Hiraeth stumbled along the moonlit path, his steps heavy, mechanical, mind fogged with shock and grief. Muckley trotted silently beside him, ears flattened, tail lowered as if sensing the oppressive burden of sorrow that weighed upon his master. The artist’s hands trembled slightly as he clutched his possessions, his easel and brushes now forgotten, held limply at his side.

The reality of death pressed sharply against his chest, cold and unrelenting. Hiraeth had done everything he could, but the young apprentices’ wounds were too deep, the bleeding too fierce. Corrin's whispered warnings still echoed painfully in his mind, each desperate word piercing deeper than any blade.

“Five days…” The man succumbing to death had rasped. “He’s pulling something… terrible… from the stars…”

Hiraeth’s breath caught in his throat as memories surged forward, unbidden, merciless. His vision blurred, images of another night, many years past but hauntingly vivid rushing to claim him.

It had been a clear, serene night, the sky brilliant with stars. Orvan Velth, the region’s most experienced and celebrated Skycatcher, was supposed to bring in another magnificent celestial whale, another boon of prosperity. Hiraeth could still hear the murmured excitement of the townspeople, their laughter drifting through open windows.

His beloved wife, radiant with joy, had kissed him warmly as she left to visit her family in that very town, Valder’s Hollow, promising she’d return to him and their beloved two-year-old daughter Liora soon.

He never saw her again.

In his mind's eye, Hiraeth saw her clearly, laughing as she walked through familiar streets, streets they had explored and loved together years gone, her steps light and carefree. Then, the laughter ceased abruptly, replaced by a terrifying silence—a silence shattered by the dreadful, earth-shattering roar as the enormous whale descended upon the town. Buildings crumbled like fragile sandcastles beneath its colossal weight, streets ripped open, sending dust and debris billowing upwards in choking clouds. He imagined her turning in confusion, fear dawning in her eyes as the sky darkened above her, the massive shadow of the creature blotting out the stars.

He saw her family frozen in terror, helpless as the creature fell, felt the earth shudder beneath his own feet miles away, the horror of realization seizing him. His heart wrenched painfully as the vision played out in cruel detail—the moment of impact, the violent chaos, the silent, empty aftermath. His life, his joy, his future—all taken in the careless ambition of one man.

And now, as he stumbled onward through the night, those long-buried images surfaced violently once again. He saw his wife's gentle smile replaced by terror, saw her family, innocent and unaware, shattered beneath the colossal creature’s immense, thrashing body. He felt the helpless rage of losing everything in a single, terrible moment, his heart torn apart as thoroughly as the homes of those he loved. The rage that he had long since nurtured and packed tightly into the corner of his heart and replaced with love and forgiveness.

Hiraeth’s breath grew ragged, anguish giving way to a deep, simmering anger—a fury he had suppressed for too long. Anger at Orvan Velth, anger at the arrogance of the Skycatchers, anger at a world that allowed such reckless power to fall into careless hands.

And now, Galrin was repeating history, chasing his own delusions of grandeur at the risk of innocent lives.

His mind drifted further back, memories intertwining painfully. He saw Galrin clearly, younger, brighter-eyed, sitting beside him in the bustling warmth of the tavern. They had laughed often back then, playing music together in the evenings, busking in the streets to the delight of passing villagers. Galrin had always been quick with a smile, generous with stories and encouragement—a good man, a dear friend.

He had never shown cruelty, never raised his voice in anger. Murderer was the last word Hiraeth would have ever associated with the gentle, earnest man who had shared so many carefree evenings with him. But something had changed Galrin—something dark and insidious had twisted the kind soul Hiraeth once knew.

Hiraeth paused momentarily, his gaze distant, lost in shadows cast by the swaying branches of trees lining the path. He recalled vividly the tavern’s atmosphere, alive with laughter and the fragrant aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He remembered the soft murmur of conversations, punctuated by bursts of joyous applause whenever he and Galrin finished playing. Those had been days filled with warmth, friendship, and simple pleasures, long before tragedy had cast its shadow over their lives.

The cool night breeze whispered around him, rustling through leaves as if echoing his melancholy. The stars above, distant and cold, offered no comfort, their dim light illuminating his path in a haunting, indifferent glow. Hiraeth’s heart tightened painfully as he felt the weight of loss settle heavily upon him, grief mingled now with confusion and sorrow for a friend lost to darkness.

His thoughts drifted again to his wife, her image surfacing with gentle clarity.

He remembered how she moved gracefully through their small home, filling every corner with warmth. Her kindness was effortless, a natural part of her being—always ready with a comforting word or gentle touch. She was the heart of their family, the quiet strength behind every moment of happiness. He remembered her laughter, bright and clear, ringing out as she tended to their garden, or when she comforted a neighbour in distress. Her compassion was boundless, extending effortlessly to all around her. He recalled the quiet evenings they spent together, her fingers entwined with his, watching stars drift slowly overhead, speaking softly of dreams and futures now forever lost. He also recalled how adorable she was when she got angry over the spilt paint in his early days as a practicing artist.

Liora’s gentle face flashed before him, her trusting smile, the resilience and vulnerability in her blind eyes. And Muckley, faithful and loyal to a fault, whose silent companionship had guided him through the darkest hours of his grief. They were his entire world, and he would not let them become casualties of another Skycatcher’s reckless ambition.

“Come, Muckley,” he whispered hoarsely, the words raw, heavy with resolve. “We have to hurry.”

The great dog nudged his hand gently, sensing the urgency and determination in his master's voice, before padding quietly beside him as Hiraeth quickened his pace toward the cottage—toward home.

It was then, in that moment of grief, anger and fear that Muckley hurled himself into the deep puddle of mud beside the path.