“Cowards,” Buttermilk Copkie spat as he looked at the sky, the word tasting like bile. His tired eyes scanned the endless blackness of the sky, searching against his own will for the smallest pinprick of light. The faintest, most miserable fragment of a promise.

He remembered the lectures: the Guardian Star always watched over their knights. But when his own destiny curdled and he was cast out, where were the stars? Hidden by nepotism and the supposed sanctity of the Citrus Order.

But no matter how long he stared, how desperately the lonely core of him wished for a sign, there was nothing. Only the pitch-black abyss, refusing to offer even the smallest, cruelest glimmer.

He let out a short scoff and finally dropped his gaze to the dirt. “Good. Stay hidden. I don’t need your judgment or your light. I will forge my own path in the dark.” His face hardened, the bitterness settling back into place, eclipsing the faint, momentary flicker of longing. He hefted his cross, the weight of his resolve heavier than the weapon. The stars were gone, and he was alone, just as he deserved.