Heir to a Fallen Star

Chapter 9

The soft, golden rays of the morning sun filter through the cracks of the boarded-up windows, cutting through the fading shadows of the cottage. You open your eyes, the warmth of the hearth now reduced to a bed of glowing red embers, and lay perfectly still as the reality of the last few days crashes over you.

Your life is completely upside down.

Just a week ago, you were Iris the apothecary—quiet, guarded, and perfectly content in your isolation. You think about how much you've changed in such a short time. Normally, you would never let your guard down like this. The sheer weight of your family secret—the celestial bloodline, the star shard, the truth of what you really are—had turned you into a ghost in your own life. Keeping people at arm's length wasn't just a habit; it was a survival mechanism. The apothecary shop was your fortress. You buried yourself in the familiar rhythms of grinding dried roots, brewing elixirs, and blending herbs, speaking to the townspeople only when necessary. You had no family, no friends, and you had convinced yourself that was exactly how you liked it.

But Kaelen shattered that illusion.

You glance over at him, sleeping soundly nearby, his dark hair messy and his breathing slow and even. A man who had absolutely no reason to help a prickly apothecary had given up his crew, his reputation, and his safety just to keep you alive and get your star back. How could you not trust him? How could you not adore him when he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in a crumbling world?

Yet, as your hand instinctively drifts to the heavy velvet box hidden in your robe, a familiar cold knot of dread tightens in your chest.

There are still things about your past, about the true nature of the shard and what happens when its power is fully awakened, that you aren't ready to share. The truth is a heavy, dangerous burden. You stare at his relaxed, handsome face in the morning light, a terrifying thought echoing in your mind: If I tell him everything... if he finds out what I truly am and the danger that follows me... he might leave.

A floorboard creaks softly as Kaelen stirs, his long eyelashes fluttering open. His moss-green eyes find yours, instantly softening with that fierce, protective warmth as a sleepy, roguish smile touches his lips.

"Morning, gold-locks," he murmurs, his voice rough and deep with sleep. He stretches, wincing slightly as his muscles protest from the harbour swim. "You're awake early. Everything alright?"

You force a soft, slightly meek smile onto your lips, pushing the heavy, suffocating thoughts back into the shadows of your mind where they belong. Instead of letting the fear take hold, you lean forward and allow yourself to nestle completely into his warm embrace.

The moment his strong arms wrap securely around you, pulling you against the solid, steady beat of his chest, the anxiety melts away. It feels so incredibly safe. So profoundly right. You’ve spent your entire life in cold, calculated isolation, and you realize with sudden, fierce clarity that you have never felt this kind of pure, unconditioned affection before. How could you ever give it up now? The danger, the breathless thrill of the chase, the intoxicating excitement of the unknown, and this deep, magnetic longing for the man holding you—it has completely awakened you.

"I'm perfectly fine," you murmur into his chest, your voice gaining a bit of its usual playful spark. "I was just thinking that this lavender robe might not be the most practical attire for a lady on the run. I miss my leathers and my daggers."

Kaelen lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrates right against your cheek. He squeezes you tight, resting his chin on the top of your golden curls.

"Well, as much as I adore the velvet, gold-locks, I have to agree," he says, his tone shifting into that practical, sharp register of a thief planning his next move. "Running rooftops in a flowing gown is a quick way to break an ankle or get caught on a weather vane. And frankly, the city is going to be looking for an apothecary in a lavender robe."

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, a roguish, plotting glint returning to his moss-green eyes as he strokes your arm.

"Lucky for you, you're bunking with the best thief in the lower docks. I have a few trunks hidden in the back room with some spare gear—boots, sturdy trousers, and leather tunics from my younger days. They might be a bit loose on you, but nothing a tight belt can’t fix." He winks, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. "As for the daggers... I think I can scrounge up a blade or two. We can't have the legendary serpent-slayer walking around unarmed, can we?"

"We absolutely cannot. Perhaps I should cut my hair in order to change my appearance" I winced slightly as the words leave my mouth.

