Fairy Tail: Beneath a Falling Star

Chapter 9: The Road Between Stars

Year X782

The village was already a blur in the distance.

Caelion stood at the top of the hill that marked the outer edge of the valley, the wind tousling his hair as he looked back one last time. The thatched roofs were little more than smudges against the morning fog, the barn he'd slept in a speck of brown among greener fields. From up here, it all looked peaceful. Small. Unchanging.

And yet, everything had changed.

He adjusted the strap of his satchel, the weight of supplies oddly light compared to the heaviness in his chest. Food, water, two worn books, and a rough map of Fiore with half the markings faded—everything he owned fit in that bag. Everything else was memory.

The stars above were pale ghosts against the rising sun, fading with the dawn. But he still felt them. Watching. Distant. Waiting.

"Alright," Caelion whispered to himself. "Let's see what you've really been waiting for."

He took the first step down the other side of the hill.

The roads outside the valley were wild, winding through stretches of open meadow and dense thickets. Birds cried overhead, and bugs danced in the morning air. With every footfall, the world seemed to widen—colors brighter, sounds sharper, the wind carrying scents he'd never known in the village.

It was liberating. And terrifying.

He followed the river that wound eastward, using it as a guide while checking his map. According to the charcoal marks scribbled in the margins, there was a trading path nearby—a route used by merchants traveling between scattered frontier towns. He hoped to find it by evening.

Magic training continued even here. Every hour or so, Caelion stopped to practice. He conjured flickers of light from his fingertips, tiny orbs that pulsed and dimmed like fireflies. A slow dance of practice—refining his control, shaping the sparkles into spirals, discs, faint projectiles that shimmered for a second too short.

It was far from perfect. But it was progress.

He reached a crossroads by midafternoon. A weathered signpost stood crooked in the dirt, one arm pointing toward "Oak Town," the other toward "Tarrin's Pass." And beneath it, tracks. Wagon ruts. Deep and fresh.

He wasn't alone out here.

Caelion knelt to examine the ground—at least three carts, maybe more. Hoofprints accompanied them. He hesitated only a moment before following.

The trail led him to a clearing not far from the road, where a small caravan of wagons had pulled off beneath the shade of tall birch trees. Merchants and their guards bustled about, unpacking crates, tending to tired horses, or lighting a fire for the evening meal. The air smelled of travel-dust, oilcloth, and spices.

Caelion approached carefully, heart thudding. His boots crunched faintly on dry leaves. One of the guards—a burly man with a scar across his jaw—glanced his way but said nothing.

A voice called out. "Well now, who's this?"

A man stepped forward from the largest wagon, his robes dyed in warm tones of deep green and saffron. He was lean, maybe in his thirties, with a salt-and-pepper beard and clever eyes that sparkled behind round glasses. He looked more scholar than salesman, but something about him felt… practiced. Balanced. Like a sword in disguise.

"I'm just passing through," Caelion said, a little more defensive than he meant.

The man smiled. "No need to be shy. The road's long, and company's rare." He gestured toward a crate. "Sit. Share the fire."

Caelion hesitated. Then nodded.

As twilight deepened, the merchant introduced himself as Siren, a traveler of wares, oddities, and "small things with big stories."

He didn't press Caelion about where he came from, nor why a boy barely taller than the crates carried magic at his fingertips. Instead, he spoke of trade routes and seasonal winds, of towns built in trees and villages carved into cliffs. He told a story about a fox that tried to sell a chicken a fake magic ring.

Caelion laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks.

Later, as the fire burned low and the stars began to return to the sky, Siren reached into his wagon and pulled out a case wrapped in black silk.

"You've got the eyes of someone waiting for something," he said, undoing the ties.

Caelion blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You carry magic like a question that hasn't been answered yet." Siren opened the case with a whisper of fabric.

Inside lay two scimitars, curved like moon crescents, each wrapped in fine cloth. Their hilts were dark metal—obsidian or something older—and faint constellations shimmered along their blades, barely visible unless the firelight hit them just right.

"They're… beautiful," Caelion breathed.

Siren nodded. "Crafted by a smith who claimed to dream of the stars. He forged them during a meteor storm, or so the story goes. The edge never dulls. The weight shifts to the wielder's will. But most who hold them say they feel nothing at all."

"Because they weren't meant for them?"

"Maybe. Or maybe because they weren't listening."

Caelion didn't realize his hand had reached out until his fingers hovered over the blade.

"Go ahead," Siren said.

The moment his fingertips brushed the hilt, a pulse of light flickered through the carvings. Faint. But real. Like stardust reacting to a whisper it finally heard.

Caelion's breath caught.

"They're not for sale," Siren said softly. "But I think… they might have been waiting for you."

Caelion looked up. "Why me?"

Siren shrugged. "Some blades choose their bearer. Some stories ask to be lived. You'll know soon enough."

He tied the case shut and handed it to Caelion without another word.

That night, Caelion didn't sleep. He sat beside the fire as the others slumbered, the case resting across his knees. The weight was strange—neither heavy nor light, but right, like a piece of himself had been missing until now.

He stared up at the stars, brighter here than they'd ever been back in the village.

And for the first time, he felt them watching not with silence, but with intention.

As if they had begun to notice him too.