The Vaelis Knot

. I didn’t have a scratch on me, but I felt like I was bleeding out on the kitchen floor. I sat hunched over the table at 4:03 AM, folded into a wooden chair that was never meant for a man of my size. The only light in the house came from the green, judgmental glow of the microwave clock, highlighting my hands—big, heavy hands —currently performing a surgical extraction on a tuning peg. There was no tape on my knuckles. No bruises, no split skin from yesterday’s sparring. My body was a freak of nature; I healed with a speed that felt supernatural. I’d taken a lead hook to the jaw at 6:00 PM that should’ve required a liquid diet, but by the time I’d finished my post-training protein shake at 7:00, the swelling was a memory. It was something I tried to hide, waving it off as luck. The recovery was physical, mechanical, and entirely too fast. But it didn't fix the hollowed-out feeling in my chest. I’d picked up that shake from The Astral Sip, the shop Kenzie owned, and even though the "Moon-Dust Protein" usually did the trick, the shop had felt like a tomb. She still wasn't behind the counter. One of her employees had handed me my drink in a silence that tasted like iron. Kenzie was still out there, chasing the stars, and the shop felt like an abandoned temple without its deity. I struck the opening chords of “Losing My Religion,” playing it slow, letting the notes hang in the air because every damn word felt like a confession I wasn't ready to make. The lyrics were a taunt, especially the way they caught on the distance in your eyes. That was Kenzie’s look—a gaze that didn't stop at the walls of a room or the edge of a conversation. She was looking at moons and constellations I couldn't wrestle to the ground, chasing a horizon I couldn't even see. Now, that distance was all I had left, haunting every whisper of every waking hour. It wasn't just about missing her; it was a physical ache, a pining that felt like I’d had a limb amputated. My skin felt too tight for my bones. I missed her smell—that wild mix of lavender and rain—and the softness of her touch. Without her, it felt like half of my soul had been ripped out and buried in the desert sand. I shoved the chair back, the legs screeching against the linoleum. I had to get my head in the game. I couldn't afford to be this dismantled. I had an upcoming match tonight. One with money on the line and a possible high paying contract. I stood up, my joints popping in the silence, and headed upstairs to get ready. I thought about the way we’d never actually talked about being together, or even that it was just a hookup. There were no "no strings attached" contracts; we just were. I’d sometimes hook up with other women, but that was mainly when she wasn’t around, like now when she wandered off. And I thought she did the same-I’d seen a man coming out of her house one morning when I stopped by to pick up something she had for Stevie. The sight of him had made my vision go red, I couldn't explain why. I’d played it cool, nodding like it didn't matter, even when she’d waved him off with a casual, "Don't mind him, Caleb. He's just a family friend—he came all the way from Aureus to bring me news regarding my mother." Aureus. Only Kenzie could describe a guy leaving her house at dawn as a messenger from a different world. Now I couldn’t even go f**k someone else because my head—or maybe my heart—wouldn’t let me. I had this itch under my skin that only she could scratch. She still wasn’t back. I’d actually walked to her house yesterday, but her van was still gone. I’d been tempted a thousand times to text her, to ask when she was coming home, to tell her I missed her. But I didn’t want to seem weak. In my world, there isn't room for weakness—or so I thought, because I was standing there, thumb hovering over the screen. She’d talked to me a few times while she’s been traveling, and I’d hung onto every word, even the "Kenzie-isms" about stars and gods. I missed her, and I hated admitting it. I’d never even had a girlfriend before because I was too focused on trying to make a career out of the cage; I didn't want the distraction. But I was learning the hard way that not having her here was a far worse distraction than her presence could ever be. Now I was thinking crazy things—possessive, primal things like she’s mine—and I never wanted her to leave my side again. I had to hurry and get ready before I did something extreme, like track her location and bury myself in her for a week just to feel whole