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The lake at night always felt wider than during the day. The water reflected the sky so clearly that it looked like there were two worlds — one above, one below — and Calian sat quietly between them, knees drawn close, hands wrapped around them.
The torches along the path had already burned low. The wind came across the surface of the water in thin, chilled lines. He didn’t move. He only watched the stars.
Behind him, there was the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel.
He didn’t turn.
“Have you come?” he asked.
No answer. But Calian already knew. There weren’t many people who would bother coming out this late, and even fewer who would simply sit down beside him without speaking.
Plantz lowered himself beside him, the sound short and solid. He followed Calian’s gaze out toward the lake, then up to the sky, saying nothing. Silence settled again. It wasn’t heavy. It was simply there, like the night itself.
For a while, they just stayed like that — shoulders close, breaths white in the cold air.
Calian lifted one hand and pointed upward.
“That one,” he said. “Do you know its name, older brother?”
Plantz didn’t reply. He didn’t even shake his head. He just kept looking.
Calian smiled a little, not bothered.
“It’s called Sadachbia,” he continued. “People used to call it the Lucky Star of Hidden Things. Sailors thought that if they could find it, whatever secrets they carried would stay buried.”
He lowered his hand, thinking for a moment.
“Fitting, right? Things that shouldn’t be spoken. Things people decide to carry alone.”
Plantz’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes shifted — just barely — toward Calian, before returning to the sky.
Calian pointed to another faint star, this one off to the west.
“And that one’s Zubeneschamali. It’s part of Libra. Its name means ‘the northern claw.’ Long ago, Libra wasn’t scales at all. It was the claws of the scorpion. Later, people changed the story, but the name stayed.”
His voice was calm. Simple. Like he was explaining the layout of a familiar room.
He pointed again, to a star that glimmered softly, not the brightest in the sky, but persistent.
“That one is Scheat. It belongs to Pegasus, the winged horse. Sailors used it to mark storms. Whenever it rose, they expected rough weather. A warning light.”
He let his arm rest on his knee. The quiet returned, but now it felt filled with small stories that hovered above them with the constellations.
After a moment, Calian lifted his hand again. This time he pointed toward a deep red glow near the horizon. It wasn’t loud like the brighter stars, but its color stood out — dark, wine-colored, almost ember-like.
“This one—”
“Mu Cephei,” Plantz said, suddenly.
Calian blinked and looked sideways at him.
Plantz did not look back. He simply watched the sky, voice low and matter-of-fact.
Calian’s lips curved.
“My older brother is smart,” he said lightly.
He looked up again.
“They call it the Garnet Star. It sits in the constellation of Cepheus — the king. The story there isn’t lucky like Sadachbia. It’s a bit… sad.”
He paused, then explained slowly, in the same unadorned tone as before.
“Cepheus and his queen, Cassiopeia, angered the gods. To fix it, they agreed to sacrifice their daughter, Andromeda. They chained her to a rock, waiting for the monster to take her. Imagine that — a parent deciding their child should be the one to pay.”
He let out a quiet breath.
“Of course, someone saved her in the stories. They always do. But the part before that… the waiting, the fear — that doesn’t disappear just because the ending turns out fine.”
Plantz’s fingers tightened for a second over his knee, so faintly that anyone else would have missed it.
Neither of them spoke.
The stars reflected in the dark water. Somewhere, a late insect chirped. The wind came again — colder this time.
Plantz reached behind him and pulled something folded from where he’d set it down earlier. Without warning, he dropped the blanket over Calian’s shoulders.
Calian looked down at it and gave a small chuckle.
“I don’t need it,” he said.
Plantz frowned.
“Stop barking,” he answered simply.
Calian laughed again, softer, a little helpless. He adjusted the blanket — but instead of shrugging it off, he pulled it wider, tugging the fabric so it covered both of them.
“This way my older brother can get warm too,” he said.
Plantz didn’t argue. He also didn’t thank him. He just stayed there, sharing the space under the blanket as if that had been the plan all along.
Calian stole a glance at him.
The cardigan Plantz wore had slipped slightly off one shoulder. Without asking, Calian reached out and straightened it, smoothing the fabric with careful fingers.
“You’ll catch a cold,” he murmured. “I don’t want my older brother getting sick.”
Plantz watched him from the corner of his eye.
“…You’re noisy,” he said.
But he didn’t brush Calian’s hand away.
Above them, the sky kept slowly turning. Calian pointed to another faint star, then another, telling short stories — where names came from, what sailors believed, what old astronomers wrote in small notes no one read now. Plantz listened without interrupting, the way he always did: not because he had nothing to say, but because this — listening — was how he stayed near.
Time passed like water slipping around stones.
Finally, Calian lowered his hand and leaned back a little, letting the blanket settle.
“It’s nice,” he said quietly. “Looking at things that have been there since forever. They don’t rush. They don’t panic.”
Plantz gave a short sound that might have been agreement.
The moon had climbed higher. The lake shone brighter. In the reflection, the stars seemed closer than the real sky — like they might fall into the water if either of them reached out.
Calian turned his head slightly.
“Older brother.”
“…What?”
“If I forget the names someday, tell me again.”
Plantz didn’t answer for a moment, looking up at the stars they have watched so far.
“You do that.”
Calian laughed, small and fond, and turned back to the sky. The blanket stayed around them. The stars kept burning. And neither of them moved, content to sit there together while the night quietly kept its watch.