A flare, a roar, a blast that shatters a mountainside, smoke and thunder: my arrival.

I feel only warm, drowsy. I’m uncertain how I traveled here. I’m uncertain of . . . everything.

I blink, take a step, marveling at the bleary outline of my leg, and that I should have a leg. I am familiar with this . . . a body, a life. My heart thrums. I rub my eyes, inhaling brisk clean air. Where am I? How did I come to be here? Who am I?

I find myself standing in a crater left by my impact, though how I am responsible, I cannot say. I am several hundred feet up a rocky slope. Below spreads a canopy of trees; it’s halfway to the horizon before the forest begins to thin, giving way to fields drenched in dusk-light. Behind me, in the crater, a stream is unearthed, inches wide, pouring along a time-hewn channel. I stumble over, and drink.

The water is icy cold. I pause after a few gulps, teeth aching. I look around, wanting to bring some along, but I am naked, unadorned, defenseless to the world and elements. I examine the broad leaves of surrounding rough-barked trees, but they’re too flimsy even as a temporary cup. Instead I drink more from the source, until it gnaws my empty stomach.

Above, the mountain rises another hundred feet—a tower of craggy stone and grassy earth. While the climb looks steep, I need a better vantage point. From here I can see no towns, or cities. And how strange that these words—towns, cities—should mean something to me, when I cannot recall having visited such places. I cannot recall having visited anyplace at all.

What’s happened to me?

For answers, it seems imperative that I first find civilization—another word rife with meaning, devoid of context. I don’t know how long I’ll survive in the woods below, and to circumnavigate the mountain’s base might take days. Instead, I gauge the cliff face above for handholds, mentally charting my climb.

Stone bites my palms and feet as I ascend. My toes scrabble against rock, bleeding, but somehow I relish it. My body feels light, vital, which seems incongruous to me. I should feel heavy, I decide, every movement pained. But I am powerful, swift, easily carrying my weight. I glance down, my arrival site blending into the mountain’s slope. No safe landing there.

A shriek splits the air. Startled, my right hand slips. I dangle, momentum and gravity twisting my body away, my toes and left fingers curling to keep balance. Treetops stand below like spear-points. Bits of earth crumble away beneath my feet. With a yell I launch myself, both hands reaching for a stone ridge several feet above. I grab hold, and the entire section of stone and dirt just below me dislodges, crashing down the mountainside.

Breathing hard, I sit, finding myself in an alcove blasted open by lightning, or perhaps by another newcomer such as myself. Regardless, the space has been hollowed, edges softened, by years of wind erosion. I hear another shriek, and look up. A black-crested hawk wheels overhead. Nearby, three downy hawk chicks chirp in a stick-and-bramble nest. The adult hawk circles closer, dives, then pulls up and flashes her talons at me before winging off for another pass. I heed the bird’s threat, uncertain she’ll show restraint next time. It’s not far to the top.

I climb a few more minutes. Finally the slope flattens, and I walk the last ten feet to the rounded mossy peak. I look back in the direction I came from and freeze, head spinning with vertigo. I sink down onto lichen.

This high up, the atmosphere looks impossibly thin; the stars are everywhere; I feel as if I can reach out and touch space itself. But I cannot lift my arm toward the black nether; I am paralyzed, afraid. And finally I remember something: being flung off into darkness. And then, something worse.

I have died. And while whatever life I led seems like the dregs and shadows left after waking, I remember, at least, that I had a life. And now . . .

Where is this place? Heaven? Hell? Or somewhere entirely different?

Lying on the mountaintop, I feel jettisoned into a great unknown, a world where laws of existence as I understood them no longer seem to apply. How can anyone breathe this air? I look in the direction I came from, sunset’s ruddy glow giving way to violet. But in the distance, the sky fades into space’s sparkling blackness, as if this world is flat like a gameboard, with finite edges. I tell myself it must be an optical trick, but when I look in the other direction, I see a normal horizon, with stars, a pale crescent moon, and a dark satellite moon beside it, all properly suffused in light refracting off clouds.

I decide to head in that direction. I can’t bear to stay here any longer, contemplating my incomprehensible state of existence. I start downwards.

