In the corralled island of Miraeth,
Beyond the gaze lies a sky where glittering stars shine proudly—
a mesmerizing palette spilled across midnight's canvas.
Tonight, the heavens reveal their veracious hues a little more truthfully than usual.
In a blooming meadow of wildflowers, little Neva and Ishmael lie side by side, dreaming with open eyes, swimming among the stars.
Elfin fireflies gleam and dance gracefully, while orthopteras hum within the grass, harmonizing with the tranquil wind. The middle of July holds such fantastical scenes in its arms.
Tonight is balmy. Sleep evades them inside their tiny cottage.
So they sneak out, leaving their old grandfather alone in the grumpy wooden house, unaware.
Two daring hearts, lost on this lonely island,
accompanied only by twinkling stars, wildflower blush, mellow breezes, breathtaking fireflies, and the saccharine melody of crickets.
Soft hands hold each other in quiet comfort.
Ishmael peers down at the girl resting beside him.
She's shimmering—eyes wide, dazzling—as she writes their names onto the velvet sky with her gaze.
They are at peace. The sun hides, retreating its heat. A relaxed wind cools their small, stilled forms.
"Ishmael?" Neva's sweet voice lingers, delicate.
A tiny "Hmm?" escapes the boy, love-struck.
"How old are the stars?"
She tears her gaze from the sky to thread her eyes with his.
"Grandpa said they're really old," Ishmael replies, his large eyes meeting her curious ones.
"How many years?" she asks, rolling to face him.
"Older than Grandpa?" she continues, not waiting for the last answer.
"Yes," he says.
Her lips part, agape with awe.
"Grandpa changed so much, but the stars didn't. Why, Ishmael?"
Her voice is soft, puzzled.
Ishmael furrows his brows, thinking.
"They're like the tall pine trees in the valley through our window. They're far away and always seem the same. But they do change—slowly. They grow old too."
Neva's eyes shine, her smile blooming.
They can observe their grandfather up close—but the stars are forever beyond reach.
"Do they move freely?" she asks.
He nods. "Stars are free."
A smile lifts her lips as she turns back to the mystical sky—neon shades streaked across the dark.
"I want to touch them," she whispers, raising her hand.
Her fingers pretend to graze the galaxy.
"You'll get burned," he warns gently.
She pouts.
He grins. "But I can touch them."
"How?" she gasps, nearly squealing.
He chuckles. "It's a secret."
"Tell me, Ishmael!" she pleads.
He surrenders easily. "They appear in the lake. I can touch them there."
Her smile fades a little as she looks back up.
"I wish I could see the stars even during the day," she murmurs.
"I do," he says.
"I see them even in daylight."
Neva turns toward him. "How?"
"In your eyes. Pretty stars float in them. That's where I find my night sky."
His voice is mischievous, proud.
She pouts again, furious this time.
"You wild, naughty children!"
The sudden scolding voice of their grandfather startles them.
His hair—white and grey—gleams like silver under the moonlight.
Sweat glistens on his tawny skin. He pants, one hand clutching his rusty back.
The wild children jolt up, shivering in fright.
"I've been searching everywhere for you!"
He straightens his hunched back as best he can.
Neva drops her gaze, fingers fidgeting in front of her.
Ishmael stands beside her, unmoving, head lowered.
They owe a ream of explanations.
They almost cost their grandfather his soul
—searching through the night in tears.
---
(Swallow Mountain)
Ishmael's eyes flutter open.
He's just had a long, vivid dream—a flicker of serenity, replayed like a film.
How he wishes he could bend fate beneath his will.
His gaze scans the room. He's lying in a familiar space—a hospital bed, head elevated.
Beside him, a monitor tracks his vitals—heart rate, breathing, pressure.
Another reading displays intracranial levels.
"He's awake! Call the doctor!"
A voice echoes, shrill and urgent.
It stabs his aching head.
Footsteps rush.
Zev's voice slices through the hushed air,
accompanied by the blur of Manager Cha's familiar figure.
"How do you feel, Raka?" Zev asks, worry laced in his tone.
Ishmael raises his hand, squinting at the IV drip attached to his wrist.
"What… happened?" His voice is hoarse, groggy.
Zev stands beside Cha, scrutinizing him.
Ishmael lifts his hand to his bandaged head, brows knitting.
Memories blur, scattered and unreachable.
Before they can respond, the doctor enters—Dr. Gray—his private physician, accompanied by a nurse and a guard.
They had just stepped away for a moment.
The nurse hurries to Ishmael.
"Check his vitals," Dr. Gray instructs.
They check his airway, support his circulation and breathing.
Once assured of his stability, they step out, leaving the room in silence.
Ishmael exhales wearily.
"So what happened?" he repeats.
"Raka," Zev begins, "we were ambushed after returning from Nagoya.
You went missing for three days.
When we found you… you were unconscious, bleeding, leaning against the same tree near the crash site."
Zev's face is bruised. His broken hand rests in a sling.
Ishmael's own mind reels.
He had been in a coma for over three weeks.
And now—he remembers nothing.
He tries to sift through the wreckage of his mind, but fails. He draws in a sharp breath, dizzy.
"Do we know who attacked?" he asks, hopeful for answers.
"We're still searching.
It was just one man—but he dominated the scene.
Five of our men died."
The revelation stuns Ishmael.
Months of ruin—his forces reduced to ash.
"And Neva?" His voice barely rises above a whisper.
Manager Cha's gaze falls. He shakes his head slowly.
Ishmael's chest tightens.
Still—he does not waver.
He clenches his jaw, eyes flickering with resolve.
"I won't give up on her. Never."