again. I caught myself in the mirror and paused. My blue eyes were piercing, almost glowing in the dark, and my muscles felt like corded steel—too tight, too ready. I didn't feel the usual morning lag; I felt like a pressurized tank. My skin felt tight against my frame, barely holding back the power vibrating through me. It was a low roar in my chest, a deep-seated restlessness that told me if I didn't get to the gym and break a sweat soon, I was going to snap. I ran my hands through my hair, checking the calculated chaos. I’d pushed the dark blonde strands back from my forehead, leaving them in soft, tattered peaks that looked like they’d been roughed up by the static of a gathering storm. A few stray, sun-bleached pieces escaped the mess, falling over my brow and acting as a neon sign for the sharp, blue of my eyes. Every strand seemed to defy gravity in exactly the right direction. The brutal geometry of my jaw and the dark shadow of my stubble marked me as a threat, a weapon in black sweats. But the hair was the contradiction. It was a wild, soft crown of golden chaos—the only thing that softened the blow of a face built like a blade. I caught a glimpse of the ink peeking out from my collar—the dark, biomechanical spine of the dragon that spanned my back. The black-and-grey work was so intricate it looked like it was fused to my vertebrae, the dragon's head snarling silently between my shoulder blades. As I flexed, the wings seemed to unfurl across my back, an architectural masterpiece of bone and shadow that made me look like something pulled from an ancient myth. Kenzie had a way of looking at it that made me feel like I hadn't just sat for a needle—I'd undergone a ritual. She’d trace the heavy, shaded lines of the wings with her fingertips, her touch so light it felt like the ghost of a breeze against the metal-cold detail of the ink. She called it my “iron constellation.” "Enough," I snarled at my own reflection, the sound vibrating in the small, dark space of the hallway. I’m done missing her. “I’m a fighter. I’m a brother.” I took a deep breath. “I’m a goddamn liar.” I breathed out. I would miss her until I seen her beautiful face again. I turned toward Stevie’s door, the wood cool against my palm as I hesitated. I didn’t open it, but I could hear her through the panel—the soft, rhythmic cadence of a light snore. She had her final exams today. The thought grounded me for a split second, pulling me out of the fog. She was the one who needed to be steady today. She was the one with a future that didn't involve a cage or a blood-soaked canvas I stood there in the dark, a shadow guarding her sleep. This was the one truth I didn't have to lie about. I was the wall between her and everything that wanted to break her. I was the brother. But as I turned away and headed for the stairs, the image of those green eyes flickered back into my mind, as persistent as a heartbeat. "You’re a Binary Star in a single sky, Caleb—burning against a fortress you built yourself." Her voice drifted through my head, a lingering ghost of the last thing she’d said before driving into the desert. "But one day, the universe is going to hand you a song you can’t finish. You’ll realize some tethers aren’t made of rope. They’re the gravitational pull of a New Moon, dragging the tide of your soul whether you’re ready or not. And they don't give a damn about your armor. When the stars realign and I return from the dust, the Great Architect is going to put a choice in your hands—one that tastes like nectar and fire. And watch the horizon, Caleb. On the anniversary of your first breath, the cosmos is going to stop asking for permission. Something is coming for you, something even the Greek gods would fear to wrestle, and it’s going to break that fortress wide open." Those were the last words she said before she left and all I did was lean in and give her a quick, casual peck on the lips. "Keep your eyes on the horizon, Kenz" I’d joked, my voice steady even as my chest felt like it was being hollowed out. "You’re the one driving into the sun. Try not to miss me too much." I’d waved at her, a cocky, half-shrug of a gesture, watching the dust kick up behind her tires as she pulled away. It was a classic Caleb move—armor up, heart down. I’d played the part of the guy who didn't care, the guy who was too big and too solid to be moved by a girl chasing the stars. "I'm a goddamn liar," I muttered. Tomorrow was the anniversary of my first breath. My birthday. The date loomed over me like a