Sometimes the stars visited in fire and rock and for a night we fluttered a little nearer to heaven.

Down here, while you rested belly-down on some harsh slab, the stars could almost be painted on a shell, and whatever numinous world they limned could well be an existence apart. Most times it was.

Dusk dwindled away, and the stars were settling down. I thought they’d be as bright and beautiful as ever. Below them, though, as some dark blue dot on some crumbly butte in some forgotten spate of cliffs in the vasty night, I stared up and couldn’t keep the dew from my fangs. Couldn’t not wonder just how we connected to this infinite sky under which two dragons could die, without it even flinching.

A bright white rock was up there, burning its way across the dusk like an arrow sped from some forgotten bow. The night sky was vast and aimless; but then like to a cynosure you could look up, and see that heavensent rock flying right there as it crossed the threshold of worlds, unbarred and unbourned, yet swift on some unknown mission.

I saw it, and I smiled.

When the meteors came, every year, it was a hallowed time; the star season would lift anyone’s spirit.

And so, craning my head up, clearing my eyescales, and gazing at that seeking star, I let my worries and despair take a step back and let myself wonder like a stargazer. Who was this meteor? What did she seek? Where might she light?

The Severance of Earth and Sky was pockmarked with exceptions, and one of those permitted sky-dwellers to recover sacred meteors. With a laxer penalty, that was. This one would doubtless be too small, not worth it.

I let that thought take a step back, too. Every meteor was a little piece of heaven, and this one, it shined its light, for me, after a absolute storm of a day, and right now, that meant more than even the wanion fireball we wrenched from the ocean in 545.

Despite everything that had happened (and everyone it happened to...), this was a night like all the others, spent atop a cliff, the stars in my eyes. For the heavens, nothing had changed, and maybe for me⁠ ⁠—

You heard the rub of a scroll furling up, and then rough threads tied tight. Some deep murmuring. It was Hinte. I glanced over at the darkgreen wiver, and like that some words fell into the quiet:

“My aunt told me Stellaine comes down on meteors like that.” I waved at it. “Like a gift from the Cloud Constructor, something to make life more beautiful.” It was a gift that House Specter had twisted toward manipulation and deception⁠ ⁠—⁠ because of course they did.

Hinte spoke bristly and quiet, like she wanted the silence to stay. She said, “Do you believe that?”

“Of course!”

She shook her head. “There are no gods, Kinri.” Her scroll fell into her bag.

“What!” I looked at the darkgreen wiver, stared a bit. “How can you say that?”

Hinte still stared out at the horizon, at the sun draining away.

I looked up. Then I glanced back. “If there’s no Cloud Constructor, then how do you explain all of this?” I waved my wing all around. “Why are there⁠ ⁠—⁠ why is the sky beautiful?”

She hisslaughed. “It is a mess.”

A mess. I gaped, and the alchemist just regarded me, her lips upturnt slightly. I turned around, drew my wings across my breast.

“Okay,” I started. “So you’re a blasphemer, and you hate stars. Fine. Of course.” I clouded my eyes for a beat, and let a smirk or smile play on my lipscales. I said, “If we’re sharing embarrassing secrets, well, once I thought I looked good in a bright red dress. No one said anything for a whole day!” I covertly, under a wing, glanced back at Hinte hoping for⁠ ⁠—⁠ I wasn’t sure what.

But she still looked at the sunset, and kept silent. Her lips moved like in prayer.

On the butte, behind us, the two tiny trees were now burning down to ashes. All the scrolls lay in her bag. Our lunch was bones.

Hinte shifted. Frill held in foot, she relented and added, her voice like early flowers, "...Sometimes, I still pray. To Hazer, or to Regene. Mother⁠ ⁠—⁠ Haune believed. Had believed. It is⁠ ⁠—⁠ a habit.”

“Still a blasphemer.” I blew my tongue. “The Cloud Constructor reigns high.”

“Over more than clouds?” Her flicked tongue twirled in the air.

