Fields of green stretched under stars. No moon was out tonight. Just the cold light from scattered stars.

  Caleb sat with his knees drawn up. Arms wrapped tight. Staring at constellations he'd memorized for decades.

  Star elf. People always assumed that meant something mystical—communion with celestial bodies, prophecy written in light. In reality, it just meant he was good at navigation and didn't sleep much.

  Grass rustled. Heavy footsteps. Deliberate.

  "You know," Azmuth's voice came warm and slightly amused, "a little less sleep never killed anyone."

  "Didn't mean to wake you."

  "You didn't." The old man lowered himself carefully, lest his body lodge complaints about every position change. Still, his knees popped, and something in his lower back made a sound. "These old bones wake themselves these days. Bladder's a better alarm than any rooster"

  Caleb's mouth twitched upward for a second.

  Azmuth settled beside him with a grunt, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees. His beard was more gray than black now, wild and unkempt. Laugh lines carved deep around his amethyst eyes. His eyes tracked across Caleb's face like he was reading text.

  Neither spoke, as the world jogged ahead. Night insects made their small noises and grass rustled quietly as they slowly released the warmth of the day into air that tasted like autumn. Somewhere distant, something nocturnal made a kill.

  Minutes passed. Stars wheeled. Indifferent.

  "Would've expected this from Jacal," Azmuth said. "The midnight brooding. Contemplative solitude under the cosmos." He scratched his beard. "You though? You sleep like the dead. Three hours if we're lucky. But you sleep."

  Caleb's jaw tightened. His hands—folded around his knees—clenched. Elven fingers. Long. Pale in starlight. Gray, almost.

  "Something on your mind, boy?"

  Boy. Should have been condescending. From Azmuth it was just observation. Caleb was ninety-three. Azmuth was seventy-one.

  Math didn't matter. Age wasn't years. Scars. Experience. Azmuth's eyes were older than mountains.

  Caleb reached into his jacket. Slow. Like the motion hurt. Pulled out a letter.

  The paper was cheap, rough-textured, something you would find in a Road-side shop. The handwriting was mediocre and Functional. And across the page—smudges of water littered the message.

  He handed it over. Said nothing.

  Azmuth took it like it might dissolve. Unfolded carefully. Eyes moving across text, skimming. One eyebrow rose. Then the other. He refolded the paper carefully. Handed it back. Stroking his beard.

  Silence stretched again.

  "Do you need someone to listen," Azmuth asked slowly, "or do you want advice?"

  Caleb blinked. Looked at him before tentative replying. "Both?"

  "Both." Azmuth nodded. "All right. Tell me what happened. Your perspective. Take your time. I'm not—" He paused. "I'm here."

  Caleb stared at the stars. Tried to find words. They wouldn't line up. So he just started.

  "Eliza's been—" Stop. Try again. "We were at Fortress Monastery Echo. Three weeks. Training rotation. The last week there, she was different. Distant. Wouldn't meet my eyes. I'd try to talk and she'd suddenly remember something. Someone else. Somewhere else to be."

  "Ghosting," Azmuth supplied.

  "What?"

  "What they call it now. When someone stops responding. Stops being present. Treats you like you're a ghost" Wave of his hand. "Continue."

  "Right." Caleb's fingers traced patterns on his knee. Runic shapes. Nervous habit he'd had for decades. "We left the Monastery two days ago. Started traveling. This morning I found this." Held up the letter. "She left it with Jacal. Instructions to only give it to me after we'd started traveling."

  "After she couldn't be confronted."

  "Yeah." Bitter. The word tasted like copper.

  "What's it say?"

  "That over the past few weeks, resentment grew. From perceived slights. That I embarrassed her in front of some girls from another cohort. That I wasn't being a good friend." Caleb's voice went flat. The way voices did when reciting text burned into memory through pain. "That good friends don't make each other feel small. That she needs space. That maybe someday we can talk. But not now."

  "Did you?" Azmuth asked. "Embarrass her?"

  "I don't—" Caleb stopped. "I don't think so? We were talking to Cecilia and her friends. Swapping stories. Eliza was laughing. I was laughing. We were—" He cut himself off. "But that's the thing. The bully never remembers. The victim always does."

  "Maybe." Azmuth's voice carried weight Caleb couldn't parse. "But do you really think you're a bully?"

  "No." Caleb replied immediately. Then less certain: "But what if I'm wrong? What if I hurt her and didn't notice?"

  "Did you ask anyone else?"

  Caleb pulled out another letter. Shorter. Neater handwriting. "Cecilia. I asked if I'd said something wrong. If I'd embarrassed Eliza. If I'd been—" Swallow. "Cruel without realizing it."

