Constellations Poetry Novels & Stories

Even the night sounds backed away, insects cutting off mid trill like they had been warned. Rethan lifted his head slowly. His ears flattened. “That is not one of ours.” “No,” I said. “It is older.” The stars overhead flickered again. Not blinking out this time. Shifting. Constellations slid like they were being nudged into new places by a hand that did not care how long humans had memorized them. The sight made my stomach drop hard enough that I had to brace myself against Kaden’s arm. Darius swore softly. “That should not be possible.”

Above us, the new constellation pulses once (like a heartbeat). Below us, Aerie Academy sings our names in a thousand voices. The war lasted less than an hour. The victory will last forever. First week of college? We just rewrote the sky. And classes haven’t even started yet.

Emotions pour into the open sky, A symphony of heartache, a whispered sigh, Love's complexities, bittersweet, In the shadows, our souls do meet. I curl up in the cradle's embrace, Thoughts like constellations in space, A canvas of feelings, a universe to mend, Longing for a love that seems to transcend. The night winds whisper my name, Echoing my longing, my silent claim, My heart, a celestial light in the dark, Guiding me through love's intricate arc. In the night's quietude, I find release, My tears are a testimony, a plea for peace,

I take a step back and look down at the head, then the corpse. The glass shards from the barrier all rain down now. I use my arm to block them from getting into my eyes. The sound they create has a melodic note that reminds me of the Menae all singing together. I stand still, letting them cut into my skin. When they finally stop, I look up. I don’t know where the light source for the throne room comes from, but the night sky above us is filled with foreign constellations. The stars seem to move in an elegant dance of their own accord. I imagine Kas telling a story and using magic to make the constellations move at her will.

Ilsa’s sleeping with her back to me, knife sheathed, but fingers twitching like she’s dreaming of blood. Elliott lies beside me, one arm flung across my ribs, his warm breath on my collarbone. The moment should be soft. But it isn’t. Because the sky is off. I blink and rub my eyes, then look again. There’s no moon. Only stars. Far too many of them. Bright and packed together tightly. Like someone took the constellations I grew up with and shook them in a jar, adding a few million before throwing them back. “Elliott,” I whisper. “Can you see this too?”

Tarnished and wooden is this house, Old and rickety, the yard, sodden with black mud that sticks and itches like lice, dark and smelly, yet the sky is blue, pale blue, it is ours, ours, ours. Strife hath no shade and shame no tinge. Anger is crismon, and green is fun, but the sky is blue, pale blue, and it is ours, ours, ours, We make certain that the constellations are ours. Ours. Ours—Amanda.

The wound in the sky widened until it no longer looked like a tear but a second horizon, jagged and hungry. The stars bled through it, wrong and twisted, constellations that had never belonged to this world forming shapes that watched, judged, and beckoned. From that wound, the Hollow poured.

I am solitary now on the veranda of our house. My hand is holding the goblet that has red wine in it. I stare at the heavens, where stars are scattered in no particular order. The big dipper is making a difference among the constellations that are formed in the sky. It looks wonderful. It looks peaceful. It looks like the peace I am looking for, but it seemed to be taken away from me as the falling leaves took it away from the tree.

The Night the Stars Wept passed into memory as gently as it had come. But for Luna—for the packs—for the world—it marked a fault line. Before. After. On one side, an age of localized darkness and isolated light. On the other, an era where the heavens themselves had acknowledged change, had loosed old bindings, had offered up a Seed to the wolf who stood at the crossing. Tragedy and beauty, braided. Endings and beginnings, written not in ink but in fire across the dome of the sky. Luna lay awake long after the den quieted, watching the new constellations through the half-open roof vent.

The constellations on the walls projected visions of cosmic revelations waiting to be discovered. As Victoria and Alexander traversed the celestial landscapes, a celestial nexus appeared on the cosmic horizon. The symbols on the walls guided them towards this nexus, indicating a convergence point where the celestial energies resonated in their purest form. The constellations aligned with the nexus, creating a cosmic tapestry that shimmered with the interconnected destinies of the astral realms.