Below me, the forest thins considerably, the irregular tree-line indicating possible logging activity. Further out, small cabins and farmhouses are visible, some with stone chimneys puffing smoke that dissipates on the wind. Wide dirt roads cut across the countryside, branches splitting and connecting like tributaries, stretching past the horizon. No towns in sight, but surely I’ll find one if I travel far enough. Surely I will find people. But how?

As I walk, the pain from cuts and scrapes accrued on my climb begins to ebb, with scabs fully formed. The rapidity of healing seems abnormal. Then, my stomach groans—a reminder that I still have mortal needs. I wonder if someone below might exchange food, or unwanted clothing, for fair work. I don’t feel as if I’ve done much manual labor, but with no real memories, I cannot fathom why I’d be incapable.

As I descend, the decline grows treacherous—I edge down steep portions of uneven rock, my feet probing for secure ground. Twice my footing gives way. The first time I skid down an earthy slope; the second time I tumble, end over end, the world a whirligig, gouging my back and legs on rocks as I go before I slam against a tree trunk. Dizzy, I lie there for minutes recovering. It only occurs to me then I could’ve gotten myself killed. And what would that even mean?

Just then, I hear rustling above: an auburn-furred squirrel in the branches, observing, acorn in hand. I’m certain he’ll throw, but he only blinks and scampers off.

By now light is nearly gone, the air grown cool with deepening evening. The tree cover thickens on the slope below me. I continue on, searching for shelter, resigned to hunger. Eventually I find a copse on a more even stretch of land, with a spacious hollow at the base of a venerable oak—ideal protection from the wind. I amble across the clearing, and break off a long hanging branch. I give the hollow’s interior a poke in case it already houses another resident. Too late I notice slitted golden eyes which snap open in the gloom.

A hiss echoes from the hollow. I back away, stick still extended like a weapon. In the moonlight, a diamond-shaped head emerges, followed by a sinuous neck, sheathed in obsidian scales. I expect a snake, but then the beast steps fully out, revealing instead a barb-tailed, long-necked quadruped lizard the size of a large dog. My instinct is to run, but I’ve no idea how fast this creature is, how it might respond to sudden flight. Instead I slowly retreat, one step, another. Then, my foot snags on a tree root, and I tumble backward.

The lizard advances with a surprisingly quick sideways waddle, closing the gap and flanking me simultaneously. It emits a sibilant croak; spines stand on its head and neck; its tail swishes the air. I scrabble backwards but hit a tree, and the creature darts in. I jab my stick, but it twists away. I see the tail blur toward me, and roll aside; the barbs gouge a chunk of tree bark instead of my head. I scramble to my feet, little choice but to rush blind into the woods. I manage a few stumbling steps when someone growls, “Get down!”

I duck. Something whistles over my head—a spear, wielded by a sturdy, cloaked old codger in bits of mismatched leather armor and a battered metal helmet. He advances on the beast, the two facing off amidst the clearing, the moonbeams like spotlights. The man waves the cloth-wrapped spear tip back and forth, mirroring the tail’s movements, waiting, anticipating.

With a hiss, the lizard swings. The man dips beneath the blow, and almost workmanlike he stabs the creature at the base of the neck. Dark ichorous blood spurts forth and the man drives his weapon deeper. The creature croaks and squeals, thrashing about, and scores a glancing hit across the man’s helmet. He reels back, falls to one knee. The beast scuttles away, movements slowed, spear stuck in its shoulder. The man struggles to his feet, sways, and sinks down again.

I sprint across the clearing. By the time the creature notices me, I have already leaped toward it, hands reaching for the spear’s haft. As I come down, I drive the weapon deeper. The creature screams, and then tumbles sideways, thudding into the earth. Dead.

I pant, looking down at the thing I’ve just killed. It’s still as grotesque and frightening an animal as I’ve ever seen, but also sad reduced to this. I have deprived it of its awful majesty.

