Now, it had paid off.
He crouched beside the tom, respectfully turning it over in his hands. It was a fine bird—substantial, well-fed, a harvest that would feed him for days. With practiced ease, he began to pluck and dress it, setting aside feathers and scraps for the woodland scavengers.
“Nothing wasted,” he murmured. “Circle stays unbroken.”
He wrapped the meat carefully, his fingers moving with the quiet satisfaction of a man who knew he’d earned his meal—and perhaps, in some small way, his place in this wilderness.
He lay sprawled across the smooth stone, gazing dreamily at the narrow sliver of starlit sky framed by the encircling cliffs. The trickle of the waterfall murmured beside him, easing the tightness from his joints, coaxing breath into deeper rhythms. The gentle pace of the pool’s lapping edge softened his thoughts until they slipped loose—floating beyond the cove, beyond the mountain, into the velvet-darkness of the sky.
He had feasted that evening—roasted turkey crackling at the edges, mushrooms earthy and rich. Between gluttonous mouthfuls, he'd tossed bones into a pot to simmer a fragrant stock. It wasn’t wise, not after days of modest rations, but hunger had led and he had gladly followed. Full to bursting, sleep crept up on him like mist, softening him from within, until even the stars above blurred at the edges.
Nic’s mind wandered far, unmoored from weight and weariness. He felt as though he were gliding, a bird borne on moonbeams. He soared above the cliffs, through flurries of stardust, guided by the silent pull of the moon. But to where?
He rolled to one side, eyes tracing the inky shimmer of the pool’s surface. Stars blinked back at him in reflection, scattered and unreachable. The flight continued in his mind—drifting upward, toward snow-laced trees. Cold air met his lungs. Below, the North Town Lake stretched wide and frozen, glinting like obsidian glass.
There, nestled on the hill, Helen’s villa slumbered beneath a quilt of snow. Smoke plumed from the chimney—quiet, soft, a promise thatshewas home, waiting.
He longed to pause, to press his hand against the familiar doorframe. But the air tugged at him, and he drifted on.
Reaching blindly, he found the figurine he'd carved—the rough little man born of granite and idle hours. He hadn’t meantto make himself, but the echo of his own sorrow had shaped its flawed form, the jagged scars across the face left where the stone refused to yield. He held it aloft, letting it travel with him beneath the stars as he sailed now toward the coast.
The sea stretched infinite and lightless, a mirror to the void above. He wanted to stop, to turn back for home, but the current of his dream pulled him forward, swift and unstoppable.
And then—the land.
Unfamiliar, broken.
Charred trees clawed skyward. Fires devoured buildings he didn’t recognize. Smoke bloomed thick and choking, veiling the moon. Was this Nesaea? It couldn't be. He’d never seen those roads before. But hefeltit. Dust and ash and devastation. He raised his arms against the storm of flame, shielding eyes that could not unsee.
He gasped awake, his whole body jolting upright. His chest heaved as though he'd been drowning. Sweat chilled his skin despite the still night. The peace of the cove felt suddenly fragile—like a dream he could fall out of again at any moment.
In his fist, the figurine.
His palm was damp, skin indented by the shape of it. He looked to the pool, its surface now unmarred, but in his mind, the fires of a war still burned beneath the surface. Without thinking, Nic stood. Drew back his arm.
And threw.
The figurine sliced through silver moonlight and plunged into the black abyss.
Water surged up in a spray, then fell into concentric ripples, breaking the quiet in slow, widening rings. The reflection of stars fractured and swayed. And Nic stood motionless at the edge, haunted by something he couldn’t name—only feel.
The Weight of Want
Without the weight of obligation or the rhythm of routine, Nic had long since lost track of the days. The month was a guess—late winter, though the signs of spring whispered at the edges. The days stretched subtly longer, minute by minute, and the rain, while still frequent, had softened in its fury.
