the jewel to my chest.
When the sun slid behind layered hills and dinner smoke curled from a kitchen, Sage's expression softened. For a moment, the ancient distance between him and the world thinned.
"I can make all of this in an illusion," he said, watching the life of the street. "Fruits, the smell of cooking, the mud. But real people — their mess and noise — that's more precious."
"Real is better," I answered.
"Dreams can be longer than a lifetime," Sage said softly. "If the real world stretches on for thousands of years, how lonely must a dream be?"
We were not meant to be sentimental, but the words stuck.
"Stop being poetic," Grayson interrupted the mood. He barged in, complaining. "Master, why are you whispering to someone else? Let me listen too."
I snapped at Grayson in the only language he understood — mock violence. "You eat too much corn. Take my fairy punch," I barked, and he squealed like a child.
"He's a trickster," I told Sage. "He thinks 'strategy' includes stepping on his own foot."
"Don't scoff," Grayson shot back, indignant. "Sage is dangerous. He uses illusions. You can't fully trust monsters."
"He's not a monster to me," I said, glaring.
Dinner was awkward until I tried to lighten the mood.
"Today's guest saved us," I announced, overly dramatic. "A bride falling from the sky! Welcome, Sage!"
Sage frowned as if my joke was a personal slight. I cleared my throat, ate fast, and vowed to speak less.
We argued about whether Sage should travel with us. Grayson was jealous and suspicious. Estelle refused even while playing polite. But then Summer — Esme, whose calm had always made me want to be a better person — helped me out.
"If he will join us, we will learn," Esme said quietly.
"Then we will learn more if he stays," Isabelle, the pragmatic one, added.
Grayson, sulking at the table, left the inn in a storm of pride. I followed him out. He stood under a crescent moon, the face of a boy who thought he was a man.
"Why are you mad?" I nudged him.
"Because he trained for ten thousand years," Grayson said. "If I were that old I'd be stronger than him."
"Do you have his patience?" I asked.
He stuttered. "I... I'll be stronger. I'll be better."
"You will," I said, patting him like a parent and a trickster in one. "And if you become stronger, who will my little pupil be? Don't ruin my gig."
That night I thought too much. Sage had lines in his future that were plain and sad. The book in my memory — the story I had come into — showed him alone, then betrayed, then empty. If he traveled with us, tasted human mess and kindness, maybe his ending would change. I had learned the plot; I couldn't help but try to loosen its tight threads.
Next morning we broke camp and set our course for Green-Mountain Sect — Grayson's home territory. Kora pouted about eggs.
"Another fried egg again?" she complained. "Why can't we fly?"
"Because mortals don't see us," Esme scolded. "And because we can't spend sect money on fancy carriages."
Isabelle joked about purse strings and we all kept moving. Grayson promised that at his family home we'd eat well, and his tone was full of pride that looked for approval. We walked, Kora whining and Elijah shoving between us as always.
"Let's fly in Sage's illusion," Sage offered suddenly from the rear.
We all hesitated. Illusions could be traps. But the sand-affliction had sapped us; the short of rest and long of road made the choice obvious. We followed Sage's hand and sank into a warm, fake sky.
Sage's illusions were gentle. He made Elijah create a rose, to prove skill. Elijah presented it like a prize. Kora chewed a petal and declared it tasteless, and the courtyard erupted into laughter. Even the most reluctant across the lot softened.
Half a breath of incense later and we were at Green-Mountain Gate, staring at a place that wore money like a cloak.
"Master's steward," a round-faced man bowed — Finch Gross. He introduced himself with a grin that was all good manners. "Please follow me."
Grayson rushed forward, calling him 'Uncle Finch,' and the mood shifted. Then the sect master, Mark Carlson, appeared: short hair and a look that tried to be tough but ended up comical. He noticed Sage.
"Who is this?" the master asked.
"A Silver Horn King!" I blurted without thinking. I didn't want to say where Sage really came from.
Mark peered. "Is he from Penglai Island?"
"No, no — from across the sea," I lied smoothly and guided the conversation away. "We should discuss the demon matters."
Mark led us inside, but as we stepped in his eye flicked to Grayson — father-son radar never missed a beat. His face reddened.
"You came back?" the master thundered at Grayson. "You dare come back?"
