Heir to a Fallen Star

Chapter 35

"I guess we're not making it to our destination tonight," you say, a bitter note of disappointment cutting through your words. "The storm has other plans for us."

Kaelen steps close, his massive hand coming up to rest gently on the side of Marigold’s neck, his moss-green eyes searching your face one last time to ensure you are truly back. The frustration on your face seems to ease some of the lingering tension in his broad shoulders.

"The mountains don't care about our timelines, Red," he rumbles softly, his deep voice a grounding anchor against the howling wind. "But a delayed hunt is better than a frozen one. We survive the night in the watchtower, let the storm clear the air, and we hit the trail at first light. Your father's ghosts aren't going anywhere."

He gives Marigold a firm, encouraging pat, then turns and vaults back into his own saddle with fluid, practiced ease.

You swing your leg over Marigold, the snug brown leather of your new pants gripping the saddle perfectly. The mare gives a reassured shake of her mane, completely steady now that your hands are firm on the reins again.

With Kaelen leading the way into the swirling white, you push your horses forward into the teeth of the gale, leaving the memory of the tavern far behind as you fight your way toward the stone refuge.

The old stone watchtower looms out of the swirling whiteout just as your fingers are beginning to go entirely numb. It is exactly as Kaelen described—a rugged, weathered relic of some forgotten border war, missing its eastern wall entirely but offering three thick, solid barriers of granite against the screaming mountain wind.

Moving with frantic, synchronized urgency, you and Kaelen lead the shivering horses inside the deepest corner of the structure. Together, you strip their saddles and work quickly to weatherproof them. You wrap them tightly in their heavy traveling blankets, using your bodies and the stacked pack saddles to create a makeshift windbreak that pens them in safely beside you, ensuring their massive bodies share in the collective warmth.

Next comes the fire. With the wind howling like a wounded beast just feet away, Kaelen uses his heavy hunting blade to shave down dry kindling from a few preserved logs left behind by long-dead rangers. You strike the flint, your hands shaking slightly from the residual chill, until a small, fragile orange tongue of flame catches the wood.

The smoke rises, catching in the draft of the weathered wooden plank roof, but the heat is immediate, casting a flickering, primal glow against the ancient stone.

You collapse into the nest of blankets and cloaks you’ve built right beside the hearth. Kaelen wastes no time sliding in behind you. He wraps his massive arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad chest, burying his face into the side of your neck to shield himself from the draft.

A fierce, violent gust of wind slams into the watchtower, rattling the old wooden roof planks above your heads and sending a flurry of white snow skittering across the stone floor just inches from your feet. You shiver, pulling Maeve’s velvet-lined cloak tightly over both of you, tucking your freezing hands into the warmth of Kaelen’s new leather jacket.

"We made it," Kaelen rumbles against your skin, his deep voice vibrating right through your back, a soothing contrast to the storm outside. He squeezes you tighter, his large hands rubbing your arms to bring the circulation back. "Drink in the heat, Red. We aren't moving an inch until the sun breaks tomorrow."

The silence between you stretches for a long time, filled only by the rhythmic popping of the campfire and the violent, angry shrieks of the wind tearing at the mountain peaks. Against your back, Kaelen’s breathing is slow and deep, his steady heartbeat a comforting thud against your shoulder blades.

You stare into the dying embers, the questions that have been brewing all day finally refusing to be contained any longer.

"Kaelen?" you whisper softly, your voice small against the roaring storm. "Are you still awake?"

"Hmm," he rumbles, a low, sleepy vibration against your neck. His arms tighten just a fraction around your waist, pulling you closer into his warmth.

"I can't sleep," you admit, shifting slightly. "The storm is too angry..." You swallow hard, staring at the flickering orange light on the stone wall before bracing yourself. "Do you... do you remember your parents?"

The massive warrior goes completely still behind you. The easy, relaxed rhythm of his breathing hitches for a split second before settling back into a heavy, deliberate pace. The silence returns, heavy and thick, and for a moment you wonder if he’s going to ignore the question entirely—or if the memory is a place he doesn't like to go.

Then, he lets out a long, slow breath that stirs the golden hairs at the nape of your neck.

