Fairy Tail: Beneath a Falling Star

Chapter 3: Embers Beneath the Frost

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Snow fell like quiet ash.

It wasn't unusual for the village to see frost this early in the year, but this morning's hush felt heavier—like even the wind had gone quiet to watch the world freeze. Caelion sat on the edge of the hill where the trees thinned and the horizon broke open into pale-blue mountains, his breath rising in soft curls.

His hands were raw.

A thin smear of dried blood clung to his knuckles from where he'd pushed his palms into gravel, steadying a spell that buckled beneath him last night. He flexed his fingers now, wincing.

"Still too shallow," he murmured. "The refraction breaks halfway. I'm not holding the concentration long enough."

Caelion pressed his palms together and focused. Tiny points of light shimmered into being—silver motes that danced like fireflies between his fingers. He tried shaping them again, slow and precise.

A long, narrow shard of glittering light took form, floating midair.

Then it fizzled, collapsing into sparks.

He let out a breath, eyes narrowing. "You're stubborn."

Or maybe it wasn't the magic that was stubborn.

He lowered his hands and glanced toward the path winding below, where faint smoke curled from thatched rooftops. The village was already stirring—farmers gathering feed, women unfurling dyed cloth to sell in the square. Children were bundled in wool, kicking up snow and shrieking with laughter.

He should have been one of them.

Instead, he was here. Again.

Alone with stars that only listened sometimes.

Later that day…

"Boy!"

Caelion jolted upright from the woodpile behind the bakery. A burly man with a bristled beard and frost-caked eyebrows towered over him, holding a sack that reeked of fish.

"You said you could freeze these barrels before sundown," the man grunted, kicking the wood nearby. "That offer still stand, or are you just good for night tricks?"

Caelion nodded wordlessly and stood, brushing frost from his tunic.

His hands moved automatically—forming soft circles of Star Dust in the air. He whispered under his breath, letting the particles condense, shimmer, then swirl into a fine current of silver light. He channeled it beneath the barrels, drawing the moisture within outward.

Minutes passed.

A thin layer of frost bloomed across the wooden slats like silver veins.

The man gave a satisfied grunt, tossing Caelion a heel of bread. "You're strange," he muttered. "But useful."

Caelion caught the bread and gave a quiet nod.

He didn't mind the odd jobs. They gave him something to do. Something to control, even if just a moment of borrowed power.

What he did mind was how often he was seen as little more than a curiosity.

Pretty light. Quiet voice. No family. No guild.

And yet, something always held him here—anchored between the life he had and the one he wasn't sure he'd ever reach.

Fairy Tail.

The name felt distant, half-dreamed. Like he could only chase it in sleep.

But even then, he trained.

That night

The stars were late.

Clouds muffled the sky, thick with snow that blurred the heavens to a pale smear of gray. Caelion knelt by the frozen stream outside the village and reached again for the flicker of Star Dust within him.

A pulse answered.

Warm. Soft. Familiar.

And just faintly… reluctant.

He shaped the magic into a sphere, rotating it slowly in the air. The sphere fractured and reformed, mirroring the movement of a distant planet—an orbital pattern he had once seen in the Fairy Tail anime back in his old life.

He still remembered.

Not just faces or names, but movements. Magic circles. The way Cana shuffled her cards, or the motion Gray used before casting Ice-Make. Even the way Natsu cracked his knuckles before igniting.

"Memory is magic too," he whispered.

And in that quiet, something clicked.

The orbit of the Star Dust sphere tightened. The center pulsed brighter—like it recognized the pattern.

Caelion's eyes widened.

Maybe he wasn't just shaping magic anymore.

Maybe magic was starting to remember him.

Chapter 3: Ashes of Starlight (Part II)Even the wind felt tired that morning.

It came in long, weary gusts, tugging at the shutters of the old barn and stirring the dry straw piled around Caelion's sleeping mat. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, briefly watching motes of dust drift in the faint gray light before swinging his legs over the side of the bedding.

The scent of smoke reached him first—faint, not from fire, but hearths and chimneys, baking bread and boiled roots. The village was stirring.

So was he.

Caelion stood, tugged on his threadbare tunic, and stepped outside. The sky was still undecided between dawn and cloud, its pale hue caught somewhere between lavender and steel. In the distance, he could see the high ridge where he trained—his silent little sanctuary of starlight.