  "What'd she say?"

  "She hadn't noticed anything. That we both seemed like great friends. That they enjoyed talking to us. That Eliza seemed happy. Though, the conversation had been weeks ago." Caleb's hands clenched. Knuckles white in starlight. "That she was surprised we weren't traveling together."

  Azmuth hummed. "Multiple perspectives. Yours. Cecilia's. Both say you didn't do what you're accused of."

  "But I could be wrong. We could be—"

  "Caleb." Firm. Not harsh. Firm. "I know you. Three years now. Watched you with dozens of people. You're not a bully. Not cruel." Pause. "Sometimes thoughtless. We all are. But not malicious."

  "You weren't there."

  "No." Azmuth inclined his head. Accepting the point. "But even if you were thoughtless. Even if you made a mistake." Another pause. "Did she give you a chance to fix it? Before the ghosting? Did she directly tell you she was uncomfortable?"

  Caleb was quiet. Stars wheeled. Cold. Distant. Beautiful in their indifference.

  "No."

  "So." Azmuth spread his hands. "You made a mistake—maybe, we don't know—and she didn't tell you. Didn't give you the chance to apologize. To make amends. To do better. Just cut contact. Then sent a letter after she'd left."

  "Maybe she tried. Maybe I didn't listen."

  "Did you?"

  "I..." Caleb's voice smaller now. "I don't remember her trying."

  "Then maybe she didn't." Azmuth's voice was gentle unlike his words. "Communication's two-way. If she never said there was a problem, how were you supposed to fix it?"

  "I should have noticed."

  "Should you?" Azmuth scratched his beard. Thoughtful. "How long did you know her?"

  "Eight weeks."

  "Eight weeks. And in those eight weeks, did she ever mention being upset? Hurt? Embarrassed?"

  "No."

  "Then how exactly were you supposed to know?"

  Caleb didn't answer. Couldn't. Because the answer was obvious. But saying it felt like making excuses.

  The silence returned. Around them the field breathed. Grass moving in wind that barely existed. Insects making small music. The distant sound of something dying.

  "There was this night," Caleb said suddenly. Voice rough. "Three weeks ago. Maybe four. She couldn't sleep. Said the stars reminded her of home. We sat outside the Monastery. Just talking. She was trying to remember constellation names. Getting them all wrong." He almost smiled. Didn't quite make it. "She'd point at Orion's Belt and call it the Three Sisters. Point at the Plough and call it the Wagon. I'd correct her. Gently. She'd laugh at herself. That laugh—"

  He stopped.

  Started again.

  "That laugh was... I don't know. Pure? Like she wasn't embarrassed. Just enjoying being wrong. Enjoying learning. We must have sat there for three hours. Maybe more. She kept asking questions. About navigation. About how I see the night sky differently. About whether stars actually mean anything or if we just impose meaning because we need it to."

  Azmuth listened. Said nothing.

  "And I remember thinking," Caleb continued, voice getting quieter, "that this was what friendship felt like. Not performing. Not trying. Just... being. With someone who asked questions because they cared about the answers. Who listened. Who—"

  His voice cracked.

  "Who was present." Caleb finally whispered.

  Silence. The stars march. Caleb stared at them like they'd betrayed him too.

  "And now I can't remember," he said, barely audible, "if she was laughing with me or at herself because I made her feel stupid. Can't remember if the questions were genuine or if she was just being polite. or if any of it was real."

  He stopped. Breath shaky.

  Azmuth's hand moved like he was going to reach out. Stopped halfway. Pulled back. Rested on his own knee instead.

  "The not-knowing's worse than the leaving," Caleb said. "Because if I hurt her, I can't fix it. Can't apologize. Can't do better. But if I didn't—if she just decided I wasn't worth the effort of a difficult conversation—"

  His jaw clenched.

  "Then what does that say about me? About us? About all the moments we shared?"

  "I don't know," Azmuth said quietly.

  Caleb looked at him. Surprised.

  "I don't know," Azmuth repeated, looking towards the stary night. "And that's the real torture, isn't it? The uncertainty."

  Something in Caleb's chest loosened. "Have you..." His voice came out rough. "Have you ever gone through something similar?"

  Azmuth's expression changed. Not much. Just a tightening around the eyes. Something old moving behind them. A humorless smile formed.

  "Yes."

  The word hung between them.

  Caleb waited.

  Azmuth closed his eyes, the starlight pressing faintly against his eyelids. "Her name was Seraphine. Demi-human. Cat and human hybrid. Paladin. Considerable power. We were in the same Order. Same rank. Both captains. Both leading units." His fingers drummed on his knee. Once. Twice. Stopped. "We were friends. Good friends. Or I thought we were."

