The Needle Forest hummed with the wind, metallic pillars singing quietly under the night sky’s blanket. Starlight caught in the ridges and scars of each iron column, giving them a silver glow—ghostly, ancient, and poignant. The barren earth beneath was chilled by the late hour, and even the frogs and insects seemed to hush, sensing the gravity of this night.

Mele, the legendary Horizon’s Roar, lay half-curled in the shadow of these sentinels, so vast that the blanket of sky above felt smaller than his tranquil presence. His torso rose and fell in slow rhythms, framed by the warped silhouettes of the offering-pillars—the finery of a protector’s solitude.

He stirred when he heard the creak and scramble of a wooden cart, wheels crunching over pebbles as a small procession approached. The children’s footsteps and defeated breath broke the silence; their torch flickered bravely in the wind. Miroya, fierce in spirit, led them—his hair a wild nest, eyes red from worry. Beside him walked Ani, smaller, but pushing sturdily alongside. Two more village boys helped keep the cart guided straight, their hands pressed white-knuckled to its sides. In the cart, bundled tight in white blankets, lay Llie—her breaths fragile and rare, eyes shining impossibly bright in the starlight.

Miroya called out first. “Hey Mele! We brought Llie, she says she wants to see you!”

Mele flinched, his broad back turned. There was a tremor in his voice that made him seem suddenly, achingly, human. “Can’t a guy rest in peace..?” he rumbled, as if clinging to routine to keep his composure.*

But Miroya stomped over, tugging at fury to hide his fear. “Shut up! The reason we had to come so late is cause she doesn’t have much time left! Aren’t you supposed to be her friend? You jerk!”

Mele’s massive hands curled on his crossed legs, fists trembling—fighting tears that glimmered in his eyes, though none of the children could see it in the dark. His head lowered, shadowed with regret. “Is this really goodbye?” he asked, voice raw—so softly it sounded as though it could crack him open.

Llie, delicate but fierce, stirred from her rest. “Hey…! I’m so glad you’re awake..”

“Uh, I couldn’t sleep,” Mele replied with a crooked, false grin, “I was over here counting my beard hairs like they were sheep.”

Llie’s smile flickered. “I wanted to say… that I’m grateful. Our time together was so much fun.”

In that moment, the ground trembled—Mele slammed his hand beside them, dust spiraling up, making Miroya stumble back, startled. “Well,” Mele barked, blustering to disguise his pain* “seeing as how you’re about to bite it, guess I’ll grant your last request.”

Turning, he scooped up the cart and the gathered children—so small within the vastness of his grip—and brought his face closer, just enough for them to see the battle raging behind his eyes. His lips curled in a cocky yet trembling smile. “Go on, speak up!”

Llie’s voice, softer than the wind, floated upward: “I wanna see the stars. Like before.”

“Oh yeah?” Mele grinned, crouching until his knees dug trenches in the dirt, face level with the fragile child bundled in blankets. “One last ride on my shoulder?” He let out a laugh—a thunderclap that rolled through the forest, shaking dust from the pillars and scattering loose stones. The other children caught their breath, giggling through their awe as even fear felt small this close to their giant.

“If you like the stars, then I’ll shoot down some,” Mele said, voice low and steady as a promise “Decorate your grave with them, if I have to.”

With uncharacteristic tenderness for such a colossal being, Mele eased the cart and the children into his enormous, protective hands “The stars are close, but you won’t know if you can grab one unless you try.” His voice was both challenge and comfort, ancient and childlike at once.

He stood with care, impossibly tall—a silhouette against the celestial dome, the children gasp as they sat in his hands, Llie reaching up to the sky as she rested in the cart, before slowly her eyes closed.