Grayson cowered like a boy. I suffered a private smile. Their family dynamic was a slow, comic storm. Finch soothed, and the master composed himself, then told us the problem: living corpses on Green-Quiet Mountain. They were mindless, immune to most spells, and they spread by bite.
"They don't feel pain," Mark said. "They can't be reasoned with. Ice keeps them slow, but ice breaks down. If bitten, one becomes them."
"Have you tried hitting their heads?" I asked bluntly.
Mark shook his head. "They do not die like living things. Fire is weak. They are unnatural."
Esme petitioned to see them; Mark said they fed on the mountain and the best ice disciples guarded below — and still, something had changed. He gave us maps.
Sage stepped to the map, slow and silent, and placed a finger on the two weakest passes. "They will come down these points," he said. "I will set other seals. Split into two teams, hold the passes."
"Will you go with us?" Esme asked.
Sage looked at Esme and then at me. He nodded once. "Yes."
Grayson insisted he be unbound of his family seal. The master refused, but then Sage — almost like a small gesture — fixed the master's burned hair with a flick and the master sobbed with gratitude. The master relented and Grayson had his restrictions lifted. Pride returned to the boy's back.
We split. I with Esme and Isabelle; Grayson with another. Sage should have come with my group, but Grayson, newly thinking of balance and 'every party needs a strong,' pushed Sage elsewhere. I huffed but caught myself. The boy wanted to prove himself.
At the foot of Green-Quiet, the woods closed in like a fist. Ice students in white robes looked ragged and raw. One of them ran up and bowed like a flicker of hope: "Saviors have come," he said.
Night fell early under the canopy. The dead rose from the dark: stiff, rotten, and moving in slow hunger. Their low calls were a cruel mockery. We tried every direct spell; they shrugged off destruction. The ice adepts' spells bought time but little else.
"They're stronger than before," the young attendant panted. "Three times the numbers."
Esme stepped back to restore the ice students while I and Grayson pressed the front. I called a forbidden pattern, a charcoal-green fire from the underworld that burned wrong things: "Bring forth the ember of the nether! Char-fire, burn false flesh!"
A trail of dim, dark green fire leapt at my feet. The creatures recoiled. It helped. But my bar of power was thin, and it cracked. I called Grayson: "Go find Sage! Now! Bring him back!"
Grayson hesitated. He had been so proud and so young and so human. I can't say I blame him for stalling, but the moment he moved toward the path I was trapped in, I was surrounded and saw stars.
I bit dust and swallowed blood. The dead pressed. There was no magic to call, not even breath.
I remember thinking, "No one wants to rescue a secondary villain who has read ahead in a book," and then doing something ridiculous. I smeared mud on my face, slowed my breathing, and mimicked the low shuffle. I dragged myself into the mass of the dead and played the role.
"She moved weird," one of them croaked. I crawled with them, pretending to be hollow until I lurched out and ran, yelling like a true coward, "They hate nether-fire! Burn! Burn them!"
Sage arrived like a slow king. He flicked two fingers and his fire alone made rot ash into smoke. He did not look like a savior; he looked like a force that had patience with us.
Grayson hauled me free, wiping grime from my face. "You idiot," he said, but his hands were shaking with relief.
"Don't fuss," I grunted. Then a young attendant crashed toward me with a crazed look and leapt. Sage's fire consumed him to ash in a heartbeat. It was a mercy and a blade. I tasted copper.
I passed out.
Esme healed me by the light of dawn. "You taught us something dangerous," she said, calm. "Teach it to us properly."
"It's forbidden," I replied. "I can't pass it on."
"Then we will learn. You can't carry it alone." Esme took my hand, steady. "The spells are tools. The wielder is not a spell."
Isabelle and the others agreed. They were tired of old rules that didn't save anyone. They were willing to carry the weight. I swallowed. We were no longer isolated.
But things were not as simple as rules. After the battle the next day, the sect set a feast. I woke to light and found the courtyard decorated — flowers, lanterns, and even a table where Mark, the master, sat and asked us to be guests of honor.
Bianca — the small child of the sect — barreled into me and declared the monsters gone. "We burned them!" she said with the absolute confidence of five-year-olds.
