The Constellations Of Us

Chapter Three – Roads Between Stars

His words lingered long after they were spoken. Because people like me always have something to hide.

I sat on the fallen log, the taste of his warning bitter on my tongue. Shadows pooled beneath the trees, stretching longer than they should have, and the forest seemed to lean in, listening. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t dare ask. The silence between us stretched, heavy and taut, like a string drawn too tight.

When he finally rose from the firepit’s remains, brushing ash from his hands, I followed without being told.

The road carried us northward, narrow and winding, flanked by fields gone wild. The sky was pale with early light, but the stars hadn’t yet fully vanished. Or perhaps they had, and I only imagined the gaps between them growing wider.

Caelen walked ahead, steady and unrelenting, his cloak brushing the dirt at his heels. I tried to match his pace, though each step sent aches crawling up my calves. I had never walked so far without a carriage or horse. Yet I refused to ask him to slow down. If he wouldn’t carry stragglers, then I wouldn’t become one.

We passed villages still sleeping under dawn mist. Smoke curled from chimneys, faint and sweet, while the scent of bread drifted from unseen ovens. A child’s laugh rang faintly from behind shuttered windows, a sound so normal it ached. I tightened my cloak and looked away. That kind of life no longer belonged to me.

By mid-morning, we reached the bustle of a market town. Merchants raised striped awnings, their voices already bright with barter. Tables spilled over with fruit, bolts of fabric, and trinkets that gleamed in the light. My hunger gnawed at me, sharp and unrelenting.

Caelen didn’t break stride, but when I slowed near a baker’s stall, he stopped. Without a word, he pulled a coin from somewhere inside his cloak, dropped it onto the counter, and handed me a round loaf, warm and steaming.

I hesitated, then tore off a piece. The crust was crisp, the inside soft and rich with butter. It tasted of freedom more than luxury, and I devoured it.

“You didn’t have to,” I muttered, brushing crumbs from my lips.

His eyes slid to me briefly. “Eat while you can. The road ahead won’t be so generous.”

He walked on, leaving me to hurry after him, clutching the bread like a treasure.

The road grew lonelier as noon bled into afternoon. Hills rolled into thick woods, where branches knitted overhead and turned the light to green shadow. The air was damp and alive with birdsong. For the first time since leaving the palace, I felt a strange calm — not safe, but unseen, as if the trees themselves kept us hidden.

That calm broke with a shift in the air. The forest went quiet, too quiet, as though breath held itself between the trees. A prickle ran down my spine.

Caelen’s hand went instantly to his blade. His head tilted, listening. My pulse hammered. I saw nothing, only shifting leaves, only the trick of wind. Yet I knew — something watched us.

“Stay behind me,” he murmured.

The command left no room for disobedience. I obeyed, pressing close as he stepped forward, his movements fluid, predatory. Another c***k echoed through the underbrush. My throat went dry.

Then, from the shadows, a boar burst across the path, massive and snorting, its tusks gleaming. My gasp tore free.

Caelen didn’t flinch. In one motion, his sword flashed, silver in the half-light. The beast reared, bellowing, then toppled into the ferns, lifeless.

Silence swallowed the forest again — deeper than before, as if the woods themselves recoiled.

My heart thudded. “You didn’t even know… how could you move like that?”

He wiped his blade clean with eerie calm. “Keep walking.”

But I couldn’t shake it. He hadn’t reacted like a man surprised. He had turned before the beast even broke the brush, as if he already knew its path. The swing of his blade had been too fast, too precise. Not human. Not natural.

I followed anyway, though my steps faltered, torn between fear and a treacherous thread of gratitude. Without him, I would already be dead. With him, I wasn’t sure what I was. Safe? Or simply postponed?

We made camp by the river that night. The water rushed swiftly and silver, carrying fragments of moonlight downstream. I sat close to the fire, hugging my knees. My thoughts whirled with questions I didn’t dare ask.

Caelen sat across from me, sharpening his blade. The sound of steel on stone rasped in a steady rhythm, as if it were the only song he knew.

“You don’t tire easily,” I said softly.

He didn’t look up. “No.”

“Not even when you should?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he set the blade aside and leaned back against a tree, his eyes fixed on the dark beyond the firelight.

For a long time, I only watched him, the way the shadows clung to his face, the way the firelight caught in his eyes like secrets. He was a stranger, dangerous, unreadable. Yet sitting across from him, I felt less alone than I had in weeks.

And that — perhaps — was the real danger.

I caught myself wanting to trust him, wanting to believe the steadiness of his steps meant safety. Then I remembered his warning. People like me always have something to hide.

Sleep came slowly. When it finally did, the stars above seemed fractured, their gaps widening like wounds in the sky. I pulled my cloak tighter, shivering though the fire still burned.

And as dreams dragged me under, one thought echoed in the hollow of my chest: whatever secret Caelen carried, it was bound not just to him but to the fading light of the heavens themselves.