  "What happened?"

  "I made a joke." Azmuth laughed, a hollow sound. "One joke. About her having a crush on a fellow captain I had introduced her to. Meant nothing by it. Just teasing. The way friends do. But she—" Azmuth took a deep breath before letting it out slowly "—didn't speak to me for three months. Not directly. Would talk to everyone around me. Discuss things requiring my input through intermediaries. Like I'd ceased to exist."

  "Did you apologize?"

  "Tried. Multiple times. She wouldn't hear it. Wouldn't respond to messages. Wouldn't meet with me." Cutting gesture. "Gone. Like I'd never mattered."

  "That's—"

  "Cruel?" Azmuth supplied. "Yeah. But here's what I eventually told myself: I would have given her a second chance without hesitation. Would have done whatever needed fixing. But she couldn't spare me a second glance. Wouldn't even tell me directly what I'd done wrong." His jaw clenched. Relaxed. "So why should I continue to reach out for a friendship she ended?"

  Pause.

  "That's what I told myself anyway."

  Caleb caught it. The hesitation. "You don't sound certain."

  "I'm not." Azmuth's voice went quieter, as his eyes reopened. "Some nights I wonder if I just gave up. If I mistook pride for self-respect. If I chose the easier story—that she was the problem—because the alternative was too hard." He looked at Caleb. "I'll never know. And that's the real torture. Not the loss. The uncertainty about whether I chose wisely or just chose the path that let me sleep at night."

  The words settled.

  "Is she still in the Order?"

  "Yes." Azmuth's voice went flat. "We see each other at gatherings. Official functions. She acts like nothing happened. Like we're cordial strangers who never knew each other well." He looked at Caleb. "And the worst part? Sometimes I still miss her. The friendship we had. Or thought we had. But then I remember: she wouldn't even talk to me. And I think—maybe I'm the asshole for not trying harder. Or maybe she is for not giving me the chance. Or maybe we're both just... people."

  Caleb absorbed this. "So it doesn't get easier."

  "Didn't say that." Azmuth said with a smile.

  "You didn't say it does either." Caleb countered.

  Azmuth laughed. Real this time. Brief. "You're right. Truth is—" He paused. Choosing words carefully. "It hurts like hell at first. Feels like betrayal. Like you weren't worth honest communication. But time does something. Not healing exactly. More like... distance. The ache becomes manageable."

  "How long?"

  "Depends. Could be months. Years. Could be you'll always feel something when you think about it." Shrug. "The ache doesn't go away. You just get better at carrying it."

  "That's not comforting."

  "No." Azmuth agreed. "It's not. But it's true."

  They sat with that. Stars wheeled. Cold. Distant.

  "Why do you want to be a good person?" Azmuth asked suddenly.

  The question came from nowhere. Caleb blinked. "What?"

  "The letter accuses you of not being a good friend. Earlier you worried about being a bully. You keep circling back to whether you're good." Azmuth looked at him directly. "So I'm asking: why do you want to be good?"

  "Because—" Caleb's mouth opened. Closed. "Because being good makes people like us? Or at least not hate us?"

  "Maybe." Azmuth's voice carried something Caleb couldn't parse. "But what defines being good?"

  "I don't know."

  "Exactly. Because it's different for everyone. What I think is good, you might think is weak. What you think is good, someone else might think is naive." He shifted. Joints cracking. "What Eliza thinks is good obviously isn't what you think is good. Or you wouldn't be out here."

  Caleb stared at his hands. Long fingers. Pale skin gray in starlight.

  "So whose standards are you trying to meet?" Azmuth continued. "Hers? Society's? Some abstract ideal that doesn't exist?" Pause and then a quiet sigh. "You can't do right by people who won't tell you what right looks like to them. How would I have known you needed both listening and advice if you hadn't told me?"

  The words landed. Heavy.

  But something in Caleb resisted. "So what—I just stop trying? Stop caring what others think?"

  "Didn't say that."

  "Then what are you saying?"

  "I'm saying—" Azmuth stopped. Started again. "I'm saying I don't have a good answer. I tell myself to focus on my own standards. To do right by my own definitions. But that's just another coping mechanism, isn't it? A way to make the isolation bearable."

  Caleb looked at him sharply. "What?"

  "People come and go in our lives, you know?" A slow breath exiting Azmuth."We come and go in theirs. Some stay for years. Some for months. Some for a single conversation that changes everything." He gestured at the field. The night. "And they leave in all kinds of ways. Peacefully. With anger. Like Eliza did—accusations without a chance to respond. Like Seraphine did—complete silence."

