Fairy Tail: Beneath a Falling Star

Chapter 10: "Steel Beneath the Sky"

Year X782

The road was less a road and more a suggestion—packed dirt winding through hills that bloomed with wildflowers and the occasional craggy outcrop. Caelion's boots crunched softly against the earth, his shadow stretching out before him under the late morning sun. The wind was sharp and cool, tasting of highland pine and distant rivers.

He hadn't spoken much since they left the market glade where Siren had appeared like smoke—offering mystery, blades, and riddles. The scimitars now hung from his belt in crisscrossed sheaths, the hilts brushing lightly against his hips with each step. He could still feel the warmth in them—not fire, but something old. Something alive.

Siren led the way, his stride fluid but never hurried. He didn't glance back to check if he was following. He didn't need to.

"So," he said at last, voice like wind over silver. "What do you think they are?"

"The scimitars?" Caelion asked, blinking up at him.

"No, the boots. Yes, the scimitars." He gave him a sideways look. "They're not just pretty steel. You can feel it. Can't you?"

He nodded slowly. "They hum. Not loud. Just… like they're listening."

Siren smiled. "Good. They remember their wielders. And now they're trying to remember you."

That answer didn't help, but Caelion didn't ask more. Not yet. Questions would come later. For now, he wanted to understand the rhythm of the road, the whisper of wind through ironwood trees, and the slow, steady beat of his own footsteps outside the only home he'd ever known.

They camped beneath an overhang just before dusk. The cliff curved like a natural wing, sheltering them from the breeze. Siren had gathered dry kindling in a sweep of his cloak and lit the fire with a flick of some unknown magic—a magic circle appeared first, and then flame blossomed from his fingertip like a candle wick catching light.

Caelion sat cross-legged, the blades beside him. He hadn't drawn them yet. Not fully.

"You're afraid," Siren said, chewing on a strip of jerky.

He didn't look up. "I'm cautious."

"A noble excuse. But you can't form a bond with weapons by treating them like relics. You have to bleed with them. Scar with them."

"I've trained with magic," he said. "Not weapons."

"Then it's time to train with both."

He stood. Without another word, he tossed him a worn leather strap. "Belt them properly. Your left blade should draw in a crescent across your front. The right can be reversed. Speed and fluidity, not strength. These aren't hammers. They're lightning."

Caelion hesitated, then did as instructed. The motion of belting the scimitars into a practiced X over his back felt awkward—but natural in a strange, dreamlike way. Like a song he half-remembered.

"Now," Siren said, stepping a few paces into the clearing. "Try to hit me."

Caelion blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. One strike."

He swallowed and drew the left blade. The sound was unlike anything he expected—like wind tearing through crystal. It gleamed, thin and curved, nearly singing in the light of the fire.

Caelion stepped forward and swung.

The motion was clean. Not perfect, but instinctual. The blade whistled through the air—until it stopped.

Siren caught it with two fingers.

Or rather—he redirected it. His hand had barely moved, but the edge missed him entirely, slicing through air beside him.

Caelion staggered forward, the blade too light to balance the momentum. He caught himself before falling face-first into dirt.

He clicked his tongue. "Good form. Bad follow-through. Don't swing to cut. Swing to end."

"Sounds intense," he muttered, pushing himself up.

He crouched beside him. "You've never had to need a blade. That's fine. But the world is bigger than fields and fairytales. There are things in Fiore that will tear through magic. Gods. Curses. Demons. Wounds you can't light away with sparkles and a prayer."

Caelion didn't flinch at his tone.

Because he was right.

He had relied on light and illusion. Star Dust Magic was beautiful, clever—but it wasn't enough. Not against what he dreamed of. What he feared.

Siren's voice softened. "Don't be ashamed of starting small. But don't stay small either."

The next few days passed like a waking dream.

Caelion's muscles began to ache from repetition. Siren was relentless. He trained him in patterns, footwork, balance. Sometimes he'd vanish mid-lesson—only to ambush him from a tree branch, testing his instincts. Other times, he'd just watch while he sparred against shadows cast by campfire light.

His nights remained his own. When Siren rested, he would still climb ridges and hills, letting the scimitars lie beside him while he whispered soft chants and gestures into the sky. Star Dust Magic remained faithful—a swirl of light in his palm, or a pulse of silver that danced across his fingertips.

But he couldn't help noticing something strange.

Whenever he practiced his magic near the swords… the light twisted.

Not badly. Not corrupted.

But… altered. Finer. Sharper.

Like the presence of the blades—like Siren herself—was shifting something deep inside him. Not changing who he was. But refining it.

One evening, as twilight rolled across the hills and stars began to peek through violet clouds, Siren handed him a cloth-wrapped parcel.

He opened it.

Inside was a dark coat, sleeveless and fitted with silver-lined seams. It shimmered faintly in the dusk.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Yours," he said. "To mark the end of our first march."

"Our… first?"

He tilted his head. "You didn't think I'd train you forever, did you?"

Caelion looked down at the garment.

It looked nothing like his old village rags. It was cut for movement, for the road. For something larger than where he'd come from.

He took a breath.

"I'm not ready."

"No one ever is," he said. "But you're not the same boy who looked up at stars hoping they'd answer. You've started burning too."

That night, he sat alone at the edge of the cliff.

The scimitars rested beside him. He stared up at the sky—not in longing, but in challenge.

The stars still didn't answer.

But they no longer ignored him either.

They watched.

And somewhere, deep inside, so did something else.

Something older.

Sleeping.

Waiting.