And above it all, the constellations stirred—celestial players in an older hunt. The warrior queen ever chasing the ice dragon, always just behind.
Nic watched her trace the heavens through a slit in the wall, silver light spilling across the shack.
He used to feel wonder at that sight.
Tonight, it was only distance.
At some point, he must have drifted off—because dawn arrived sooner than he expected. The first golden ray pierced the gloom, washing away the silvery chill of night, and with it came an aching urge to leave the crumbling lodge behind. But as he stood in the early light, stretching the stiffness from his limbs, he knew he wasn’t ready to leave the wilderness just yet. Not until he found what he came for—even if he didn’t yet know what that was.
Nic dropped his pack into the sand with a heavy thud. He drew a long breath, letting the salt air fill his lungs. A breeze swept in from the sea, cool and clean, stirring the locks fallen across his brow. Before him stretched the raw edge of the coastline—dense forest giving way to sheer cliffs, white-capped waves curling like fingers around black stone.
As he stared out at the horizon, the vast ocean rising to meet the low-hanging clouds, the knot under his ribs uncoiled. The wind whispered through the cliffside like a distant voice in song, calming the restless churning deep beneath his heart’s lake. For the first time in what felt like forever, the urge to run began to loosen its grip.
The Singing Cove in winter was both sanctuary and crucible. It looked peaceful—but it was not gentle. Most never bothered to travel this far, especially when the cold wind could tear at skin like glass and the waves—towering and unpredictable—coulddevour a man without warning. But Nic welcomed its sharpness. He needed the wild. He needed its honesty.
For the past week, he'd been preparing for this—packing carefully, gauging tide patterns, charting where he could camp along the coast or take cover in the woods when the storms rolled in. He’d told his family and friends where he would be, and when they might expect his return.
He didn’t know exactly what he hoped to find.
But here, in this windswept place where countless Nesaea men had once wandered off to remember who they were, maybe a son of Stargazer Creek could find the strength to make himself whole again.
Nic chose a spot just inside the tree line. The wind’s bite softened beneath the pine canopy, and the woods offered a hasty retreat should the surf turn volatile. It took time—he wandered up and down the edge of the forest, weighing the incline, the light, the proximity to water. Eventually, he found a patch of ground nestled between three stoic firs, their roots shallow but broad enough to cradle his tent.
He pitched it with practiced ease, looping cord around one of the trunks, driving stakes into earth grown soft from weeks of rain. Then came the kettle—he upended it near the fire circle, shaking out twigs and ash, and sorted his modest collection of metalware. Forks into the mug, plates stacked like coins, pan to the side. He’d packed light—just the essentials: tea leaves, dried fruit, smoked meat. Enough to hold him until the forest offered more.
He had water for now. Tomorrow, he’d hike out to the falls tucked between the cliffs. They were harder to reach, but the water there was the clearest he’d ever tasted.
For now, he wandered the shoreline.
The sun had begun its descent, the sky rippling into amber. He shed his boots and socks, rolled up his trousers, and stepped out onto the realm between land and sea. The wind needled his cheeks. Salt clung to his skin.
He dug his toes into the sand.
The wave approached—a wild silver tongue reaching up the shore. He braced himself, forcing his legs not to retreat. The water stopped short, just a breath away. He let out a laugh—a breathless, startled sound.
The next wave didn’t hesitate.
It roared in and wrapped his calves in frozen ribbons. He gasped, instinct to retreat tightening every muscle. Cold—genuine, invasive cold—filled his marrow. It wasn’t pain exactly. But it was a reckoning.
He stood there, shivering, letting the water speak to his spirit.
Could he survive a winter here? Not just survive it—endureit. Could he face the storms, the bitter nights, the aching solitude? Skill wasn’t enough out here. Neither was fire. It would takewill. A grit born deeper than the body. Did he have that kind of steel in him?
Nic didn’t step back.
The tide pulled away, stealing warmth from his bones.
The sunset was the most breathtaking he had ever seen.
Even through the thickening veil of cloud, vivid rays spilled from the heavens—cascading color upon the world below. Hues of molten gold lit the undersides of storm-tossed clouds, igniting the sky with drama and awe. In the final seconds before the sun vanished beneath the sea, the world seemed to catch fire, a light so fierce and holy it felt as if paradise itself were falling gently to earth.
He sat by his modest fire and squinted into the blazing horizon. The ocean mirrored the sky, a sheet of liquid gold, so bright it erased all detail. But then, in the space of a breath, soft shadow swept across the landscape like a silken veil. The brilliance faded—first warm yellow bleeding into vibrant orange, then into tender pink, and finally, mauve. That hue—the muted violet twilight—settled over the sea like a dream.
Nic inhaled deeply, letting it fill him.
It was the color of euphoria, the shade of healing. Somehow, always, it reminded him of Helen. That mauve haze conjured her—her voice, her scent—saturating his thoughts until they were no longer his alone.
Darkness crept in soon after.
