The waves whispered against the shore, a slow hush and pull that lulled the younger children into stillness. The last glow of the sun faded out behind the cliffs. Moonlight stretched long across the sand, and beside it, an eerie green hue shimmered in the tide.
Further up the beach, a fire crackled, ringed by scattered driftwood seats and the attentive faces of children, their wide eyes fixed on a girl standing at its center.
Lila.
She moved as she spoke, hands carving shapes into the night air, her loose braid slipping over her shoulder with each dramatic turn. Her voice, already practiced from many nights like this, rose and fell with the weight of the tale.
“And once,” she said, her voice lilting and strange, “there was a man who drank moonlight.”
A ripple of surprise moved through the children.
“They say he lived up on the cliff’s edge, never aged, never slept. Every night, when the Hollow Star shone, he opened his throat and swallowed the light like water.”
She took a slow, deliberate step forward.
“But the more he drank, the more it changed him. His eyes turned silver. His shadow began to move on its own. Birds stopped flying near his home. The waves beneath his house grew still, like they were afraid.”
One of the younger boys hugged his knees tighter. A few older kids leaned in, hooked.
“And one night,” she whispered, “he tried to drink the light all at once. Every drop. He opened his mouth wide—wider than a man should be able—and the Hollow Star stared straight back at him. And it didn’t blink.”
She paused, letting the silence press in.
“It’s said the sea rose up then, black and silent, and pulled him under. But his shadow?” Lila tilted her head. “It stayed. Still walks the cliffs sometimes. Still hungry.”
She smiled slyly, then swept her arms wide.
“But!” she declared, twisting on her heel, “there were others who saw him vanish. Others who learned to sip the light instead. Who whispered to it. Danced beneath it. And they say... they changed too.”
She clapped her hands once—sharp and sudden.
The children jumped.
Even Senna, who had been watching quietly from the driftwood, smirked at that.
Lila spun again, slowing now, lowering her voice as she approached the tale’s end.
“And now, some say, there are still people who drink bits of the Hollow Star. Quietly. Carefully. And they never tell.”
She let the pause hang.
“So… be nice to your shadow.”
Silence settled over the group. The children stared, wide-eyed, until an older boy forced a laugh. “It’s just a story,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Lila grinned and shrugged. “Maybe.”
The green light of the Hollow Star played faintly across her face, catching in her eyes and making them shine an unnatural shade. The fire crackled beside her, casting shifting shadows that leaned long into the sand.
Senna had seen Lila tell stories before. The girl had a gift for it—spinning old legends in ways that felt fresh, making the air feel thick with possibility. Tonight, though, something about it felt different.
Across the fire, a man cleared his throat.
Senna shifted her gaze toward him without moving, her fingers idly twisting the stem of her empty cup. Strangers to Lorssai, observing everything with careful eyes.
His gaze lingered on Lila, thoughtful. “That was quite a tale,” he said, voice easy, turning toward her. “Where did you learn it?”
Lila hesitated for only half a breath—most wouldn’t have caught it, but Senna did.
She smiled, tilting her chin up slightly. “I remember them,” she said simply. “From when I was small.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Senna’s fingers stilled.
The man nodded, as if the answer satisfied him. Then he leaned forward just slightly and offered a hand. “Forgive me—we haven’t been introduced. I’m Mirell. This is my wife, Tallan.”
Lila gave a respectful nod. “I’m Lila.”
Tallan’s gaze was steady, her expression polite. “Stories like these—are they common here?”
A harmless enough question.
Senna gave a slow, amused blink. “In Lorssai?” she mused. “Only if you listen.”
Tallan smiled at that, though there was something polite about it. “Every kingdom seems to have their own.”
Lila turned toward them, curious now herself. “What stories do you know?”
Mirell chuckled. “Oh, some rather wild ones.” He leaned back, stretching out a leg as he warmed his hands near the fire. “One kingdom we visited claimed that when the Hollow Star last burned green, the people who slept under its light were never quite the same again.”
One of the mothers frowned slightly. “Never the same how?”
Mirell’s smile was easy. “Depends on who you ask.”
Senna took a slow sip from her cup, watching him now.
Tallan sighed, rolling her eyes. “Pay him no mind,” she said. “He’s been listening to too many fireside ramblings lately.”
“Ramblings are the best part,” Senna murmured.
Tallan met her gaze with a knowing look, a quiet acknowledgment.
Not enemies. Not friends.
The fire crackled again, breaking the moment. The tide continued its slow whisper up the shore. Above them, the Hollow Star remained fixed in place, unblinking.
"My mother read them to me from a book."
“Oh, that’s such a beautiful memory. Do you still have the book?”
“I —”
Senna barged in. “She lost it, unfortunately.”
She stood by Lila and squeezed her arm, inconspicuously—the type of squeeze that reminded someone to stop talking.
~ ~ ~
The night air clung to Wren’s skin, damp and still. Beside him, Lila tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her free hand resting protectively on the satchel where the worn book lay hidden.
“So,” Lila said, nudging him playfully, “what did you think of my story tonight?”
Wren glanced down, a crooked smile creeping onto his face. He lifted his hands dramatically and deepened his voice in exaggerated imitation.
“And the fool who drank too deeply from the Hollow Star got eaten by his own shadow!”
Lila laughed and shoved his arm. “That’s not how I sounded!”
Wren chuckled. “You were brilliant. They couldn’t take their eyes off you.”
She beamed. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Lila, glowing from the praise, looked up at him mischievously. “Can I ride on your shoulders back home?”
Wren laughed, reaching to muss her hair. “You’re too big for that now.”
“Am not,” she said, half-pouting, though her smile gave her away.
“Are too,” he said, grinning. “But maybe we’ll race instead.”
His fingers brushed the smooth stone in his pocket — a small comfort, just in case.
A curtained cart rolled toward them, its lantern swinging slow from the arch. The horses were pristine, their harnesses polished, every detail immaculate. Even the driver wore silver-trimmed clothes and sat stiff-backed on the bench.
The cart slowed. The driver remained silent as he reined the horses to a stop.
From behind the curtain stepped a tall man with a deliberate stride, the kind that suggested the world moved to accommodate him. His cloak hung like weight, and when he smiled, it was thin but oddly sincere.
“You’re Wren?” he asked, then glanced at Lila. “And company. Forgive the intrusion.”
He gave a small, formal bow. “I’m called Mr. Binok. A solicitor, of sorts.”
Wren stepped slightly in front of Lila. “What do you want?”
“No harm meant,” Mr. Binok said. “Quite the opposite. I hear you carry a rare book.”
Lila’s grip tightened on the satchel. “It’s not for sale.”
Mr. Binok inclined his head. “Understood. And I respect your guardianship.” He loosened a leather pouch and let it tilt just enough to catch the light—glints of jika coins gleamed inside. “Still — some treasures weigh heavier than they seem.”
“You want us to sell it,” Wren said flatly.
“I offer, nothing more,” Mr. Binok replied, his voice calm, almost kind. “Some would not be so courteous. Some would plot. Steal.”
Lila’s jaw tightened.
Wren stepped closer. “Is that a threat?”
“No,” Mr. Binok said gently. “But it is the truth.”
The horses shifted. The driver murmured something low.
Mr. Binok adjusted his cloak. “Think on it,” he said. “You won’t see many offers made with an open hand.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and climbed back into the cart. The driver flicked the reins. The cart rolled off into the dark, the lantern swaying like a fading star.
Wren stood tense at Lila’s side, hand tight around the stone in his pocket.
“I’ll never sell it,” Lila said, her voice low, steady.
“I know,” Wren said, eyes fixed on the path long after the cart was gone.