“Thank you, Fallen one,” says the old man. With a groan, he removes his helmet, dented out of shape. He tosses it to the ground, walks over to the dead beast. “Basilisk,” he mutters. He grabs the spear, pulls it free, and the cloth covering its blade falls, revealing a rough-hewn edge of silvery-white metal, gleaming beneath the night sky as if made of starlight.

“What is that?” I ask.

“Star steel,” the old man says. “Quickest way to deal with these grimspawn.”

“Grimspawn?” I ask.

The man ignores this, shuffles off his cloak, hands it to me. “Clothe yourself, aye?”

It’s only then I remember my nakedness. I snatch the heavy garment, drape it around myself. “Thank you . . .”

“Emond,” the man says, "a woodsman." He proffers a hand. "And you? I don’t suppose you even have a name, now, do you? I’ve not met a fresh-Fallen star before."

“Not that I’m aware of," I admit, accepting the handshake anyway. “But . . . a star?” I ask.

“That was you, hit high up near the peak, not four hours past?” I nod, and he says, “Then, there you have it. Fresh as a sheep’s first shear. Hold this?” He unloops an iron lantern from his belt, hands it to me, then strikes flint and steel to light it. Firelight spills over the copse, flickering against the basilisk’s black scales. Emond raises the spear, brings it down on the creature’s neck, once, twice, cutting clean through. Grimacing, he stuffs the beast’s head in a leather sack tied around his waist. “Bounty,” he tells me. “Though, the beast would’ve spelled my end if not for you."

"I could say the same thing," I reply.

"Luck that we found each other," he says. He grins. "I’ve a mind to call you just that."

"Luck?" I ask, unexpectedly amused. The name seems a terrible irony, but there’s no harm in humoring him for now.

"Aye," he says, "or what else would you call our mutual good fortune?" He takes the lantern, starts off into the woods below. He pauses. “Coming, Luck?”

“Yes,” I say with a wry smile. I hurry after him.

We plod in silence for a time, me trying mostly not to trip on tree roots and brambles by the lantern’s dim glow. Emond moves as surefootedly as his occupation might suggest, and soon he leads us onto an old game trail pounded flat by generations of fauna and hunters’ boots. Owls hoot and rodents scurry amid the grasses. This place teems, full of sound and life.

“Are there a lot of me? Us?” I ask him. “Fallen stars?”

“Too many,” he replies, “and not nearly enough.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“Not more than a hundred, at any given time in this broken place,” Emond says. “Some die fighting the Grim. Others die fighting each other, or we earthbound folk. And there are those who go on living, longer than they have a right to. More fall to make up the difference.”

“Even I’d guessed that there’s something wrong with this place,” I say. “Although it seems peaceful, at least . . . Animal menaces aside.”

“Give it time. You’ll understand. Or you’ll be eaten by a basilisk.” The old man grins.

“How reassuring,” I reply.

We continue on for a time, not talking, accompanied by the wildlife’s undulating chorus. As we draw closer to the mountain’s base, the trees thin and moonlight pours through. In that phantom glow, Emond with his silver hair looks ghost-like. “If you don’t mind my asking,” I say, “why is it you’re helping me? Assuming you actually are helping me, that is.”

"As I said before, because you helped me,” he replies.

“But aren’t we even, at this point?"

“You don’t trust me?” he asks.

“Not entirely,” I say. “This is all too strange. I can’t understand how I got here. And while this falling from the sky business seems, well, true, impossibly enough, based on what I’ve observed . . . Well, none of it actually makes any sense."

He shrugs. “To me, it makes perfect sense.”

“Why should I believe what you’re telling me?” I ask.

“Aside from saving your life?” he replies.

“Well, yes,” I say.

He sighs, and turns to me, planting his spear end on the ground. “This weapon . . . It belonged to a friend. One could say I inherited it from him.”

“He died?” I ask.

Emond nods. “He was like you. Fallen. That’s why I’m helping you. To honor his memory.”

“What happened?” I ask. Then hastily I add, “You don’t have to—”

“Greedy men wanted this steel,” Emond says. “And by the time all was settled, I was the only one left.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That hardly seems so precious as to be worth someone’s life.”

The old man barks a bitter laugh. “That’s a conversation to be had on a full stomach. We’re nearly home.”

