"What are your plans today, Aimrey?" Bren asks me when silence settles between us on one of our long strolls through Arego.

"I was thinking of training today. With you, of course," I offer.

He nods and a 'hmm' sounds from his throat. "I didn't know we were training today. You must have told the other Bren Finke."

I laugh and reach up to ruffle his shaggy, orangish-red hair. He bats my hand away and forces my palm in the other direction; as usual. He allows no one to touch his hair, not a single person. And he'll be as quick as a cat to stop someone from doing so. The reason so many of our battles were so long as children were because I refused to grant his wishes.

Bren sprouted much taller than I did, like a weed. I can barely reach his head anymore, let alone ruffle his already ruffled hair as he's a head taller than I am. As a kid, he was lanky. Now, after cutting down trees for so many years, is one of the strongest, leanest men in the village. The women drool over him.

I frown at a young woman with a tight corset smiling at him sweetly—until her eyes drift to our interlocked arms. She quickly averts her eyes and carries on through the market without taking another look.

Bren notices my scowl and scoffs. Our intentions aren't often full of purpose but with the solid friendship we have, anyone pushing their way in front of that is more cataclysmic than not. Besides, neither of us have the time to deal with a significant other that isn't each other. Being together, the two of us is enough to handle. If we weren't so stubborn, then maybe things could escalate into more than friendship.

"I think training sounds like a decent idea. Although, we can't go on a proper date without a proper meal," Bren decrees. He loops a muscled arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side.

I roll my eyes at the word date. "Fine, but you carry it."

He tips his head back and laughs. "Deal."

The walk to the cliff sides isn't nearly as interesting as one might think. We've all taken that walk, most on the first day of arriving at this beautiful and isolated village. Towards the outskirts of the homes, stone, and wood, and along the outline of pine trees encasing us from the world, a dirt trail snakes from the village to those cliff sides—a swift drop off to the roaring ocean below.

There are no trees towards the cliff sides so there is nothing to obstruct the view of the land stretching beyond. Celestine's power grew these grasslands and ever since then, they have thrived.

The tall, deep green grass sways in the spring breeze of the afternoon, hours after Bren and I declared today is meant for training. I walk behind him, staring at the trail beneath my boots instead of his broad shoulders and the sack of food bouncing against his spine. The trail is only wide enough for one person at a time.

With my power, I can sense the dirt on my fingertips, cold and wet, calling up to me. As I will it, I open that door to my power, barely cracking it open, and the loose rocks and dirt particles travel up to my fingers, wrapping around like a second skin. As quickly as I give my power the chance to explore, I shut it back off and the dirt drops.

At the quiet thud, Bren glances back and I avert my eyes.

While my sister is the shining light in this family, many turn the corner and avoid walking near me. Once they hear the power I've been born with, I'm no longer the sympathetic girl who helped them when they arrived.

My mother, the witch of the inanimate, can move objects with her mind. My father can hear beyond the average ear. Celestine can grow anything she desires from the ground.

We only use my power as a last resort. I am to keep this village together if a battle takes place. Keeping the enemy forces behind their lines with my power is the one thing my father has told me to do. That is my use.

I am a witch of ground—of stone, dirt, sand, and rock. I can cleave the ground in two with a simple stomp of my foot and I can take chunks of it and bend the world to my will. My power is dangerous, but it grants immortality.

Mixed with the dark grasses tickling my hips are flowers of all different colors. Celestine grew these as a test for her power to extend its limits. And to see what could grow here.

My father created drills to understand every aspect of the witch of garden Celestine is growing to be.

I look towards the sky lined with puffed white clouds and take a deep breath. With my chin tilted back, I relish in the breeze sweeping the scarlet strands of my hair, half pulled behind my head while the rest hangs down to my collarbones. The strands tickle my ears and the opal necklace pressed against my chest warms against the sun. Similar to all the occurrences I've been out here before, I relish in the feel of freedom washing over me.

Buildings aren't closing in, neither are the dirt streets or a new batch of refugees I need to direct around. Today, there aren't any jobs or difficult questions needing I must answer. Today, I can just be Roux Aimrey, a witch of the ground. And Bren can be himself, a witch of the flame. To match his red hair, I've always said. He hates the comparison.

What are friends if I can't annoy him?