"Aye," he says, his gravelly voice dropping into a quiet, solemn register that cuts right through the howling wind. "I remember them. Not like a dream, either. Clear as day."

He shifts his weight, resting his chin gently on your shoulder so he can look out at the fire with you. "My father was a blacksmith in the lowlands. Smelled like charcoal, sulphur, and stale ale most days. He had hands twice the size of mine, calloused rough enough to sand wood, but he was... gentle. Unbelievably gentle. And my mother..." A faint, rare softness touches his gruff tone. "She was a weaver. She had a laugh that could carry across a crowded market square. Used to sing these terrible, sweeping tavern ballads while she worked the loom just to make him smile."

He pauses, his fingers idly tracing the dark brown leather of your new jacket where it rests over your ribs.

"They're gone now. Fever took them both when I was just a lad, barely old enough to swing a stick," he says quietly, with the blunt acceptance of a man who processed his grief a lifetime ago. He squeezes you a little tighter, his chest pressing firm against your back. "I didn't have a magic tea to wipe my mind, Red. Just a cold house and an empty forge. Why do you ask?"

“You had told me once that your captain found you on the streets of the lower docks, as a child, i wanted to know how that came about... Do you mind telling me about your time with the captain?”

The fire pops loudly, throwing a shower of orange sparks into the dark air of the watchtower. Kaelen is silent for a long moment, the only sound between you being the heavy wind rattling the old wooden roof planks above.

"Aye," he says softly, his gravelly voice dropping even lower, rich with a deep, nostalgic reverence. "I can tell you."

He shifts his weight slightly, pulling you a bit tighter against him as if the memory itself brings a chill.

"After the fever took my folks, the landlord didn't care that I was just a lad. He threw me out of the forge before the graves were even settled," he begins, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. "I ended up in the lower docks. If you’ve never been, Red, it’s a meat grinder for a child. I spent two years begging, stealing scraps from fishmongers, and fighting older boys for a dry patch of cobblestone under the piers. By the time I was twelve, I was half-starved, covered in filth, and angry at the whole damn world."

He lets out a low, rough chuckle, though there's no humour in it—only memory.

"The Captain found me because I tried to pick his pocket," Kaelen confesses, a faint smirk touching his lips against your shoulder. "A stupid mistake. He was twice my size, wearing a fine navy doublet and a broadsword that could have cut me in two. I managed to slip his coin purse, but before I could run, his hand clamped down on my wrist like an iron vice."

Kaelen pauses, his thumb idly tracing a soothing circle on your waist.

"I braced for the beating. Usually, guards or merchants would break a couple of your ribs and leave you in the gutter. But the Captain didn't strike me. He just looked down at me with these piercing blue eyes, looked at my ribs sticking out through my torn shirt, and said, 'If you're going to steal from a military man, lad, at least learn how to move without stepping on your own shadow.'"

You can hear the profound gratitude in Kaelen's chest as he breathes out.

"He didn't turn me in. He dragged me by the collar to a tavern, bought me the biggest bowl of stew I’d ever seen, and told me I was joining his crew. He said he had no use for a thief, but he could always use a boy with quick hands and nothing left to lose. He gave me a bunk, a clean uniform, and a purpose. He taught me how to fight, how to survive, and how to be a man of honour instead of a rat in the dark."

He leans his forehead gently against the side of your head, the fierce protective weight of him wrapping around you.

"He saved my life, Iris. Plain and simple. He became the father I lost. So, when the time comes for us to face whatever is chasing you... you should know that I learned how to protect the people I love from the absolute best."

You pull yourself even closer against his chest, a soft, aching gasp slipping from your lips at the thought of him as a terrified, starving twelve-year-old fighting for scraps under the frozen piers. You wish with everything in you that you could reach back through time and take that pain away from him.

Kaelen feels the sudden, fierce shift in your posture. He welcomes it, wrapping his massive arms completely around you, burying his face deeper into the curve of your neck as if your warmth is the only shield he needs against those old ghosts.

But as your words settle into the quiet of the watchtower, a heavy, profound stillness falls over his broad frame.

