The sky over Thistlebrook burned with a sickly amber, casting long shadows across the stone cottages and fields of withered rye. Kaela stood at the edge of the village, her calloused hands gripping the hilt of her dagger, though she hadn’t drawn it in weeks. The air reeked of smoke and something older—something that clung to the back of her throat like rust. She’d told herself it was the harvest fires, but the wind carried a different scent now: the acrid tang of unraveling magic.
The elders had warned her, years ago, when she’d been a girl running barefoot through the meadows. “The stars are fading,” they’d murmured, their voices frayed at the edges. “And when they go, so do we.” Kaela had laughed then, kicking up dust as she chased the last of the fireflies. Now, the fireflies were gone, and the sky had turned to bruised flesh.
She turned toward the woodline, where the trees loomed like sentinels. The path beyond was overgrown, choked with brambles that snagged at her boots. It led to the old ruins, the place where the first light had been stolen. Her father had gone there once, a decade past, and never returned. The villagers whispered that he’d tried to save the stars and had been swallowed by the dark. Kaela hadn’t believed them. Not then.
A branch snapped behind her. She spun, dagger raised, but the woods were empty. Only the wind answered, tugging at her cloak. She exhaled, forcing her fingers to relax. Fear was a poison, and she couldn’t afford it. Not now.
The ruins were a jagged skeleton of stone, half-buried in moss and time. Kaela stepped over the threshold, her boots crunching on shattered tiles. The air here was colder, thinner, as if the very atmosphere had been stripped away. At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, and on it rested a single shard of glass—crystalline and pulsing with a faint, erratic glow. It looked like a fragment of the sky, fractured and broken.
She reached out, fingers brushing the surface. A shock lanced through her, sharp as a blade. Images exploded in her mind: a vast expanse of stars, their light dimming one by one. A figure in shadow, hands outstretched, siphoning the radiance. And then—nothing. A hollow void where the stars had been.
Kaela stumbled back, her breath ragged. The shard pulsed again, brighter this time, as if urging her forward. She clenched her jaw. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a gift. It was a warning.
A voice echoed from the chamber’s entrance. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Kaela turned, dagger already in hand. A figure stood in the doorway, cloaked in tattered gray. Their face was hidden beneath a hood, but their eyes—cold, silvered things—locked onto hers. “The stars are gone,” they said, their voice a rasp of wind through bone. “And you’ve brought the last light with you.”
The shard flared in her grip, searing her palm. Kaela didn’t wait to hear more. She ran, the chamber’s walls closing in around her, the figure’s laughter trailing behind her like a blade.
She didn’t stop until she reached the village square, where the firepits still smoldered. The villagers gathered around them, their faces lit by the flickering glow. They turned as she approached, their expressions a mix of fear and curiosity.
“What happened?” asked Mira, the blacksmith’s daughter, her eyes wide. “We saw the sky—”
“It’s not just the sky,” Kaela interrupted, her voice raw. She held up the shard, its glow now a steady, desperate pulse. “Something is taking the stars. And I think I know what.”
The crowd murmured, some stepping back, others leaning in. Mira’s hand found hers, firm and steady. “Then we’ll stop it,” she said. “Whatever it takes.”
Kaela looked down at the shard, its light flickering like a dying ember. The journey ahead would be dangerous, but she wasn’t alone anymore. The stars were gone, but the light remained—and she would fight to keep it alive.
