Fairy Tail: Beneath a Falling Star

Chapter 8 — The Last Light Beneath the Eaves

Year X782 – Age 9

Caelion knew the edge of the forest like the curve of his own fingers.

Every path, every turn, every crooked branch that reached like fingers toward the light—he had walked them all. Sometimes to train. Sometimes to hide. Often to dream. But this time, as he stepped past the crooked oak with its hollow trunk, there was something different in the stillness.

He wasn't just passing through.

He was preparing to leave.

The thought didn't sting the way he expected. Instead, it settled deep inside him like the last note of a lullaby. Soft. Unavoidable.

The days following the festival had been… strange. Not in the way magic was strange, or the way dreams twisted into memory upon waking. But in the way people looked at him now—with something between curiosity and quiet respect. A few of the children he'd dazzled with star-bursts offered him half-waves. Even the elders, those who once scoffed at his "lightshow tricks," seemed to watch him now with a new measure of… patience.

Still, he didn't belong.

Not really.

And he didn't want to anymore.

That morning, Caelion sat beside the old barn door, a half-eaten heel of bread in his lap, the parchment-bound grimoire balanced on one knee. It was a weathered thing, stitched from mismatched pages and curling ink—notes he had copied by candlelight, borrowed scrolls and fragments of old tomes gifted or forgotten. The section he was rereading was one of his own—titled in soft pencil:

"Refracted Barrier Theory — Light Shield, Version IV."

It had failed last night.

The same way versions I through III had. The starlight construct always fractured too soon, scattering in a harmless shimmer before impact. But he was getting closer.

Maybe with the right focus crystal. Maybe if he—

A faint knock broke his thoughts.

He blinked. Then turned.

Standing in the barn doorway was Elric, the old carpenter whose son, Toma, had once thrown a bucket at Caelion's head in their younger years.

The man scratched his beard, voice rough but not unkind. "You always out here reading?"

Caelion nodded slowly. "When I can."

Elric stepped forward and handed him a bundle. Inside was a satchel—leather-worn and weather-sealed, with reinforced straps and a flap that buckled neatly.

"Saw you patching yours last week," the man said, grunting. "Figured that thing wouldn't last you past the hills."

Caelion looked down at the gift. His fingers trembled just slightly.

"I… thank you."

"It's nothing." Elric turned to leave. Then paused. "You'll be leaving soon, won't you?"

Caelion didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

That evening, he returned to the starglow ridge. The same one he'd climbed during the meteor shower. The same one that had burned his soul open and filled it with power he had buried deep ever since.

The grass was longer now. Summer green, with a trace of golden dusk in the blades. He spread his arms, feeling the breeze rush over him, into him.

In the center of the ridge, he drew his sigil—four intersecting arcs of pale stardust, woven in a simple but careful pattern. He stepped into its center, let the world fall away, and whispered:

"Star Dust Construct. Type: Dome. Radius: Two meters."

Light trickled from his palms, slow and deliberate. The arcane geometry wove itself outward—sluggish at first, but steadier than last time. He gritted his teeth, bracing as the shape coalesced around him.

It held.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Then a wild hare darted across the outer ring—and the entire thing flickered and burst like a soap bubble.

Caelion sighed.

"Version V, I guess…"

Still, there had been progress.

And tonight, the stars looked almost… closer.

Back in the village, the lanterns were being lowered early. Tomorrow, the hunting party would head west, and most of the able-bodied men and women were preparing packs. Caelion didn't ask to join. He knew better.

Instead, he walked the edge of the creek until he reached the elder's bench—a curved stone slab set between two willow trees.

To his surprise, someone was already there.

Sarenna.

The girl with fire-skip magic and the permanent grass stains on her boots. She had never said much to him directly. But now, she scooted over wordlessly and gestured to the empty spot beside her.

He sat.

"I heard you're leaving," she said.

Caelion hesitated. "That obvious?"

She shrugged. "This place doesn't keep secrets well."

They watched the water flow in silence. The creek glittered faintly with the reflection of stars.

Sarenna leaned forward, chin on her knees. "I used to think the sky was too big. Like… it would swallow you if you looked at it too long."

Caelion didn't respond.

Then she asked, "Are you scared?"

"Yes," he said. No hesitation.

And then, softly: "But staying scares me more."

Sarenna nodded. Then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small object—roughly carved wood in the shape of a star. Its edges were uneven, but the grooves shimmered faintly with polished resin.

She pressed it into his hand.

"For luck."

He held it like something fragile. "Thank you."

By the time he returned to the barn that night, the satchel was packed.

It held:

One grimoire, handbound.

A waterskin.

Two days of dry food.

His cloak, patched twice over.

A map, drawn by memory and rumor.

And a small wooden star.

He did not sleep much.

He spent most of the night staring at the ceiling beams, listening to the crickets, letting the weight of tomorrow settle into his bones.

When morning came, he stood in the field for a long while, the village behind him. No one came to see him off.

That was fine.

He wasn't leaving for them.

He was leaving for the boy who once looked up at the stars and wondered if they'd ever look back.