"How is it that a military man of his stature turned into the bandit he is today?" you ask softly, confusion and a faint trace of horror colouring your voice. "You said he raised you to be a thief, and that life with them was a life not worth living... He went from someone honourable to that?"

Kaelen lets out a long, ragged breath that rattles in his chest. The silence that follows is so absolute you can hear the sharp crack of the dying fire cutting through the howling wind.

"The crown is a poison, Iris," he says, his gravelly voice dropping into a dark, hollow register you've never heard before. "The Captain didn't just wake up one day and decide to become a monster. He was broken by the very kingdom he bled for."

He shifts, his chin resting heavily on your shoulder as his moss-green eyes stare into the glowing embers, reflecting a deep, ancient bitterness.

"Ten years ago, we were sent into the Northern Wastes to put down a rebellion. It was a political slaughter, Red. We were told we were protecting the realm, but when we got there... it was just farmers. Women. Children. Men defending their soil from a greedy king who wanted their mineral rights. The Captain refused the order to burn the winter stores. He refused to let a village of innocents starve to death in the snow."

Kaelen's grip on your waist tightens, his knuckles turning white.

"The high command didn't just court-martial him. They branded him a traitor. They stripped him of his rank, his lands, his name, and they slaughtered his family while he was forced to watch in chains. They took everything that made him a man of honour, threw him in the deepest dungeon, and left him to rot."

A low, dangerous rumble builds in Kaelen's chest.

"I broke him out. Me and three other men who were loyal to him, not the crown. But the man who walked out of that dungeon wasn't the Captain who bought a starving boy a bowl of stew. That man died in the dark. The ghost that walked out... he only cared about survival. And vengeance."

Kaelen pauses, his voice cracking slightly with a heavy, tragic grief.

"He turned us into a syndicate because he wanted to bleed the kingdom dry. He targeted royal shipments, noble caravans, tax collectors. At first, it felt like justice. But anger like that... it’s a sickness, Red. It rots you from the inside out. Over the years, the lines blurred. 'Survival' turned into greed. 'Vengeance' turned into cruelty. He started taking contracts from dark people for dark things. He stopped caring who got hurt, so long as the gold kept flowing and the crown kept bleeding."

He leans his forehead firmly against yours, his eyes locking onto yours with a desperate, fierce intensity.

"That's why I had to leave, Iris. That's why I couldn't stay. Because I looked in the mirror one day and realized the boy he saved from being a rat in the dark... had just become a different kind of monster. I loved him like a father. But I couldn't let his darkness swallow me whole."

"You never told me you fought in the war as a soldier, I don’t think i could ever picture you as a man in uniform fighting under someone’s command, taking orders..."

A soft, entirely breathless chuckle shakes Kaelen’s broad chest, the dark, heavy tension of the memory breaking just enough for a bit of his usual rugged warmth to peek through.

"Aye, well, it wasn't exactly a perfect fit, Red," he rumbles, a faint, self-deprecating smirk brushing against your ear. "The uniform was always too tight across the shoulders, and I spent more time scrubbing latrines for backtalk than I did actually marching in formation."

He shifts his weight, pulling the heavy velvet-lined cloak higher over your shoulders to seal out a sudden, violent draft that whistles through the wooden planks above. His large hands rest flat against your stomach, grounding and solid.

"I never cared about the King, or the flag, or the glorious empire," he says quietly, his voice dropping into that honest, gravelly register that always makes your chest tighten. "I only wore the armour because the Captain asked me to. I followed him, not the crown. When you’re a stray kid pulled out of the gutters, you don't look a gift horse in the mouth—if he told me to stand in a line and hold a pike, I held the damn pike."

He pauses, his moss-green eyes reflecting the low, dying orange embers of the hearth as he looks down at you, his expression softening into something fierce and entirely devoted.

"But you're right. I’m no good at taking orders anymore," he murmurs, his thumb idly tracing the soft leather of your new jacket. "I spent the first half of my life living under someone else's command, and the second half running from the mess it made. I swore I’d never let anyone else call the shots for me again."

He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, his breath hot against your hair.

"Except for you, Captain," he whispers playfully, a trace of that wicked, familiar charm returning to his voice. "You're the only one I'm willing to follow into the dark now. So, where are we steering this ship tomorrow?"