The sky above the valley looked wrong.
It wasn't grey, not quite. It was the colour of metal left too long in the rain — dull, heavy, refusing to fade. The air still smelled faintly of blood and burnt oil, and the fog clung low, curling around the corpses that hadn't yet been buried.
Celeste moved through the silence, her boots sinking into mud that gleamed dark red in the false morning light. Around her, Lydia's soldiers worked mechanically, dragging the fallen into shallow pits, stacking weapons in neat, blood-slick piles. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The rhythm of grief had already become routine.
The boy's body had been taken first.
She'd made sure of that.
He'd been just a child — maybe sixteen, maybe younger — eyes still open, tears frozen on his cheeks. She'd wanted to close them herself, but her hands wouldn't stop shaking. In the end, one of the soldiers had done it for her, gentle but expressionless, as if it were just another task.
Now she moved among the wounded, her Star's light faint at her fingertips. It didn't glow as it used to — not warm, but pale and tired, like candlelight fighting against fog. She wrapped bandages, muttered small comforts, whispered prayers that felt hollow even as they left her lips.
When she finally straightened, her back ached. Her gaze drifted toward the far end of camp.
Nhilly stood there, surrounded by soldiers who watched him like disciples. He was smiling again — that same radiant, practiced smile. He spoke easily, confidently, his tone a melody that pulled the air back into rhythm. Every word he said was perfect, every gesture measured. The men laughed when he laughed, straightened when he nodded.
He looked like a god among them.
But Celeste could see the cracks.
The slight tremor when he lifted his hand to gesture. The way his shoulders tensed every time someone said "hero." The small pause between sentences, as if he were listening for a cue that never came.
When the soldiers dispersed, he stood still for a long time, staring down at the patch of ground where the boy had fallen. The smile slipped just a little — not gone, just bent, fragile at the edges.
Kael approached him, speaking in low tones. She couldn't hear what they said, only saw Nhilly nod, too quickly, too brightly. Then he turned away, heading toward his tent with the poise of someone who couldn't afford to stumble.
Celeste felt something twist in her chest.
He was still acting.
And she didn't know if anyone was left beneath the mask.
Night fell heavy over the camp.
The sky bled out its colours until only faint stars remained — distant, unmoving, watching.
Kael's tent glowed dimly near the centre, the only light still burning after the campfires died. Celeste had gone to rest; Eli was on watch. The wind moved just enough to make the canvas whisper.
Inside, Kael sat at a small table littered with maps. His hand rested on his sword, though he wasn't expecting danger. He was waiting.
The flap opened.
Nhilly entered quietly, his expression calm but his eyes tired — the kind of tired that doesn't come from lack of sleep. He still wore that faint smile, but it felt smaller now, less performance and more habit.
"You sent for me?" Nhilly asked.
Kael gestured to the seat opposite him. "Sit."
Nhilly obeyed, lowering himself gracefully, folding his coat behind him with the care of someone used to keeping appearances. For a moment, neither spoke. Only the faint hum of the candle filled the space between them.
Kael broke the silence. "You shouldn't have killed that boy."
Nhilly's smile didn't change, but his gaze shifted to the side. "He tried to kill Celeste."
"That's not what I meant."
Nhilly exhaled softly, the faintest tremor in his breath. "Then what did you mean?"
"You didn't have to make it a performance," Kael said quietly. "You said 'ta-da.'"
Nhilly's eyes flickered — shame, irritation, exhaustion all tangled together. "I didn't think about it."
"That's the problem."
Another pause. The candle crackled.
Finally, Nhilly leaned back, eyes drifting toward the tent's ceiling. "Pretending's hard," he said. "But I'm used to it."
Kael frowned. "Used to it?"
Nhilly's voice softened. "It's easier here. Everyone's already pretending."
He smiled faintly at Kael's puzzled look. "You see it, don't you? The soldiers act brave, the priests act devout, Celeste acts like she isn't afraid. You act like you can still lead. We're all just… characters in someone's favourite story."
Kael's tone was quiet. "And you?"
Nhilly hesitated. "I'm the one who remembers it's fiction."
The words hung between them — not bitter, not dramatic, just matter of fact.
Kael leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "What were you like before this? Before the Constellations, the scenarios?"
Nhilly laughed once, short and soft. "You mean on Earth?"
"Yeah."
"Boring," Nhilly said. "I worked in an office. Paperwork, numbers. A job my father's friend got me — nepotism at its finest. I hated every second of it, but I smiled. Told jokes. Went out for drinks. Had plenty of friends."
He paused, eyes unfocused. "I just wasn't one of them."
Kael tilted his head. "You didn't fit in?"
Nhilly's lips quirked. "I did. Perfectly. That was the problem."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "I acted like them — laughed when they laughed, cared about things I didn't care about. It worked. They liked me. But when I went home, I'd look in the mirror and feel like I'd stolen someone else's face."
Kael said nothing. He didn't need to.
Nhilly went on, voice quieter now. "I used to get sick a lot. Couldn't eat properly. Doctor said it was stress. Therapist said I had sociopathic tendencies." He smiled faintly, almost amused. "I think I just got tired of pretending I had feelings left."
The candlelight flickered across his face, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes. "By the end, I couldn't look at myself without wanting to throw up. Every part of me felt… rotted. Like my body was catching up to what my mind already knew."
Kael's voice softened. "That you were alone?"
Nhilly met his gaze, the smile gone now. "That I'd always been."
Silence. Long, heavy, human silence.