“Err, it’s kind of a twist in translation. In Käärmkeili it means more than clouds. Every high floaty peaceful thing. Every cloudly thing.”

“Then why not say that? Why translate it to y Draig?” A tossed head.

“Because it’s... political? Important names are translated. I’m a Specter, and not a Kummitus. It’s supposed to be universal. So it’s House Locrian instead of House Ristiriinen, Cynosure instead of Huomion Tähti, Selcouth instead of⁠ ⁠—”

At that Hinte jerked her head. “Selcouth?” She saw me nod, and slowly said, “Tell me what that is.”

"...It’s a⁠ ⁠—⁠ weird house. With weird dragons. Always bagged up in heavy cloaks, never walking the street without a path clearing for them. They take the best tables at all the balls, and the next-to-best too, because no one will sit near them. They never show up to summits. They don’t have an estate. I don’t even know who their Zenith is!”

Hinte had a subtle face throughout all, frowning like when seeing that first human.

I waved my tongue. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she quickly said. Before adding, “Your naming scheme is tongueless.” She clouded her eyes, muttered, “Sky-dwellers.”

“Forest-dwellers,” I rebutted. “Mother always said you were godless. Why are you like that?”

Once again looking at the horizon, she said, “Unlike the sky or anyone else, we are⁠ ⁠—⁠ we were free thinkers. We did not let a church cower us into submission.”

I flinched at the jaggedness of her tone. She’d been bristly before now, but this was another step. Had I pushed her too far?

“So um,” I started. "...What do you pray for?”

She didn’t speak for a bit. With a glance, she frowned at me, and looked away. “You would not like it.”

“So? Tell me. We’re friends. No secrets?”

“Many things. Different things.” The wiver shifted, and one foreleg fell over the other.

“Okay. Were you praying earlier? I was.” No response. “I can share what I prayed for first. I... was hoping those guards find solace somewhere beyond. It was⁠ ⁠—⁠ I don’t know why they had to die.”

“I do,” she growled.

“Why, then?”

She shook her head. “It was right in front of you.”

“Fine. What did you pray for, Hinte?”

Staring at the horizon, now. A sigh. “It was not a prayer. It was a promise.”

“Hinte, what did⁠ ⁠—”

“I will tell you tomorrow.” She stood up wings wide, muttering something that could’ve been, “I hope you’ll forgive me.” She was crouching to leap.

“Hinte-gyfar, you said you wouldn’t walk away again.”

“I did.” Still crouched.

“So I want to come with you, whatever you’re doing.”

Hinte paused, folded her wings. On her lips a thoughtful frown bloomed. Then she flared wings anyway, and without turning said, “Did you not already tell Mawla you would be with her this evening?”

I⁠ ⁠—⁠ did. She was expecting me. Was I an awful friend? Would she hate me now?

“Oh no.”

----------------------------------------

This could have been⁠ ⁠—⁠ should have been⁠ ⁠—⁠ my first enjoyable flight all day. Not to be tainted by nervousness (of being late to Hinte’s), or dread (of what Adwyn really wanted), or anticipation (of trudging through the Berwem again) or sheer panic (of chasing the thieves).

Instead, it was all of them.

It could have been the end of any other day, and I could have just been flying, winging out to the cliffs southern to relax and gaze the stars. I wanted it to be like that.

I did this every night. Sure, Mawla would be there, but that should have made it better. I could relax around Mawla, and not worry if I measured up to some invisible standard. She already thought I was cool, and not even knowing my boring day job or seeing Hinte⁠ ⁠—⁠ more heroic than me by far⁠ ⁠—⁠ could change that.

But smelling me late and tasting that I didn’t seem to care at all⁠ ⁠—⁠ could that ruin it?

I’d already had enough practice this evening: I let the worry step back. Now I looked down instead of up, at the houses and mesas blurring below.

