Fairy Tail: Beneath a Falling Star

Chapter 13 – Wings Beneath the Hollow Sky

Year: X782

The stars looked different on this side of the ridge.

Maybe it was just the altitude, or maybe the sky was playing tricks again, but Caelion lingered at the edge of the forest far longer than he meant to. He could see the village tucked between rolling hills, faint candlelight blinking from clay windows. Smoke from distant hearths curled into the dusk.

The wind had a gentler taste here, less salt, more pine. He should have gone down—should've shown the parchment the merchant gave him, found a place to rest.

But something in the air whispered otherwise.

He stepped away from the main path.

The trees were thinner here, scattered like watchful sentinels. Their branches swayed overhead as though brushing against invisible silk. He climbed a short rise and found a stone outcropping that jutted just far enough to overlook the woods like a throne made for stargazers. He sat cross-legged, his new coat rustling faintly behind him.

The wind stirred.

Not harsh. Not wild.

Gentle.

Like breath exhaled from the heavens.

He almost didn't notice her at first.

A figure, standing some distance downwind—too still to be lost, too calm to be dangerous. She stood among a patch of moon-kissed grass, as if she'd been waiting for something that had nothing to do with him.

She wore white and soft hues, layers that moved as if they were caught in a current no one else could feel. Her long hair shimmered in strands of silver, lavender, and dark plum, streaked with bold magenta that danced like comet trails. Twin plaits framed her face, and above her crown, faint feathered ornaments curved like wings, catching starlight.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

For a few breaths, they just watched each other, two fragments of separate skies meeting in the silence between stars.

Then she turned.

And walked away.

Not fast. Not as if fleeing. More like… drifting.

A soft, silent invitation.

Caelion followed.

They moved beyond the ridge into a clearing he hadn't seen on the map. A glade surrounded by tall, reedlike stalks that caught the wind and whispered with every pass. At the center was a stone circle, partly crumbled and worn by time—old, older than the village, maybe even older than the road he'd traveled.

The girl stepped into the center and sat, cross-legged and quiet.

He joined her, unsure why.

"Why were you watching me?" he finally asked.

"I wasn't," she said softly. "I was watching the sky."

Her voice was like drifting snow—soft, but not cold. Measured. As though every word she spoke had been chosen with careful intention.

Caelion tilted his head. "You knew I was there."

"I did."

"But you weren't watching me."

"Not all light needs watching."

He blinked at that. Her words lingered, like they were meant to unfold slowly, petal by petal.

"You're not from the village."

"No."

"Then where?"

"Where the wind doesn't carry names," she said, looking upward.

He followed her gaze. A sliver of the moon had risen, casting long silver shadows across the glade. The breeze tugged at her feathered ornaments, setting them gently swaying.

"…Are you a mage?" he asked.

She didn't answer right away. Then, with a small nod, she lifted her hand.

A single feather formed between her fingers—luminescent, faintly pulsing like a heartbeat. It floated upward, then burst into several soft fragments of light that twirled in the air before vanishing.

"Celestial Feather Magic," she whispered. "Or so the monks called it."

"Monks?"

Her gaze dropped. "I grew up somewhere far from here. They called it Aerystra. A temple above the clouds."

"Above…?" He blinked. "Like… floating?"

"Yes."

Caelion stared. Part of him wanted to say that sounded impossible. But then again, he was someone who hurled stars from his hands.

He sat forward slightly. "I've never heard of that place."

"You wouldn't have," she replied. "It's hidden. Even from maps. Even from time, sometimes."

Silence returned, brief but full.

She didn't speak like a child, but she wasn't an adult either. Her presence reminded Caelion of his own reflection sometimes—still, unsure, shaped by more than just years.

"I'm Caelion," he said, suddenly feeling the name mattered.

She didn't look surprised. "I know."

"You do?"

She touched her temple gently, then the air.

"Some winds whisper more than others."

He couldn't tell if that was a metaphor or if she really had heard his name carried on the breeze. It wouldn't surprise him if it were the latter.

She stood.

"Will you come back here?" he asked, before he could think about the question.

Seraphine turned. Her expression didn't change much—but he thought he saw a faint softening at the corners of her eyes.

"When the winds ask me to," she said. "Or when the stars align again."

And with that, she walked back into the reeds.

He wanted to follow, but when he stepped after her, he found nothing. No path. No movement. As if she'd dissolved into the moonlight.

Only a single feather remained—half-hidden in the grass, glimmering faintly like a fallen shard of sky.

He picked it up, and it was warm.

The Next Morning

The village welcomed him kindly.

The parchment helped, of course. The elder, a hunched man with a lantern jaw and quiet eyes, read it and simply nodded.

"You can stay," he said. "There's an old hut not far from the well. Empty since last spring. Yours for the night."

They gave him a bowl of root stew, crusted bread, and a blanket. He thanked them, though his thoughts remained back at the glade.

That feather still lay in his pocket.

That night, he stepped outside again.

He returned to the glade.

She wasn't there.

But the wind was different.

More aware.

And in the grass, where she'd once sat, he found something else:

A folded piece of parchment. Not aged, not worn—recent.

On it, written in thin, flowing ink:

"The sky speaks in more than light. Listen between the silences."

—S.L.

Caelion stood still, the stars wheeling overhead.

For the first time since leaving the village, he felt something stir beyond survival.

Not just curiosity.

Not just wonder.

But recognition.

Like one drifting soul had passed by another, and for a moment, both knew they weren't alone.