Kaelen’s smile falters slightly as he catches that quick, painful wince crossing your face. He looks up at your long, beautiful golden curls—the ones that catch the morning sun and look like spun starlight—and his expression turns incredibly gentle.

"Whoa, hey, let’s hold on a second before we do anything drastic," he says softly, his hand reaching up to catch a strand of your hair, twisting it gently around his finger. "I know we need a disguise, but cutting all of this off? That's a heavy price to pay, gold-locks."

He leans in closer, his moss-green eyes searching yours with absolute sincerity.

"Your hair is... well, it’s you. It’s beautiful," he murmurs, a rare touch of vulnerability softening his voice. "And as a professional thief, I can tell you that cutting it isn't our only option. The Guard is looking for a girl with long, flowing golden hair. But what if we just change how it looks? We can dye it a dark chestnut or a deep charcoal using some of the herbs and charcoal powder in my stash. Then we braid it tight against your head and tuck it under a traveller’s cap."

He offers you a reassuring, roguish smirk, trying to chase away the dread in your eyes.

"We change the colour, we change the clothes, and suddenly you're just a quiet, unassuming youth traveling with a ruggedly handsome mercenary," he teases, playfully nudging his shoulder against yours. "What do you think? Safehouse hair-dye job sound a little better than a butcher blade?" A sudden wave of pure relief pours over you, washing away the tight knot of dread that had formed in your throat. He was right. You didn't have to butcher your hair.

As a master apothecary, your brain instantly shifts from panic into pure, calculated formulation. Wild beetroot growing in the overgrown field outside, a jug of apple cider vinegar in the pantry to act as an acid mordant to open the hair shaft, and... yes, you just need a base oil to bind it all together and keep the mixture from drying out your curls.

You bolt upright, sitting yourself up so fast Kaelen blinks in surprise. The meek, worried girl from moments ago vanishes, replaced by a sudden burst of fierce enthusiasm and absolute readiness. Your grey eyes are wide and bright with a familiar, professional fire.

"Beetroot," you say breathlessly, a brilliant, triumphant smile breaking across your face. "I saw wild beetroot in the field when we ran in last night. Combined with the apple cider vinegar in your pantry, I can extract a deep, rich crimson-chestnut dye. It will completely mask the gold! Now, I just need a carrier oil—flaxseed, olive, even lard if we're desperate—to bind it."

Kaelen stares at you for a beat, completely captivated by the sudden, dazzling shift in your energy. A slow, enchanted grin spreads across his face as he shakes his head, leaning back on his elbows to look up at you.

"Gods, I love it when you get all mad-scientist on me," he chuckles, his moss-green eyes sparkling with adoration. "From terrified of a haircut to planning a botany expedition in three seconds flat. Yes, Your Alchemical Highness, I have a jar of olive oil in the cupboard. Consider the pantry yours."

He swings his legs out of the bed, stretching his arms with a sharp, satisfied grin. "You gather your ingredients, and I'll go dig through those old trunks to find you some proper leathers. Let's get to work, gold-locks. It's time to build your new identity."

Before Kaelen can even fully process the sudden burst of energy, you lean over, catch his stubbled chin in your hand, and plant a hasty, breath-taking kiss right on his lips.

By the time he blinks and lets out a breathless, startled laugh, you're already shuffling across the room. You throw back the heavy iron bolts, unlock the latches, and pull the door open. The cold, crisp morning air rushes into the warm cottage, brushing against your skin and making you shiver for a fraction of a second. But the alchemist in you is on a mission.

You step out onto the cool, wet grass, the freezing morning dew instantly kissing your bare feet. Marching straight toward the patch of wild beetroot, you drop to your knees. Without a second thought, you dig your fingers deep into the rich, dark earth. Mud caked under your fingernails, you rip the vibrant roots from the ground, gathering a massive, messy armful. By the time you head back inside, your beautiful lavender robe is thoroughly ruined—streaked with thick black mud and grass stains—but you couldn't care less.