The woods give way, opening into the vast quilt of meadows, farmland, and country roads I surveyed from on high. A few hundred feet from the forest line stands a small wood-and-thatch cottage, sagging around the eaves. A bony goat grazes in a pen out back. A stone well sits nearby, and I wonder if it taps into the same underground stream I drank from upon my arrival. There’s even a small garden, the dim outlines of sprouting vegetables visible atop the tilled earth.

“Did you build this yourself?” I ask.

“Aye,” Emond says. “Twenty years past, now.”

“Any family?”

“No,” Emond says. “Used to have a hound, but he perished last winter.”

He pushes open the house’s weathered door, and once inside opens the lantern and lights a candle, which he then uses to light several others, bathing the room in soft yellow. He motions me to sit at a small table with two wooden benches, which I do. He unbuckles his makeshift armor, throws it in a corner. He then climbs a short stepladder leaning against the wall beside his stone hearth, then unlatches and pushes open a cutout in the ceiling. After, he builds a fire with dry wood and kindling. “Rabbit stew?” he asks.

“I’d be grateful for anything,” I say.

“I suppose you would.” He laughs and starts for the door.

“You’re going to catch it now?” I ask.

Emond shakes his head. “The well taps an underground river. Cold water. I fixed some ropes to a tin box I hammered out. Put anything I wish to store inside, seal it tight, lower it in the water. Meat lasts several days.”

“Clever.”

“Just an old woodsman’s trick.” He pauses beside a chest, rummages through, and pulls out a pair of brown woolen trousers and a rumpled linen tunic. “Here,” he says, handing them to me. “I’ll return shortly.” Then he grabs a pail and small basket and steps outside.

I don the garments, the feel of actual clothing familiar and oddly right. A breeze drifts through the open windows, causing candle flames to dance, and I hear Emond whistling. Living so far from civilization must take a lover of simplicity, self-sustenance, I expect. Emond’s quarters are spare enough, his possessions mostly functional―pots, pans, knives; an old crossbow and bolts; a cobbler’s tools; a hatchet; a hammer; needle and thread. Then, on a shelf I notice a hand-sewn doll, in a white dress, with red yarn hair and green buttons for eyes. I stoop to examine it when Emond reenters, pail filled with water, basket laden with parsnips, radishes, and some kind of brown tuber, along with herbs and the cuts of rabbit meat. He sets it all beside the stove, then retrieves two dented tin cups and fills them from the water pail.

He hands me a cup. “Thank you,” I say. He only nods, downs his water in one go, and begins working on dinner.

As I go to drink, I catch sight of myself in the water’s reflection. My face is unfamiliar, but youthful. My hair is long overgrown, and snowy white, whiter than Emond’s, as if I’ve been through some terrible trauma.

I gulp down my water, and put the cup aside. Soon, the stew’s aroma fills the tiny space. I lay my head in my arms, lulled by the candlelight and warmth, trying not to think on my situation. My gaze drifts toward the shelf. “That doll,” I murmur, “where did it come from?”

“Saw that, did you?” he says, stirring with a wooden spoon. “My wife made it, for my daughter, years ago. It’s of the Storm Maiden, though not very good.”

“I thought you didn’t have any family.”

“Not anymore,” he says. “I used to be a soldier, fought to keep the war off my family’s doorstep. Lot of good it did, when creatures far worse than basilisks roam the countryside. The doll’s all that remains of them. Though it’s been so long now, seems like another life.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Do you always apologize for things you’re not responsible for?” he asks.

“I don’t know. It seemed the right thing to say, based on . . . wherever it is I come from.”

“In my years I’ve met a half dozen Fallen,” Emond says. “But none so polite as you.”

“I’m not certain I should take that as a compliment.”

“Aye,” he says, “it’s a compliment.” He ladles out some rabbit stew on a pair of wooden plates. He passes me one, along with a spoon. “How is it?” he asks after a few bites.

“Delicious,” I manage, mouth full. Despite simple ingredients, it has been cooked immaculately: the vegetables soft, the meat tender, the herbs permeating the dish.

