𓆩♱𓆪

The night stretched wide and endless, the field rippling with tall grass that shimmered like molten silver beneath the moonlight. Each stalk bent and swayed as if the earth itself were breathing, their tips crowned in dew that caught the glow of the stars. The sky was vast and open, a black canvas pricked with cold fires, so clear that the constellations looked close enough to touch.

Excalibur sat with his back against a weather-worn stone, its surface smooth where time and wind had carved away its edges. His golden armor, normally radiant in sun or firelight, had been muted by the dark; it gleamed only faintly in pale tones of silver and shadow. His helmet lay beside him in the grass, reflecting the stars as though it had swallowed a piece of the sky. Without it, his hair stirred in the breeze, and his face, lined by years of discipline, softened beneath the calm of night. For once, the weight of his duty felt far away.

The air was cool, filled with the fragrance of wildflowers — sharp lavender, sweet clover, faint hints of crushed mint carried from the meadow’s edge. A chorus of crickets trilled softly, woven into the whisper of wind that rustled the grass. For all its quiet, the world felt alive.

Excalibur’s gauntleted hand rested over one knee. He tilted his chin back, eyes fixed on the stars, and began to count them. “One… two… three…” His voice was low, gravelly from disuse, and each number seemed to vanish into the field around him rather than rise into the open air. His finger lifted slightly, tracing paths between the constellations, as if pinning them in place. “…twenty-seven.”

The numbers fell into rhythm, and with them, memory. He had not done this since boyhood — lying awake in the yard outside his barracks, tracing stars until sleep came. Back then, he had told himself each one was proof that gods were lies. For if the heavens were ruled by deities, why would they be scattered with so many cold, distant flames? Why would they demand his faith when the sky itself offered none?

A wind passed, cooler this time, carrying a hush across the meadow. The tall grass bent and shivered, and the stars above seemed to flicker, as though some unseen hand had stirred the heavens.

Count higher.

The words slid across the silence. They did not strike like thunder, nor echo like command, but they pressed against him all the same, firm as a hand at his throat. His breath caught. His lips pressed thin, jaw tightening until the leather straps of his armor groaned with the strain.

His gaze fell. The sword at his side glimmered faintly, golden edge catching the starlight. In its mirrored surface, the constellations wavered — not steady pinpoints, but shifting sparks that pulsed as if aware, as if watching.

Excalibur forced his eyes back upward. His voice was harsher now, driven out like a blow. “…thirty-two.” His throat worked. “…thirty-three. Thirty-four.”

The numbers faded into the field. The night did not answer with thunder or song. Only the steady rhythm of crickets, only the ceaseless sway of the meadow.

He let out a slow breath and leaned his head back against the stone. His eyelids drifted shut. For a moment — only a moment — there was no order, no Spawn, no whispers clawing at the edges of thought. Only him, the grass, the stars, the silence.