The gates of Havenport rose like dark sentinels, their timber scarred by decades of storms and siege. Smoke from nearby hearths mixed with the scent of salt and seaweed, while gulls cried overhead. A sense of unease lingered in the narrow streets leading to the city; merchants whispered behind closed shutters, and the clatter of hammer and anvil fell irregularly, as if the entire town hesitated to move.
Elias kept close to Seraphina, eyes scanning every flicker of movement. She limped lightly, but her pace was steady, confident. He had followed her across forests, ridges, and now into this unfamiliar city, compelled by something he barely understood—a mixture of curiosity, instinct, and the thrill of the chase. He could have disappeared into the crowds, melted into shadows, but he didn't. She carried answers, knowledge, and danger intertwined—and the pull of discovery outweighed fear.
"Why is the city like this?" Elias asked, voice low.
Seraphina's eyes were sharp. "Valerius is here, though not in person. He has already sown fear. A prophecy." She gestured at the gates, at the clusters of guards and townsfolk. "They've closed the city. The magistrates believe a celestial omen is coming. They've been told to watch for a 'wandering star' and block all who might bring it near. Valerius is clever. He doesn't need to appear to control events; he moves pieces like a master."
Elias furrowed his brow. "A wandering star?"
"Planets," she said. "Most people think all points of light are fixed—eternal, unchanging. The Church preaches the heavens are immutable, part of the divine order. But some points drift: Mars, Venus, Jupiter. They move against the backdrop of the fixed stars. In a city ignorant of astronomy, a planet can become a portent of doom."
Elias nodded slowly. He had seen fragments of knowledge like this before. Hidden in scraps of banned texts tucked in the town's old library, whispered lessons from a scholar exiled for studying Copernican theory, even in markings left in alley walls. Forbidden knowledge had a way of surviving, if one had eyes to see. He traced a pattern in his mind, comparing what little he remembered to what was visible above Havenport.
The crowd thickened near the gates. Soldiers blocked the way, their shields locked, forming an almost unbroken line. Town criers shouted warnings of the wandering star; mothers pulled children back; merchants huddled behind barrels. Panic, subtle but potent, gripped the populace.
"See there?" Seraphina murmured, pointing. "Notice the pattern of their fear. Valerius has given them a direction to focus on: the port, the central square. But the omen—this wandering star—isn't what it seems."
Elias's gaze shifted upward. There it was: a bright point slightly off from the familiar stars, tracing a faint arc. He remembered the few lessons he had absorbed in secret: the wandering stars moved slowly, predictably, over weeks and months. Not in a single, sudden arc.
"It's Mars," he said, quiet but firm. "Not a messenger of doom."
Seraphina's hand brushed his shoulder, a small reassurance. "Explain it. Show them the difference between fixed stars and planets. That is your proof."
He stepped into the open alley, heart hammering. Drawing from memory, he traced constellations on the dusty wall with a stick—Orion, Taurus, and the belt of the Zodiac. Then he pointed to the moving dot. "This one does not belong," he said. "It drifts. Unlike the fixed stars, it follows a path we can predict. Watch."
Guards glanced up, uncertainty flickering across their faces. Citizens craned their necks. Elias's voice rose, firm and clear: "It moves against the fixed stars! It is a planet. There is no omen, no prophecy. Its path is knowable."
He sketched its arc carefully. The crowd leaned forward as he described its motion over the city, showing how it would traverse the square at midday. Hesitation rippled through the soldiers. Some muttered. One guard lowered his spear.
Seraphina moved beside him, whispering encouragement. "Predict the next position. Let them see the logic. That is the only way to dissolve their fear."
Elias nodded, heart racing. He visualized the planet's orbit, its position among the fixed stars, and projected it forward. "By this afternoon, it will be here, near the fountain," he said, pointing. "Observe, and you will see. The stars do not lie."
Slowly, disbelief turned to comprehension. Murmurs shifted from fear to curiosity. The magistrates approached, peering upward, their faces taut with confusion. When the planet drifted precisely as Elias predicted, a ripple of astonishment spread through the crowd.
One of the magistrates stepped forward, frowning but nodding. "It… it moves as he says. Not a portent. But a planet."
Seraphina smiled faintly. "Well done. You've given them reason where fear ruled."
The gates creaked, soldiers stepping aside, letting the city open again. Elias followed Seraphina into the streets beyond, relief mingled with lingering tension. Somewhere, far away, he knew Valerius was watching. He had anticipated their movements and manipulated events without appearing himself. That was the true danger—the Inquisitor did not need to confront them directly; he orchestrated fear, confusion, and expectation like a master musician.
Elias exhaled, feeling the weight of understanding settle. Knowledge was power—but only if one knew how to apply it. The stars were no longer just lights in the sky. They were keys, indicators, weapons. And the more he learned, the more capable he became of navigating the traps laid by Valerius.
Seraphina limped ahead, her pace steady. Elias followed, scanning both the streets and the sky above. He did not need to ask why he stayed close. Curiosity, duty, and the promise of discovery kept him moving forward. With each step, he understood that survival depended on perception, logic, and courage—the courage to challenge fear with reason.