The sun bled red as it sank behind the trees, leaking color through the canopy like a wound. Shadows stretched long and hungry across the forest floor. Roots curled like claws beneath the horses’ hooves. Every creak of leather and shift of saddle was softened by the hush of the woods. The air was thick with damp earth and the unmistakable scent of castlewood—sharp-sweet and warm.

  Vel rode at the front, reins draped loose in one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh. His body moved in easy rhythm with the mare’s stride, like the saddle belonged to him more than the ground ever had. He closed his eyes for a breath and drew the forest in through his nose.

  Castlewood.

  The scent cut through the fatigue in his shoulders. Familiar. Comforting. Like old scars and broken blades. The trees stretched high on either side of the trail—elegant, white-barked giants with trunks soft and velvet-like to the touch. Their leaves shimmered with delicate yellow-green edges, soft as feathers, catching the last of the sun like stained glass. Small white fruit, barely larger than a coin, hung in small clusters, pearled like ornaments on a noblewoman’s braid.

  “Some of these look healthy,” Vel murmured without turning. “Not bad, considering the blight’s been crawling through this region.”

  Wren rode up beside him, brushing a branch as they passed. He reached out, plucked a castlewood leaf, and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. His smile was small, almost private, as he brought it to his nose.

  “Still smells right,” he said. “Like crushed light and warm bark.”

  Vel’s mouth twitched in approval. “Not many your age know that smell.”

  “Your fault for dragging me through the forest half my childhood.”

  Behind them, Chavi reached up, snagging one of the pale fruits. He inspected it with quiet curiosity before tucking it into the side of his saddlebag.

  “What’s it taste like?” he asked.

  “Sweet at first,” Vel said. “But the aftertaste will twist your tongue if you’re not ready. Best brewed into tea, or dried.”

  “I’ll try it the reckless way,” said Chavi, plucking a small bunch of the fruit from an overhanging branch.

  Wren smirked. “That’s how you broke your toe last month.”

  “I was defending your honor from a goat,” Chavi shot back. “A very small goat.”

  “Is that so,” Vel burst out. “The great Wren getting worn out by a goat?”

  “That was one mean goat. I have no shame,” Wren said in his best defense.

  Vel smiled faintly, eyes still scanning the trees. “We need camp soo.”

  Wren nodded. “Clearing just ahead. I remember it. Used it once after a run to Dalo.”

  Vel didn’t respond, but his gaze softened at the name. “Your mother always loved that old giant castlewood tree on the hill on the way to Dalo. We would climb it and listen to the birds.”

  Wren quieted. “She used to say the wind sounded different there.”

  “It did,” Vel replied. “Still does.”

  Chavi glanced between them but said nothing. Instead, he let his gaze wander upward—past the branches, toward the sky where two moons now hung. The familiar one, cratered and soft, and the Hollow Star—distant and pale green, bloated behind the first, a ghost of something ancient and watching.

  “You really think it’s the Hollow Star?” Chavi asked after a pause.

  Wren didn’t answer. Vel did.

  “It’s close enough to feel,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

  Chavi frowned, thoughtful. “It’s not just superstition, then?”

  “Not all superstition’s wrong,” Vel said. “Some of it’s just remembering something real.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  They rode in silence after that, hooves soft in the undergrowth, the air golden and calm.

  False calm.

  Up ahead, the trail curved gently—just enough to hide the clearing.

  Just enough to feel like safety.

  ~ ~ ~

  The fire crackled low, throwing gold and shadow in uneven waves. Sparks floated upward like fireflies, vanishing into the hush above. Overhead, two moons shared the sky—the one they’d always known, and the Hollow Star.

  The Hollow Star hovered pale and massive behind the smaller moon, as if the world itself had tried to forget it and failed. Its greenish light bled down through the canopy, turning the forest strange. Some called it a second moon. Others called it a mistake.

  Wren crouched near the flames, feeding in thin strips of dogwood, careful not to let the sparks stray. Across from him, Chavi leaned against his saddle, the side of his face buried in half-shadow. His right cheek—bruised, purple, puffy at the bone—caught the occasional flicker of firelight. He didn’t talk about it. But Vel saw. Vel always saw.

  Vel sat just beyond the glow, elbows on knees, whetstone singing against his belt knife. The scrape was rhythmic, steady. Calming, in its way.

  “You ride well,” he said without looking up.

  Chavi glanced up, unsure if it was a question or a compliment. “Spent time in the saddle,” he answered, quiet.

  “Where?”

  Chavi hesitated. His eyes flicked to Wren, who kept his gaze on the fire.

  “Out west. Courier runs.”

  Vel nodded, letting silence settle in again, just long enough to hear the crackle of sap in the wood.

  “That how you got the bruise?”

  Chavi’s thumb froze on the belt loop. His one good eye held Vel’s gaze.

  “Fell,” he said. “Horse spooked at a snake.”

  Vel dragged the stone down the blade one last time. “Hm.”

  He didn’t press. He’d seen the man Chavi’s mother had taken up with. Loud. Mean. Meaner when no one was looking. Vel had made himself clear once—on a quiet road with no one around. But some bruises came back anyway.

  He set the blade down across his knee.

  “You did good work,” he said to Chavi. “You too,” he added, glancing to Wren.

  Wren looked up. “We’ve got enough for the night.”

  He leaned back, stretching out his arms and spine. “You think it’s really the Hollow Star?” he asked, nodding upward.

  “Hard to say,” Vel murmured. “Some think so.”

  The star’s glow split shadows sharp as knives. The normal moon hovered in front of it, smaller by far.

  Chavi sat straighter. “But wasn’t it gone? Vanished?”

  “Five hundred years,” Vel replied. “Give or take. Last time it was mentioned in any real record.”

  He picked up a stick and etched absent lines in the dirt.

  “Old stories are all over the place. Some call it a guide. Others a warning. There’s a book I read once—called it the Lantern of the Old Gods.”

  He let the stick fall and stared again at the sky.

  “Others say it shows up when bad things are coming.”

  Silence pressed in. The Castlewood torches around their camp flared a steady blue—long-burning, sweet-scented, a comfort and a ward.

  Wren rose and moved toward his mare. She gave a soft nicker and folded herself down into the grass beside him. Wren eased into her side like he’d done it a hundred times before.

  Chavi pulled his blanket tighter. He was already half-asleep, but his eyes still tracked the shadows.

  Vel leaned back, knife beside him, the warmth of the fire curling against his boots.

  Then Wren spoke again, voice quiet.

  “Uncle?”

  Vel glanced over.

  “Thanks for asking Chavi to come.”

  Vel nodded once. “I trust your judgment. Besides, he’s stronger than me and you together.”

  The two watched Chavi from across the fire. “He doesn’t look as small as we do beside our horses,” said Wren with a chuckle. “He might be part horse.”

  Vel’s gravel laugh echoed through the forest.

  Across the fire, Chavi’s eyes were already closed, head resting on his horse’s leg. He mumbled something in his sleep and rolled onto his side.

  A breeze moved the trees. The scent of Castlewood drifted with it—sweet, sharp, familiar.

  Wren lay back into his mare’s warmth, one hand tucked behind his head, eyes on the glow of the Hollow Star above. After a long beat of silence, he spoke.

  “So… how heavy is this stone, really?”

  Vel didn’t even open his eyes. “Oh, tomorrow won’t be fun,” he muttered.

  A pause. “Goodnight.”

  Wren chuckled softly. “Sleep tight, old man.”