“Cook for yourself long enough, you learn a few things,” Emond says.

I focus on shoveling in bites, only now realizing how deeply famished I am, beyond hunger, as if I have traveled innumerable miles. When I finish, Emond silently portions more onto my plate. This continues through another two servings, the old man no longer eating, just watching, amused. “What about you?” I ask, when he offers me the last remnants.

He laughs. “Go on. Finish.” He pours the rest onto my plate.

I happily oblige, and afterward Emond cleans the dishes and puts them aside to dry. I yawn, squinting in the low light, sleepy. But then the old man opens a side cabinet and withdraws a waterskin. He heads outside, holding the door for me.

“Thank you,” I say, following him into the yard. Not far beyond his doorstep lies the terminus of an overgrown country road, the narrow dirt lane finally disappearing into grass and shrubs. From here only one distant farm is visible, faint beneath the moonlight, a mere shadow.

Emond shuts the door, settles onto the ground. “Drink?” he asks me. I nod and he passes me the skin. I unstopper it, and take a swig. My mouth burns with sweet bitterness.

“It’s good,” I say.

“Mossberry brandy,” he says. “Make it myself.”

I hand him back the skin and he drinks again, the burgundy liquid dribbling through his beard. We indulge for several minutes, until the alcohol warmth spreads through my limbs. I splay in the grass, stars twinkling above in unfamiliar arrangements. Could Emond be correct? Am I truly a star fallen to earth? What about my previous existence? What else do his people believe?

“Earlier,” I say, “you mentioned this . . . Storm Maiden.”

“Aye,” he says. “Lady Celestine.”

“Is she a goddess here? Do you worship her?”

“Worship her? Some, aye,” he replies. “She’s Fallen, like yourself. A Heaven-sent warrior, priests will say. But I have seen your kind bleed and die like any other . . . So I don’t keep that sort of faith.” He smiles wistfully. “The Heavens are eternal, according to the Doctrine. And yet, even a star that burns for endless years can be snuffed out.”

“So you pray to the stars, then?” I ask.

“In these times, men pray to whatever gives them comfort. Drink, women, wealth . . . But yes, to the Heavens as well.” From his pocket he withdraws a worn wooden pan flute. He plays a few notes, partly on-tune. “This too belonged to my friend,” he says. “I’m better with the spear.”

Nevertheless, the old man plays on, the notes more sure as seconds pass. Between musical phrases he begins to sing, voice rough but sonorous, echoing across empty fields. He sings of a day when the sky burned; when calamity fell, tearing apart their world. He sang, “The First-Fallen with his companions stood ‘gainst chaos’s grim might; bloodshed, lives shed, a grief-forged blade driving back night. Fierce battle he won, but war’s not yet done, for the darkness still fights with the light.” He plays a few more notes, and as he lowers the instrument, a gust sweeps across the plain, followed by silence, like a man’s last breath.

“An old song and a true one,” he murmurs after a time. “Before you crossed to this side of the mountains, did you look the other way? At the sky?"

“Yes,” I say, remembering its frightening transparency.

“Keep going and eventually you’ll reach the edge of the world.”

“Worlds don’t have an edge to them,” I say, not quite believing my own words.

“This one does,” Emond says. “A sad and terrible place. A reminder of all we’ve lost. The rest was destroyed, long before even I was born. The First-Fallen and the sages preserved what remains, but even they are gone now, and their magic with them. We fend for ourselves.”

“You’ve suffered a lot,” I say.

Emond shrugs. “All men suffer. Here most don’t live to see as many springs as I have. I could die tomorrow, a tree might fall on me, still it would be a good and long life. Not so long as you might live, but enough. And,” he adds wearily, “enough conversation for one night, I think.” He stands, and I follow suit. “Go in, take the bed. I’ll sleep out here.”

“But—”

“You are my guest,” he insists. “It does me honor to aid one of the Fallen. It’s said those who do are blessed with good fortune.” He smiles.

“You’d well deserve it,” I reply. We shake hands. “Good night, Emond.”

“Good night, Luck,” he says. “And welcome.”

Next Chapter: iii.