Cameraman Never Dies

Seraphis sat with her back pressed against the rough bark of an old tree trunk. The surface bit into her skin through the fabric of her cloak, but she made no complaint, she had grown used to discomfort long ago.

Eleyn was seated a little ways off, near the dying fire, which had burned down to a bed of glowing red charcoal. She stirred a small pot with deliberate care, making sure not a drop spilled over the sides.

Though the pot seemed recently made, its rim still held a faint sheen of polish, the bottom bore the familiar dark smudges of soot, proof of repeated use. It was barely large enough for two, yet she had filled it to the brim, unwilling to compromise the meal despite the modest size of the vessel.

Seraphis had been tempted to speak up when Eleyn snuffed out the flames, concerned the stew wouldn't cook through, but she held her tongue. Eleyn knew what she was doing. They both had their own strengths, different, honed by necessity and experience, and Seraphis respected that.

Still, a quiet tension clung to her chest. It had started when she asked Eleyn about the ancient words she had used during their last battle, the ones that bent reality like silk. That moment had created a subtle fracture between them, not one born of hostility, but of something unspoken. A rift.

And Seraphis had already been carrying too much.

The grief of losing her husband still weighed heavily on her, an ache that refused to dull with time. Now, uncertainty gnawed at her again, this time over her child. The yearning to see them, to hold them once more, surged stronger than ever. It clawed at her from within, relentless and raw.

Back then, she had nearly surrendered to despair. There had been nights when she stared into the black sky and wondered if all her searching had been for nothing. Hope, to her, had always felt like a cruel trick, a shimmering mirage dancing just beyond reach, luring the desperate deeper into a desert of disappointment.

But now… now, she had nothing else to cling to.

Hope was all that remained. And if not for that, if not for the faint, flickering belief that her child still lived, what reason did she have to keep going? Why endure the pain, the fight, the silence?

Slap!

The sharp sound echoed in the stillness as she struck her own cheeks, snapping herself from the spiral of thought.

"Let go of these thoughts, Seraphis," she whispered harshly. "You're better than this. And you have a student now."

With a steadying breath, she rose to her feet, brushed the dust from her cloak with methodical strokes, and turned toward the fire. Her movements were quiet, but Eleyn still noticed.

"Judge got away again," Eleyn said, her voice calm, almost casual. Spoken without looking up, the words drifting into the air the moment she heard Seraphis approach.

Her face held that usual complacency, that thin veil of practiced serenity she wore like armor. But her eyes betrayed her. Beneath the composed surface, a storm brewed. A storm of uncertainty, worry, and helplessness.

Judge was her son, after all. And no matter how many times she cast her divinations, no matter how many fates and threads she saw woven safely around him, it didn't dull the instinct of a mother.

Seraphis watched her in silence, her heart tugged in two directions. She understood Eleyn's fear, but she couldn't share it. Not entirely. Judge wasn't an ordinary boy. He had depths even his mother hadn't seen.

She had witnessed a glimpse of it herself, just enough to know that the child was walking a path most would never dare touch. A path that perhaps no mother could accept, even if she loved him deeply.

She considered saying something to reassure Eleyn, to remind her that Judge could handle more than she knew. But the words caught on the edge of her tongue. It wasn't her place to reveal what the boy hadn't. Not yet, not unless he wishes to.

"You worried?" Seraphis asked gently, crouching beside the fire where Eleyn stirred the pot. Her voice was low, almost tender. "But didn't you say he would be safe, even if he got out of the mansion?"

"I divined he would be alive!" Eleyn snapped, louder than she intended. The veneer of calm shattered in an instant. Her hands trembled slightly as she gripped the ladle, and the stew spilled a little. The firelight caught the sharpness in her expression, casting flickers of anger and pain across her face.

"Not safe... alive."

The difference between the two hung heavy in the air. Being alive didn't mean untouched. It didn't mean unharmed. And for a mother, that difference was everything.

Seraphis lowered her gaze.

At least she knows her son is alive.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and bitter. She envied that certainty.

She had asked Eleyn once, just once, to divine her daughter's fate.

She wanted to find her, to trace her path, and mostly to know if she still walked the land of the living. The answer had been yes. Alive. But the threads of her location had frayed into nothing. No coordinates, no direction, no pull of fate that could be followed. Just a blank. As if the world itself had swallowed her whole and refused to let her be seen.

And Seraphis had never asked again.

Not because she didn't care. Not because she had given up.

But because she was afraid.

If the answer ever changed, if the divination one day returned silence instead of a heartbeat, it would end her. Not with a scream, not with tears. No, it would be quieter than that. Like a candle left to burn out in a room no one visited anymore.

Hope was all she had left. And though she called it a cruel thing, a trickster that led the desperate in circles, she clung to it. Because hope, no matter how painful, gave shape to the future. Even if it was false, even if it never delivered what it promised, it was something to walk toward. Something to believe in.

Hope was the only thing more stubborn than despair.

And perhaps that was why it was so dangerous.

But also, why it was necessary.

She sat down beside Eleyn in silence, watching the stew simmer. The charcoal crackled softly, sending up a faint trail of smoke that curled into the fading night.

Neither of them spoke again for a while. There was nothing more to say.

Not yet.