"Why wasn't I invited?" I grumbled at Grayson as he offered a dry fan. He played the comic gentleman and I pretended to faint.
Later, Mark called us up on stage and presented gift boxes. My heart sank when everyone opened their boxes to find giant white radishes. A joke? A test? Grayson, who had swiped 'healing herbs' from home, had packed radishes into the present pile by mistake. It was absurd and sweet.
"I put the herbs back at Penglai," Grayson said, trying to salvage honor. He blushed like a rooster at daybreak. We laughed, and the master pretended to be furious, then embraced his son and we all drank to the mistake.
The celebration swelled. Wine warmed cheeks. Sage sat, distant as ever, and Mark fell onto his shoulder, lamenting the difficulties of leadership.
Then the ground shook.
The dead returned at the gate, pounding and howling as if their graves had been hollowed out and stitched back together. The feast turned to alarm. Sage stood, frost turning his face stern.
They reassembled at once as if practice had prepared them: a ring of sigils and ghost-fire, and this time the nether-fire burned with precision. I felt useless; we had a formation and the big players took it. I felt like a spectator at my own show.
"Go with us," Grayson grabbed me. "We patrol. We'll finish this."
We marched in a line, torches green with ghost-flame. The mountain swallowed sound. Shadows folded around us until only the torch glows moved. We reached a cave hidden between roots and moss. The air tasted like mud and old things.
"This is wrong," Grayson whispered.
The cave mouth resisted our seals. Sage, Esme, and I began the ritual. The barrier kept snapping like a net. Finally, after a long half-hour, we sealed the hole. The mountain sighed; light returned. Relief made us laugh like children.
That night Esme offered Sage a simple medicine pill. He refused. She insisted. He accepted. He was not used to being accepted, and drinking it made his posture ease.
On the way home, I walked with Sage alone. The moon was small and brittle.
"You did well," I said. "Not just the magic. You held people."
Sage almost smiled. "You show me the world, Kaleigh. It is noisy and unfinished. The truth is softer when you step inside."
"Don't be sweet," I snapped, but my voice felt warm.
Sage turned to me, voice flat with some distant years, "You changed the course of my ending."
I almost told him everything — how I knew he'd been destined for loneliness — but you cannot hand someone their fate on a tray. You must let them eat the meal themselves.
In the next days, Green-Mountain announced a stay. They planned for a lantern festival, and the sect kindly invited us to rest. Grayson bloomed under his parents' fussing. He was chased with a chicken feather broom for fun by his father, and for the first time the master showed genuine affection.
Bianca ran to Sage often to learn. I was pleased to see the child look up to someone kind.
"Why don't you go ask Sage yourself?" I teased Kora one morning. Kora shrugged. She had Elijah get lessons instead. The bargaining of who learned and who did not was already beginning: everyone wanted a piece of Sage's patience.
None of it fixed the fact that our route back to Penglai would still include more trials. For now, we rested in the glow of a festival that made the mountain almost forget its dead.
Every night I slept a little better because the future I'd read felt a little softer. Sage wasn't fully saved; none of us get full rewrites. But he had something else now — people who argued for him at the table, who would sit and eat radishes with him and call him names when he sulked.
And he, in his old way, was letting himself be held by a world that smelled of onions and smoke and cheap incense. He was learning to like the small messy edges of living.
When the lanterns were lit and the town traded fire against darkness, I thought of the cave, the nether-fire, the ash of the boy who had been a hope. I thought of my foolish disguise and Grayson's hands wiping my face, and of the jade that fit into my palm like a promise.
"Don't get cocky," I told Sage one night.
"Noted," he said, and a corner of something, maybe humor, moved in his face.
There are endings in books and endings in life. The lines between them blur when people touch. The jade warms when I hold it. The nether-fire still burns wrong things if it must. The mountain of dead sleeps for now.
"Keep your radishes," Sage said once, dry and oddly amused. "They taste like courage."
I laughed. "Then bring me more courage and fewer corpses."
He nodded very slowly. "I'll see what I can dedicate."
"Don't say you'll devote centuries," I warned. "You might mean it."
That night, under the lanterns, I kept my jade safe in my palm and felt the world press close. This was not the end. It was the place where the book I came from and the life I tried to live overlapped, and sometimes, that was enough.
The End
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