The grave was shallow.
He had dug it with his hands, fingers torn and bleeding as they scraped against the stone. Kaelion's body was wrapped in the old cloak he once used during meditation—threadbare, bloodstained, still clinging faintly to his scent. Caelen laid him down slowly, reverently. No prayers. No rites. Just silence.
Then he sealed the stone above him and sat.
For hours.
And when his breath steadied, he rose.
The plan had been made months ago. Kaelion had called it foolish—reckless. But they had agreed: when the time came, it would be the only way.
Now, with the grave still warm, Caelen lay down on the cold floor once again, his limbs slack, his chest stilled. He forced his pulse down. Slowed his breath to nothing. It was no longer training. It was necessity.
The dead don't speak. They don't move. They don't breathe.
They don't twitch, or sweat, or flinch when the iron door creaks open. They don't tremble when boots approach.
Caelen reminded himself of this as he lay sprawled on the cold floor of his cell, his body stiff, face turned toward the wall. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, warm and metallic. He had bitten the inside of his cheek until the flesh tore open. The pain was searing, but necessary.
Everything was necessary.
His eyes were closed, his pulse slowed, every muscle caught in that breathless stillness his father had trained him to master. Not meditation—this was death mimicry. A stillness so complete it could deceive even the wary.
The door groaned.
A pair of footsteps echoed inside, deliberate and slow. Leather creaked. Armor scraped against the doorframe. Caelen's heart screamed in his chest, but he buried it deep beneath layers of cold, practiced stillness.
The guard muttered something under his breath. Closer now.
A shadow passed over Caelen's face.
Fingers touched his neck.
Then again. Checking for breath.
Another few seconds. Then—smack.
Pain bloomed across Caelen's cheek as a gauntleted hand slapped him. Then again. The impact forced a flicker of heat behind his eyes, but he didn't move.
"Hmph," the guard grunted.
There was a pause. Then the man sighed and stood. "Finally," he muttered. "One less freak to feed."
Footsteps retreated.
The cell door creaked wider as the guard turned to leave. His voice echoed down the corridor. "Get me the commander. The last of the Elarathi's gone cold!"
And just like that—he was gone.
But the door hadn't shut.
It hadn't shut.
The guard hadn't. Why would he? There was nothing left to fear. Just a corpse on the floor.
Caelen waited.
Longer than he needed to.
He counted to three hundred, then fifty more.
Only when he could no longer feel the man's presence—only when the Veyrith no longer hummed with proximity—did he move.
His breath tore out of him in a ragged gasp. He curled forward, shaking violently, the pain in his chest like knives. His fingers dug into the stone as he coughed blood, then wiped his mouth and stood.
This was it.
He moved.
Bolting out of the cell, Caelen's bare feet slapped against the rough floor. Every step sent pain shooting through his legs, but he ran. The torches lining the narrow corridor flickered in the stagnant air, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts.
It worked.
His plan. His final gamble.
He was out.
And for the first time in his life… free.
The corridor beyond the cell was narrow, the walls damp and cracked. Torches flickered in their sconces, casting long, eerie shadows that danced with every movement. Caelen's bare feet slapped softly against the cold floor as he crept forward.
His senses flared. Every drip of water, every crackle of flame was a hammer pounding in his skull. His father's teachings lived in his bones now. Feel the silence. Feel the weight of movement. Feel the hum of the world around you.
The Veyrith pulsed faintly in the walls. In the rats. In the air itself. He reached for it unconsciously, not to command it—he wasn't ready—but to listen. To follow.
He took the path to the right. The same direction the guard had taken.
A thin trail of boot prints in the dust confirmed it.
The corridor bent left. Then again. Then opened into a narrow stairwell that coiled upward in a spiral. Caelen's legs burned with every step. His lungs screamed for rest.
But he climbed.
He couldn't stop.
He wouldn't.
The stairwell seemed endless. Stone gave way to dust and rusted beams. At last, he reached the top—an iron door stood before him, dark and looming.
He pressed a hand to the surface. Cold. Old. Heavy.
He closed his eyes and focused.
No presence behind it. No Veyrith signature.
Still, he hesitated. Then he pushed.
It creaked open on protesting hinges, revealing a wide stone hall shrouded in dust. Light bled through narrow windows cut high into the walls. The air smelled of rot, old wood, and forgotten years.
Caelen stepped into a different world.
No longer a tomb, but something ancient. A castle, maybe. Ruined, mostly. But still standing.
It was eerily quiet.
He moved quickly, skirting the walls, searching for another way up.
And there—on the far side of the hall—another stairwell. Narrow, steep. Leading upward again.
Always up.
He climbed.
His limbs trembled. His knees buckled more than once. But he reached the top—another door. Lighter than the last. It wasn't locked.
He opened it.
And the sky met him.
Caelen staggered into the open air, eyes wide.
It was night.
The wind struck his face with icy fingers, whipping through his hair and the tatters of his tunic. The castle walls stretched wide before him, narrow walkways guarded by half-toppled parapets. And above him…
Stars.
A sea of them.
Endless, shimmering, blinking down from the heavens. And the moons—two of them—hung like pale gods in the sky. One large and white, the other smaller, crimson, like a dying eye.
Caelen froze.
He had imagined the sky a thousand times.
He had dreamt of it, longed for it, been haunted by it.
But it was so much more.
It was vast. Terrifying. Beautiful.
The stars looked close enough to touch, and yet impossibly far. He felt small. Insignificant. Free.
Then—shouts.
Far below. Distant, but growing louder.
Panic surged through him. His head snapped around.
Footsteps.
They were coming.
The guards had found the empty cell.
He turned toward the far end of the wall—an escape? No. More guards. Shadows running toward him. Their torches flared in the wind.
Five of them. Maybe more.
His breath caught. His legs turned to lead. He backed away—slowly—until his heels met the edge of the wall.
He looked down.
A cliff. Sheer, steep. Below it, waves crashed into rock. The sea roared like some ancient beast.
There was no path down. No ladder. No rope. Just wind and water and death.
He turned back. The guards were closing in.
"Got you now!" one of them shouted.
Another laughed. "He really made it this far?"
Their torches illuminated cruel faces. Pale eyes. Smiles too wide.
Caelen's body shook. Not from the cold.
But from fear.
He didn't want to go back.
He couldn't go back.
They'll chain me. Beat me. Kill me slowly.
His breath grew shallow. He looked left. Right. More guards closing in. The walls offered no escape. Only the cliff behind him.
He clenched his fists.
His mind raced—memories crashing into him like the waves below.
His mother's voice. His father's hands. The silence of the tomb. The stories. The training. The lullabies. The pain.
And then—
"Stars are born in the dark."
Kaelion's voice. Gentle. Steady. Unyielding.
Caelen turned toward the cliff's edge.
Wind howled in his ears.
The sea raged below.
The guards shouted something behind him.
But Caelen wasn't listening.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered the tomb. The stillness. The suffering.
He remembered burying his father in the dirt and stone.
And he thought, I will not be buried next.
He opened his eyes.
Took one step back.
Then another.
And leapt.
For a moment, he was weightless.
The wind screamed past his face. The cold tore at his skin. The sky rushed away.
His arms flailed, and for a heartbeat he felt like he was flying.
I would rather die than go back.
The sea rose up to meet him.
He didn't scream.
He didn't close his eyes.
He fell like a star ripped from the heavens.
And then—
Impact.