The south gate stood on the far side of a neighborhood, and you could only call that neighborhood colorful. While the ridges had their businesses in Gwymr/Frina, rare was the mountain-dweller actually living in the cliffs; but all of them seemed to end up here, on the south side. The canyons seemed to hesitate in sending over anything save advisers or diplomats; but when those dragons deigned their way north, all of them seemed to end up here, on the south side. And while news never left the land of frost and flame, sometimes dragons did; yet, as if the ash-dwellers wouldn’t go farther north than needed, they too ended up here, on the south side.

Yet looking down at the dragons right now escaping the twilight, you didn’t forget that this was Gwymr/Frina. The crowd was in the key of brown and red. But like spices, mixed in were the dragons only at home on the south side: the mottled grays of the odd mountain-dwellers, the faded oranges of the canyon-dwellers, the blacks or bright whites of ash-dwellers. There was one dragon whose scales were lightgreen.

You would think I’d live here. You’d think it’d be easier to light down, and brandish my fittingly unfamiliar scales. You’d think I’d belong here and not in the sterile, rootless center.

I hope you’d make that mistake, because I had.

The south side saw me visit three times: first for somewhere to sleep, then somewhere to work, then for someone to talk to. I’d learned the same thing each time: the south side was still Gwymr/Frina.

Canyon-dwellers were just cliff-dwellers with higher stances and lower views of everyone else; the ash-dwellers wouldn’t even speak to me (Uvidet excepted); and the mountain-dwellers seemed okay, but there was a reason Digrif always asked me to make his deliveries to the south side.

(And no, I hadn’t ever tried talking to the forest-dweller. There were stories about forest-dwellers. They couldn’t all be like Hinte. And that one had a necklace of bones so I definitely didn’t want to find out more.)

In the south end, no one stepped too close to me, I started every conversation, and the prices I got at shops were dubious. That all doesn’t sound that bad, and it wasn’t⁠ ⁠—⁠ as far as I knew, that was just how Gwymr/Frina was.

Then I’d seen them.

The dragons in green robes lived in the south end.

I hadn’t lighted here since.

Breathe. I was treshing hard, wings vaulting me high over the south end. I had buried my worries about Mawla only to dig up old ones. Breathe, Kinri.

The south gate was coming up, and down in front the guards were up in monitoring stands. Looking at me.

Angling my wings, I went down. Now, I could just fly on past to the cliffs southern, but then the guards would scurry after me and ask questions. Easier this way.

(In truth, leaving the town unrecorded at all was an offense, but you needed my kind of luck to get caught. Like the crime of crossing a skycart lane while carts flew by, it was petty. But I had a certain tendency to be noticed by the guards anyway.)

The road winding up to the south gate sunk a little into the ground, like a lazy gully. It widened quite a bit just before the gate, and it gave you an adequate landing.

I flapped twice to soften my descent, and fell down on hindlegs before the gate. It wasn’t the shieldlike Berwem gate, and it wasn’t the welcoming, flaunting main gate. It was the south gate.

Down in front were two plain-dwellers, one standing by the pulley’s rope, the other, still on his hindlegs in a monitoring stand, still staring down at me, scales still chocolate brown. His frills were working⁠ ⁠—⁠ not writhing, not yet. Hello, Ffrom. Were you reassigned?

He said, “You.”

I knew how I dealt with the drake last time, and after dealing with Adwyn, I reached for the Specter poise, put an icy chill in my voice and spoke like the clouds:

“Me.” I gave him a smile. “Surprised to see you still with a red sash. Seems Rhyfel swallowed your lies, too.”

“No. Rhyfel swallowed youse’s nonsense about a conspiracy. To think I’d be shackled for doing my job⁠ ⁠—⁠ to think I dodged Wydrllos just ‘cause that sleepy faer needs more guards.” He popped his tongue, jabbed the other guard with a wing. “Some bleeding ship Mlaen’s running, ain’t it.” The other guard shrugged his wings, kept chewing something black.

“I don’t think doing your job was ever the problem. You did it poorly. Even I can guard a dead human.”

“Well, when Aurisiuf himself lights down before you, we’ll see if you have my kind of guts. I chased the thieves to their hideaway, I fought them to a stalemate while big Rhyfel and your squirrel friend were takin their time, and for my trouble I got a building burnt⁠ ⁠—”

“You are the reason the thieves could act at all!” I lifted my head up, drew my wings for composure.

