Chapter Text
The forest was still enough to hear the heartbeat of the earth. Rowan pressed his hand to the moss and felt it pulse faintly, the same rhythm that hummed in his chest when he breathed too deeply. The air smelled of wet bark and rainlight. Somewhere nearby a cicada buzzed, steady as a drum. He was out later than he meant to be, chasing a flicker of pale light between the trees, a will-o’-wisp, he thought at first. Then it fell, hard and sudden, like a star losing faith in the sky.
He hesitated before stepping toward the clearing where it landed. The air there felt different, thicker and humming. His instincts told him to turn back. Sable always said the forest had rules, and one of them was never to follow falling lights. But curiosity won, as it always did. The clearing was small and damp, framed by ferns and low fog. In the center lay a boy, or something that looked like one. His clothes were torn and burned, his bare feet streaked with soot and blood. Pieces of black-and-gold feathers crumbled from his shoulders, turning to dust in the wet air and vanishing before they hit the ground.
Rowan froze. His throat tightened as fear pressed against his ribs. The boy twitched, breath rattling. The air smelled like iron and smoke. Rowan’s first instinct was to run. Whatever this was, it didn’t belong to his quiet world of roots and beetles and gentle magic. But then the boy groaned, a sound too human and full of pain, and something in Rowan’s chest ached. He took a careful step closer, though every nerve in his body screamed to stop.
The boy’s head snapped up. His eyes blazed, one gold, one red. With a guttural sound he lurched upright, hand raised as if to strike. Energy rippled through the clearing, sharp and wrong, and Rowan flinched back, stumbling over a root and landing hard in the mud. “Stay away,” the boy hissed, voice hoarse and shaking. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Rowan’s hands trembled as he tried to speak. “I wasn’t going to—”
“Don’t lie.” His words were cracked at the edges, heavy with exhaustion. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground again, panting. Rowan swallowed hard. The boy didn’t look like a hunter or a spirit. He looked lost. Sick. His fingers dug into the dirt, leaving smoldering handprints that cooled slowly in the rain. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” the boy whispered, more to himself than to Rowan.
The fear in his voice sounded different now, raw and real. Rowan’s pulse began to steady, though his heart still raced. He inched forward, careful not to make sudden movements. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “You’re hurt. I just want to help.” The boy didn’t answer. He was staring at Rowan’s hand, at the faint shimmer that danced there when the last trace of sunlight filtered through the trees. It could have been imagination, a trick of light, but for a heartbeat he thought he saw green threads of energy flicker along Rowan’s fingertips.
Cal blinked hard, vision blurring. Maybe it was blood loss, maybe the glow was just the forest playing tricks on him. Either way, he let his head drop forward, too weak to fight anymore. Rowan hesitated, then crawled closer. The smell of smoke and ozone clung to the boy’s skin. When he pressed a folded cloth against a bleeding wound on his arm, Cal flinched but didn’t pull away. “Can you tell me your name?” Rowan asked softly.
The answer came after a long silence. “Caelum,” he murmured, barely audible. “But you can call me Cal.”
“Rowan.”
Cal nodded once, eyelids drooping. “That fits.” Rowan frowned slightly but said nothing. The forest around them had gone silent again. The trees seemed to lean inward, branches whispering overhead. Somewhere above, thunder rumbled, distant but steady. He didn’t know why, but the thought of leaving this strange boy here felt wrong. So Rowan stayed kneeling in the mud, hands trembling, as the night grew darker and the world held its breath around them.