The snow fell heavier now, thick enough to bury footprints and dead men alike.
Arno stood in the doorway of the hut he had called home for ten years, watching as the flakes settled over the corpses like a shroud. The blood had frozen black in the cold, the edges of the stains blurred under fresh snowfall. He did not mourn the place. It had never been a home—only a hiding spot.
The stranger moved behind him, their boots scraping against the floorboards as they rifled through the dead assassins' belongings. "They'll send more," they said, pocketing a silver token from one of the bodies. "And the next wave won't bother knocking."
Arno flexed his fingers. The stolen starlight still hummed beneath his skin, a low, persistent current that sharpened his vision in the dark and made his muscles thrum with restless energy. It was fading, though—not disappearing, but sinking deeper, settling into his bones like sediment in a riverbed. He wondered how much would remain when the last of the borrowed power burned away.
The blank card pulsed against his chest, warm even through the layers of cloth.
"Where do we go?" Arno asked.
The stranger slung a stolen pack over their shoulder. "Away from here."
They traveled light.
Arno took only what he could carry—his knives, a waterskin, the frayed cloak he'd worn for three winters straight. He left behind the chipped dishes, the patched blankets, the little wooden figurines he'd carved in the long, empty nights. None of it mattered. The hut had been a coffin, and he had been playing dead inside it for too long.
The forest swallowed them quickly, the trees closing ranks behind their footsteps. The snow muffled sound, turning the world into something soft and unreal. Arno moved without hesitation, his body remembering paths he hadn't walked in years. The exile had forced him to learn these woods like the lines of his own palms—where the ice grew thin over the creek, where the wolves denned in winter, where the ground dipped suddenly into hidden ravines.
The stranger followed, silent as a shadow.
After an hour of walking, Arno stopped beside a lightning-blasted oak and turned. "Who are you?"
The stranger's breath fogged in the air. "Call me Vey."
"That's not a name."
"It's the one I'm giving you." Vey's eyes flicked to the trees around them, scanning for movement. "Names have weight. The Cabal can use them."
Arno studied the sharp angles of Vey's face, the way their fingers never strayed far from their weapons. A liar, almost certainly. But a useful one.
"And the mark on your wrist?"
Vey tugged their sleeve down. "A mistake."
The starlight flared when the wolves attacked.
They came at dusk, a pack of six, their ribs stark beneath mangy winter coats. Hunger made them bold. The lead wolf lunged first, jaws snapping at Vey's thigh.
Arno moved without thinking.
The power surged up like a struck match—bright and sudden. His knife hand blurred, the blade finding the wolf's throat before the animal could register the threat. Hot blood sprayed across the snow. The other wolves hesitated, their growls dying in their throats.
Arno bared his teeth.
For a heartbeat, his fingers glowed silver.
The wolves fled.
Vey stared at him, their expression unreadable. "That shouldn't be possible."
Arno wiped his knife clean. The starlight was already fading again, but something lingered—a whisper of strength, a ghost of speed. "The card took most of it," he said. "But not all."
Vey's gaze dropped to his chest. "It's changing you."
Arno didn't answer. He could feel it too—the way the blank card thrummed against his skin, a second heartbeat nestled beside his own. It had tasted the Star's power. Now it waited, patient and insatiable, for the next offering.
They made camp in the hollow of a fallen pine, the trunk wide enough to shield them from the wind. Vey lit no fire. The Cabal would be hunting, and light traveled far in the winter dark.
Arno sat with his back against the bark, the blank card pressed between his palms. He closed his eyes and reached for the shreds of starlight still coiled in his veins.
The power answered.
Faintly. Reluctantly. But it answered.
He could feel it—the way the energy threaded through his muscles, the way it sharpened his senses until he could hear Vey's steady breathing three feet away, could smell the iron tang of old blood still clinging to their clothes. When he focused, he could even see the faint outline of their silhouette through his closed eyelids, a shadow among shadows.
The card grew warmer in his hands.
Vey's voice cut through the dark. "You're playing with something you don't understand."
Arno opened his eyes. "So teach me."
A pause. Then Vey shifted, their cloak rustling. "The Star's blessing isn't just strength. It's clarity. It shows you the truth of things—for a little while, at least." Their tone turned grim. "But the Cabal twists it. They use it to hunt. To see through lies. To find people like you."
Arno looked down at the card. It shimmered faintly in the moonlight, its surface smooth and unmarked. Waiting.
"And what am I?"
Vey's smile was all teeth. "The question is what you're going to be."