But not yet.

First came the village.

He worked quietly that morning, helping Old Tamun bundle firewood near the edge of the tree line. The man never said much—just grunted and gestured—but didn't complain when Caelion took extra bundles to weaker villagers or patched the frayed ropes they used for hauling.

It was strange. People didn't quite like him, but they didn't push him away anymore either.

Maybe they were getting used to the idea of a quiet, starlit boy who never aged quite like the rest of them.

By midday, his fingers ached and his shoulders throbbed from carrying wood. But he didn't mind. It was familiar. Predictable. It gave the hours shape, even when the sky offered none.

He skipped lunch and headed straight for the ridge.

There, under the hush of circling hawks and the faint rustle of dry mountain grass, Caelion began to train.

He let the world grow quiet.

Then reached.

His fingers unfurled, calling the shimmer—the faint trail of magic that lived in him like breath in lungs. It came slowly, reluctantly, coalescing at his palm in soft, drifting glimmers. Dust made of light. Star Dust.

He drew patterns with it. Lines that danced, then scattered. Swirls that tried to hold shape, then burst like dandelions in the wind.

Each time, he tried to make it stronger. Sharper.

Something useful.

But the magic was still soft. Still beautiful, not deadly. It resisted purpose. Resisted war.

And maybe, in some quiet part of him, Caelion did too.

After several hours, he sank to the grass, heart still and breath ragged. Sweat clung to his brow, though the air had cooled. The sun had dipped behind a cloudbank. Shadows crept long across the ridge.

But Caelion didn't move.

He just lay there, letting the last of his magic scatter into the air like falling ash.

That night, something shifted.

Not in the sky—but in the village.

Caelion returned to find a small crowd gathered near the well. Men and women muttered, their faces tight with unease. One boy—Jano, a few years older than Caelion—was sitting on the ground, gripping his arm in pain. Blood darkened his sleeve.

"A pack of earth-burrowers," one man said. "Came out near the east field. Must've gotten riled up from the heat."

Caelion frowned.

Earth-burrowers were low-ranked magical beasts—normally harmless unless disturbed. But still dangerous to the untrained.

"They'll come back," an older woman said. "We need someone to handle them before they get bolder."

"Send a letter to Gildas," a man offered. "He has sons trained in Earth Magic."

"It'll take three days just for word to reach him."

Silence.

And then, Caelion's own voice: soft, quiet.

"I can help."

All eyes turned.

Even Jano looked up, brows knitting with doubt.

"You?" someone scoffed. "What're you going to do, sparkle them to death?"

A few chuckles followed, bitter and half-hearted.

Caelion didn't flinch.

He just lowered his head slightly. "I won't fight. I'll lure them. Lead them away from the village. They're drawn to heat and tremors. I can… trick them. Star Dust can shimmer, distract. It might work."

More silence.

And then—surprisingly—Old Tamun grunted. "Let him try. Boy knows the woods better than any of us."

Reluctant murmurs.

But no one stopped him.

By moonrise, Caelion stood at the forest's edge, fingers already glowing faintly with magic.

He crouched low, letting the shimmer collect at his palms. Slowly, he whispered to it—not in words, but intention. Dance. Distract. Lead.

Then he stepped forward.

One flicker. Then two. Trails of glittering light trailed through the darkness like fireflies in a pattern.

The ground stirred.

Then broke.

The burrowers emerged—mottled creatures with thick, clawed limbs and dark plates along their backs. Their snouts twitched as they caught scent or sound or light.

But instead of charging, they followed.

Followed the trail of stardust Caelion laid through the trees, his breath held tight, heart thudding.

He led them eastward. Away.

He ran silent through the woods, weaving magic behind him like a comet's tail, never stopping, never stumbling.

Only when he was far enough—when the village was no longer in sight—did he scale a boulder, pulse racing, and flare the last of his magic like a starburst above the trees.

The creatures shrieked and scattered.

Gone.

Caelion collapsed to his knees, breathless.

Not victorious. Not heroic.

But alive.

And when he returned the next morning, bruised and pale, the villagers didn't laugh.

They nodded.

Some offered bread.

One girl gave him a ribbon for his wrist. "So you don't forget how brave you were."

He didn't say anything.

But that night, when he trained again under the stars, something in his magic was different.

Clearer.

Sharper.

Not quite stronger.

But less afraid.