“I was the⁠ ⁠—”

“Hey,” the other guard cut in. He spat out his tobacco. “Y’all think you can argue up and down on your own time? I’m done with hearing it.”

“I only wish to enter the cliffs southern.” I looked between the two, the wings of a plan starting to open.

“And I ought to deny you. What will you stir in the cliffs after that dire nonsense in the market? On the heels of two other drafty figures, no less.”

“N–Nonsense?” My voice frayed, and my head fell. I tried to lift it high. “I am a hero. I helped save the town today! You ought to let me in for that alone.”

“What utter help. I fancy to recall you dropping your knife at the net like a fool. At best you were a stuttering courier for Adwyn. A whelp purporting as a hero.”

“I⁠ ⁠—” There was a sourness on my fangs, and my head fell low. My tail was coiling round my hindlegs, and my forelegs bent. It wasn’t all an act⁠ ⁠—⁠ how dare he, was he right?⁠ ⁠—⁠ but I leant into it. And in the corner of my eye, I looked at the other guard. But Ffrom kept speaking, digging himself a hole.

“Can’t deny it, is what. You’re not the hero, you’re just the dumb skink who enables the villain. If youse had just handed them over last night, none of that dire nonsense in the market had to happen. Truly⁠ ⁠—”

“Truly, you need to spit the fuck off, Ffrom. You’re a guard, not a rambling drunk. You ain’t got no reason to stomp on this little wiver, and you ain’t got no reason to detain her. Keep your frustrations to yourself.”

I looked up to that plain-dweller guard reaching for his bag of rank chew, and gave him some appropriately watery smile. Internally, on the Specterly part of my mind, a smirk unrolled itself.

Ffrom, meanwhile, spat his tart venom and flapped away. He sat himself atop the gate, looking down on me like a little hatch.

I took a breath, signed my name on the exit scroll beneath one ‘Alwam’, and went through gate half striding, half flying.

Mawla had told me she’d be here, but not where. So I took flight over the cliffs southern, peering down every butte. It was a view worth a painting. The ravines here didn’t cut as deep as those leading to the Berwem, but they didn’t stand as slumpy as the those in the east side of town, either.

The biggest difference with both was the red mud that was cliffs southern, some kind of chalky rock that crumbled at a touch and when it rained ran like venom. It stuck to my feet when I walked, but it wasn’t gravel and that counted for everything.

Above the red mud, the cliffs were clothed modestly in green and purple ferns, and sometimes, you could see the white of a silversword, and if it weren’t so late in the gyra, the black and gray of the bamboo would only look mostly dead.

Tortoises stomped all around, their jaws always munching something. I saw only one big white cat, and it wasn’t prowling. Everything else in the cliffs southern could only be heard or smelt.

I listened to the crooning, chirping and whooping and it all could have been very soothing, even⁠ ⁠—⁠ especially⁠ ⁠—⁠ in its unceasing activity. But there was something familiar in it, something⁠ ⁠—⁠ callous. The rousing stars above were austere in their great uncaring stillness; nature was more grounded, more present, and yet just as unphased by the day’s tragedy, the loss of life. It was worse.

Crooning, chirping, whooping. The smell of the last flowers, of carrion carried on the wind, something electric, something fungal, and the smell of a distant fire. The day was over, and the stars were coming out. A friend was waiting for me. Maybe, just maybe, I could relax, appreciate this atmosphere like I had so many nights before.

My nerves never did quite settle. All my reassurances were dissolving like flimsy wood under acidic unease. But they stuck around long enough you thought they were working, if only a little.

That was why I⁠ ⁠—⁠ shouldn’t have, but I did⁠ ⁠—⁠ smile at the half-strangled growl of, “Get the fuck off me!” that cut through everything. The world wasn’t ok. There was still something to do.

That smile lasted a thought. Then I realized I recognized the voice.

* * *