You march straight into the kitchen area, dumping the haul onto the counter, and immediately get to work washing the dirt away and chopping the beetroot into fine, bleeding-red pieces. Within minutes, you are an absolute disaster. Your hands are stained a deep, violent crimson from the juices, your face has a streak of mud across the cheek, and your ruined robe completes the picture.

You pause, knife mid-air, and look over at Kaelen, suddenly realizing you're missing a crucial tool.

"Any chance you have a mortar and pestle in this wondrous abode of yours?" you ask, letting out a bright, self-deprecating chuckle as you gesture to yourself. "And... possibly a bath? I am a right mess, and it is only going to get worse."

Kaelen is leaning against the doorframe of the back room, a pair of dark leather trousers and a faded tunic slung over his shoulder. He takes one look at you—muddy, blood-red to your elbows, grinning like a mad woman—and just stands there for a moment, completely spellbound.

Then, a slow, incredibly fond smirk spreads across his face.

"You know, Iris, most high-born ladies on the run cry about their broken nails," he says, his moss-green eyes crinkling with absolute amusement as he walks over. He sets the clothes down and reaches into a lower cabinet, pulling out a heavy, beautifully carved stone mortar and pestle. "But you? You look like a beautiful, terrifying woodland gremlin who just survived a battlefield. I love it."

He places the stone mortar on the table with a soft clink, then points toward the small, curtained alcove in the very back of the cottage.

"As for the bath... no running palace water, I'm afraid. But there's a large copper tub back there. I'll get the fire roaring under the water iron, pump a few buckets from the well, and have a hot soak ready for you by the time you're done mashing your murder-roots."

He steps in close, completely ignoring the mud and red juice, and uses the pad of his thumb to gently wipe a speck of dirt off the tip of your nose. "Just promise me you won't accidentally poison us with whatever else you find out in that field, alright?"

"No promises," you say, flashing him a grin of pure, mischievous excitement before turning back to your work.

You throw yourself into the process, muscles burning slightly as you work the heavy stone pestle, breaking a light sweat as you grind the beetroot down to a perfectly fine, bleeding pulp. You mix in the sharp apple cider vinegar and the rich olive oil, watching the concoction transform into a deep, glossy, jewel-toned crimson paste.

Using a small wooden comb, you begin slathering the thick clumps of the mixture onto your hair, working methodically from your roots down to the very tips of your long strands. Once your head is completely saturated and heavy with the crimson pulp, you gather the messy weight of it up and make your way toward the back alcove where the copper tub sits, steaming beautifully in the morning light.

Before stepping behind the heavy canvas privacy curtain, you turn back to look at Kaelen. He’s standing by the hearth, leaning casually against the stone mantel with a look of pure, fascinated amusement.

You flash him a wicked, completely unapologetic smile.

"Don't think you're getting a show here," you tease, your grey eyes dancing. "Although I do find you incredibly alluring, we've only known each other a few days. A lady needs her privacy."

Kaelen’s jaw drops slightly, a sharp splash of colour instantly hitting his cheeks at the word alluring. He lets out a breathless, choked laugh, coughing into his hand to try and regain his trademark composure.

"I—a show? Me?!" he stammers playfully, putting a hand over his heart in mock offense, though his moss-green eyes are practically melting with affection. He quickly recovers his roguish smirk, crossing his arms and leaning back. "My dear apothecary, I am a gentleman of the highest order. I would never dream of peeking. Besides, I'm not entirely sure I want to tangle with a 'woodland gremlin' covered in what looks like the blood of my enemies."

He chuckles, gesturing toward the curtain.

"Go on, get in the tub before the water gets cold. I’ll stay right out here and guard the door. Take your time, gold-locks... or, well, whatever colour you're about to be."

The sweet, floral scent of jasmine cuts through the sharp tang of the apple cider vinegar the moment you drop the white blossoms into the steaming tub. You shed the ruined, muddy velvet robe and slowly sink into the copper basin.