  "So what do we do?"

  "I don't know." Azmuth's voice was quiet. "I tell myself to value the time I have. The lessons learned. To remember without pretending it didn't hurt. To accept that the only person walking my entire path is me." He paused. "But I don't know if I believe that. If it's wisdom or just... what I need to tell myself to keep walking."

  Caleb felt something shift in his chest. "You don't believe it?"

  "Some days I do. Other days, I think it's all bullshit. That we tell ourselves connection matters because the alternative is unbearable. That we impose meaning on brief companionship because admitting it's just—" He gestured vaguely. "Just random chance and temporary alignment."

  "So it doesn't matter? None of it?"

  "Didn't say that either." Azmuth's voice carried exhaustion. "I'm saying I don't know. And I'm seventy-one years old. I just know that when Seraphine left, it hurt. Still hurts sometimes. And I tell myself that hurt means it mattered. But maybe that's just another lie I'm telling myself."

  "The only person who walks our entire path is us," Caleb repeated quietly. "That's not comforting. That's just... lonely."

  "Yes." Azmuth's agreement came immediate. Certain. "It is lonely. And maybe that's the truth we don't want to face. That life is lonely. That connection is—" He paused. Waving his hands as he searched for words. "a brief overlap. And when the overlap ends, we're alone again. Walking paths that only we can walk."

  "Then what's the point?"

  No one, but the night, responded for seconds.

  Azmuth looked at him. "I know that when I think about Seraphine, I'm glad we had those three years. Even though they ended badly. I'll never know if I was the asshole. But for three years, walking alone felt less lonely. And maybe that's enough."

  Caleb's throat felt tight. His eyes stung.

  "How do I stop feeling like I failed?" he asked. Voice barely audible.

  "You don't." Azmuth's voice was gentle. "Not completely. But you start recognizing—" He stopped. "No. That's bullshit. Let me try again." He took a breath. "You don't stop feeling like you failed. You just learn to carry it. And some days it's lighter. Some days it's crushing. But it's always there. The question of whether you could have done better. Whether you were the problem. Whether the connection was real or just something you both imagined."

  "That's worse than before."

  "I know." Azmuth almost smiled. "But it's more honest."

  They sat with that. The field breathed around them. Grass. Insects. The distant sound of something dying.

  "Does everyone go through this?" Caleb asked. "Losing people like this?"

  "Yes." Azmuth's voice certain now. "More than you'd think. Most people know someone who left badly or cut contact without explanation. You're not alone in this." Pause. "Even though you feel alone. Even though you _are_ alone. We're all alone. Just sometimes we're alone together for a while. And that makes it bearable."

  "Does it?"

  "I hope so." Azmuth's voice carried uncertainty.

  Caleb's eyes stung. He blinked. Stars blurred. One drop tracked down his cheek.

  "It's a lot," he said. "To take in."

  "It is." Azmuth agreed. "And you don't have to absorb it all now. The fact you're listening—that's enough. The fact you're thinking about it. Processing. That's enough."

  "You don't sound like you believe that."

  "I don't know what I believe." Azmuth stood. Joints creaking as he offered a hand. "But I know sitting out here all night won't help. Come on. Let's get some sleep. Or try to."

  Caleb took the offered hand. Let himself be pulled up. Grass clung to his pants. He brushed it off.

  "Thank you," he said. "For listening."

  "Don't thank me yet." Azmuth's voice carried something dark. Tired. "Everything I said might be wrong. Might just be how I cope. You'll figure out your own answers. Or you won't. Either way, you keep walking."

  Caleb only nodded.

  They walked back toward the inn. Behind them, the field stretched empty under stars that didn't care. The grass held their impressions for a moment. Two shapes. Side by side.

  Then wind erased them.

  Caleb looked back once. Saw nothing.

  "Does any of this matter?" he asked quietly as he stretched his hand around himself.

  Azmuth was silent for several steps. Then: "I don't know. But, I hope so."

  For a moment, Caleb stared at the stars that had grown to be his most familiar friends over the decades. He almost smiled. "Yeah. I hope so too."

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. The inn appeared. Warm light through windows. The sound of Jacal snoring. The smell of food from the kitchen below.

  They went inside. The door closed. The night continued without them. Stars wheeled as the world marched forward. Indifferent. Cold. Beautiful in their complete lack of care about anything happening below.

  And in the field, the grass slowly straightened. Erasing the last evidence that anyone had been there.

  That anyone had sat together under the stars.

  That any of it had happened at all.