Then Kael said quietly, "I get it."
Nhilly blinked. "You do?"
Kael nodded. "I wasn't lonely, not exactly. I just never stopped pretending either."
Nhilly tilted his head, curious.
"I grew up in Cairo, Egypt." Kael said. "Hot, noisy, alive. The city never shut up. I was one of those kids who wanted to be everything — a soldier, a hero, a ninja." He smiled faintly. "I used to sneak around the rooftops with a towel tied around my neck, convinced I was some assassin from the old stories."
Nhilly chuckled. "Let me guess — fell off a few times?"
"Twice. Broke my arm once." Kael laughed quietly, the sound rare but real. "But I was popular, I guess. Soccer with the neighbourhood kids, late-night food stalls, music. Everything was loud and bright."
"Sounds nice," Nhilly said.
"It was," Kael replied, then added, "until it wasn't."
Nhilly leaned back. "What happened?"
Kael's gaze drifted to the candle. "The disappearances started. One of my best friends vanished. Then another. People stopped playing outside. Stopped talking. The laughter went first."
His tone lowered. "By the time it reached us, I think I already knew it would take me too. I just didn't say it."
He smiled faintly. "Guess I'm not great at being honest either."
For a while, they just sat there — two men who had seen too much, sharing pieces of lives that didn't exist anymore. The candle burned lower, its flame bending slightly in the still air.
Nhilly broke the quiet again. "You know what I hated most about Earth?"
Kael raised an eyebrow.
"The masks," Nhilly said. "Not mine — everyone else's. How easily they wore them. How natural it looked. I thought I hated people because they were cruel or selfish, but really, I hated them because they made pretending look easy."
Kael studied him for a long moment. "You really think everyone was pretending?"
Nhilly smiled faintly. "Don't you?"
Kael didn't answer.
Nhilly's gaze drifted to the sword resting beside the table. "Here's the thing," he said softly. "On Earth, pretending broke me. My body started to rot, my mind cracked. But here…" He lifted his hand, palm up, watching faint light ripple across it. "Here, pretending keeps me alive."
Kael's voice was quiet, careful. "That's not living."
Nhilly laughed under his breath. "Tell that to the gods."
The conversation drifted after that — lighter now, smaller stories filling the gaps. Kael told him about a soccer match that ended in a street brawl and how he'd lost his shoes running from the police. Nhilly talked about a coworker who used to leave anonymous motivational notes in everyone's lockers, only to find out she'd been fired months after.
They laughed — genuinely laughed. It wasn't loud or dramatic, just soft, weary sound shared between two people who needed to remember how.
When the laughter faded, Kael's eyes softened. "You miss it, don't you?"
Nhilly tilted his head. "What?"
"Earth. Life. Even the pretending."
Nhilly considered that. "Sometimes," he admitted. "I miss how heavy it felt. The pain, the rot, the hunger. It was… real. Here, everything's too clean. Even dying looks rehearsed."
Kael smiled faintly. "You really hate the stage, don't you?"
"I don't hate it," Nhilly said softly. "I just wish someone would let me stop acting."
Kael didn't answer. His eyes lingered on Nhilly's face a little longer, as if searching for the person still hidden beneath the mask. But eventually, exhaustion won. His head sank against his folded arms, and within minutes, his breathing slowed.
Nhilly sat there for a while, staring at the flickering candle between them.
He smiled.
Not the hollow grin. Not the polished mask.
A small, tired, human smile.
He whispered, "Thanks for the talk, Kael."
Then he stood, stepping quietly into the night.
Outside, the camp had gone still. The moon hung low, pale and motionless. The soldiers slept in neat rows, their armour catching the faint glow of the fires. From a distance, they looked like statues.
Nhilly walked slowly between them, the faintest trace of warmth still on his face.
A few guards stirred as he passed. One saluted, eyes wide with reverence. Nhilly hesitated — just a second — before the mask slid back into place.
"Ah," he said lightly, voice smooth again. "The night watch. Brave souls, keeping the stage lit."
The soldiers smiled nervously. "It's an honour, Hero Nhilly."
He grinned wider. "No — the honour's mine."
When he walked away, their smiles followed him. Their whispers of prayer trailed behind like applause.
Only when he reached his tent did the air finally loosen.
He slipped inside, closing the flap. The candle on his desk still burned faintly, its flame bending toward him. Draco's Shroud leaned against the wall, black and silent.
Nhilly stood there for a moment, breathing.
Then he moved.
Slowly at first — a step, a turn, a sweep of the arm. The same motions he'd memorised from the old text in the library. The dance wasn't graceful tonight. It wasn't for practice. It was for silence.
He turned again, feet brushing against the floor in soft rhythm, sword drawn but not raised. The candlelight swayed with him, painting long shadows that stretched and folded like ghosts.
"What do you think?" he murmured to the blade. "Better tonight?"
No answer came.
He exhaled, a quiet laugh slipping through his teeth. "You're a terrible critic."
His steps slowed. The rhythm faltered. He let the sword lower until the tip touched the floor.
For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing, the world outside reduced to still air and faint wind.
The mask was gone now — no smile, no poise. Just exhaustion, and something almost peaceful underneath it.
He set the sword aside, climbed onto the bed, and lay on his back. His eyes traced the ceiling, following the flicker of the candlelight.
"For a moment," he whispered, "I forgot there was an audience."
The flame dimmed.
The night held its breath.
And for the first time in years, Nhilly slept, like a baby.