Out here, surrounded by nothing except for the endless expanse of ocean, Celestine's comparison doesn't hang over me. I don't have to worry about someone looking at her in awe while they look at me in fear. No one has ever needed me, other than to move a giant, too heavy boulder out of their yard. Even then, I find a way to mess up.

Witches revolve their lives around control. At a young age, around fifteen, they begin their training to control a power—whatever it may be. Celestine's was simpler than mine, she couldn't hurt anyone by sprouting trees or flowers. All she had to do was to learn what to grow and as a young witch in training, even that can be frustrating.

Me, on the other hand, when my father took me out into the empty fields at fifteen, I pulled a chunk from the ground so large he went toppling off the side. The only training I've received since then is minor work on how to control the chunk of ground I take with me. But that training is years old. Everything about my power is as good as a ghost.

Today, Bren and I can train without prying eyes and without the weight of others pressing on us. That is the main reason Bren and I have such a solid friendship. Both powers require long hours of work and extensive amounts of training. Controlling the ground and mastering flame has downsides and neither of us looks down on the other for that.

When I make a mistake, Bren doesn't judge. The same goes the other way around. With my father, a man who doesn't know how to control the extent of my power, it's difficult to relish in the sense I've accomplished when he's rubbing at his forehead gleaming with sweat.

With Bren, he's willing to help me through.

The other reason our friendship is so solid is that I'm all he has. He came to Arego after the king slaughtered his parents, his sisters, and were going after him when he fled. They had nearly killed him, too, but he managed to escape as a young boy and trek all the way here by himself.

I still remember the day he stumbled onto our doorstep, skinny and dirty. He had hardly eaten as he didn't know what was edible and what wasn't so every meal was a gamble with berries or plants in the woods. To avoid guards searching near the capital or thieves lurking along the trails, he couldn't risk a fire so the journey in late autumn nearly killed him as winter nights had already presented themselves.

My father immediately brought him in and gave Bren a warm bath while my mother prepared an even warmer meal. That was when I first saw him, at our dining table shoved in the corner of the room. The small boy was hunched over a bowl of hot stew, sipping slowly with a wool blanket draped over his shoulders.

Once my parents took care of him and his stomach was full, my father set him up with the witch of lumber—a man with a spare bedroom. Bren became his own person then and once we saw each other at the market, asked if I wanted to be his friend. Remembering how quiet and rude he had been at the beginning, I objected. Then, he offered me a frosted cookie and I couldn't refuse. I smile at the thought of our origin; our friendship was a simple exchange of goods.

The roar of the ocean takes over as we walk closer to the cliff sides. Mist kisses my cheeks and burns my nose when mixed with the wind. I pull the cloak tighter around me to block out that mist but it always finds the right way through, to prickle and bite. Bren isn't bothered by it so I try to walk closely behind him—using my best friend as a wall of protection.

In the distance, Celestine and my father are mere specks in the world. Her auburn hair billows behind her as she repairs what my father asked of her before moving onto the next.

Someday, my father won't be here anymore. The four of us will turn to three and we will carry on his legacy.

A witch of all-hearing is not immortal. They live the mortal lives of humans and it pains me, churns my insides, to know my father has another forty years at most. While I will be young and spry, he will die in our home. I try to shake that thought away, but it lingers, all the way to his grave.

I couldn't imagine falling in love with a mortal as my mother had. My father has aged, she has not. She hardly looks older than Celestine and someday, all of us will be so similar in age until we somehow meet our end. Immortal powers like my own have what we call an Age Lock. I'll stop aging soon, that security keeps us from looking past twenty-five. Immortal witches stay in their best years forever.

"Finally," Bren sighs. The roar of the ocean drowns out his voice but it carries to me in the wind and whispers against my ears.

He drops the sack of food onto a nearby boulder and stretches his shoulders.

We linger only a few yards away from the cliffs, near the grass turning into slick rock that drops into the ocean forty feet below. The waves crash against the side, spring up in a cloud of mist and drop back into themselves.

"I don't think I'll ever tire of this view," I say quietly. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Bren watch me before he backs away with a sigh, towards a small dirt clearing.

"Shall we get started?" He rolls up the sleeves of his tunic. Only certain witches can create; some have to use existing matter to bend their power at will. For Bren, to use his power, fire isn't necessary.

The minor flicker of flame rises into the air, shifting uncontrollably in the breeze. It is then I know I can't put off training any longer. When Bren gives me that smile, I know I'll have no choice but to move the ground at the consequence of myself.