deadline I hadn’t agreed to. Kenzie’s cryptic warning about the cosmos not asking for permission echoed in the back of my skull. “Something is coming for you,” she’d said. I wanted to believe it was just her usual celestial flair, but the way my skin felt too tight on my back seemed to tell a different story. Would she be back before the sun went down tomorrow? Before I had to pack Stevie into the truck and make the trek back to San Bernardino? “Focus.” I told myself, physically shaking my head to snap out of it and keep my attention to getting to the scrapyard. I headed down the steps, laced up my shoes, and grabbed my gear bag for the walk to the gym. I owned a truck, but I kept it parked. L.A. traffic was a special kind of hell I preferred to avoid. When we moved here from San Bernardino, we chose this spot for a reason: everything we needed was within a twenty-minute walk. It beat sitting in gridlock any day. The December wind felt like a low-grit sandpaper against my face. It was a Santa Ana breeze—warm in the day but bone-dry and biting before sunrise. It carried the scent of dry brush and exhaust, a restless wind that matched the thrumming energy in my limbs as I navigated the sleeping shadows of the block. The city was just waking up. Even without the sun, L.A. was breathing—a low, rhythmic thrum of distant tires on the 101 and the metallic clatter of a dumpster being emptied three blocks over. Every sound felt magnified, every vibration of the city echoing the internal roar I was trying to outrun. To anyone else, the 101 was just traffic; to me, it sounded like a heavy tide pulling at the shore. The Celestial Current, Kenzie would have called it. I shook the thought loose. I wasn't here for poetry. I was here for the heavy bag and the iron. I focused on the pavement, the solid, cracked reality of the sidewalk, and the way my shadow stretched long and distorted under the amber hum of the streetlights. Word was that several scouts would be cageside, looking for the next big thing. This was it—my chance to prove myself. I was sitting on a perfect record this year, and I had every intention of adding another win. I’d studied my opponent; he was as big as me, but he was older; more experienced. But lucky for me, unfortunate for him the guy had torn his ACL a year ago. If I could get a few well placed targeting kicks in, I’d be golden. I flexed my hand, the tension in my forearm mirroring the cold, calculated strategy in my head. In the cage, there’s no room for her star talk. There’s only physics and vulnerability. He had a weakness, a structural flaw in his foundation, and I was going to exploit it until the referee stepped in. That was the job. That was the reality of being a fighter. My pace quickened, my shoes striking the cold pavement with a new, aggressive rhythm as my destination finally came into view. I seen the rusted, skeletal sign of Oscar’s scrapyard ahead of me. The gym was housed in a cavernous, windowless warehouse that had once been an industrial relic of a different era. The exterior walls were a grim, weather-beaten grey, stained by decades of rainwater that had streaked the concrete like soot-colored tears. Graffiti crawled up from the foundation, vibrant tags of neon orange and white providing the only "life" left in the structure—a jagged contrast to the heavy, rusted steel doors that kept the city out. Inside, the hum of the city was replaced by the harsh, buzzing glare of overhead fluorescent lights. They flickered with a rhythmic, electric pulse, casting jagged shadows across the mismatched mats. Along the far wall, a row of cracked, salt-filmed mirrors stood like silent witnesses, reflecting every breath and every bead of sweat. There was no hiding here. The light was too sharp, the glass too honest. I dropped my gear bag on a rusted metal bench, the heavy thud swallowed by the hollow gut of the building. My reflection stared back from the silver-grey haze—a fighter with a perfect record and a heart that felt like it was being ground into the dust. I reached for my hand wraps, the iron constellation on my back feeling like a brand in the unforgiving light. Out there, I had to be the rock. I was the protector Stevie relied on, the steady man Mary Anne believed she had raised, and the unbreakable leader Adam looked up to every time he stepped into the cage. Out there, I was the example. But in here, under the hum of a city that didn't know I existed, I wasn't a hero. I was just the fuel for a fire I wasn't sure I could control.