Chadwick Rye

Astrid Nightwhisper stood at the highest parapet of Ravenskeep Tower, her silver-streaked hair dancing in the twilight breeze like wayward strands of moonlight. Below, the city of Winterhold spread in concentric rings of amber lamplight and shadow, its inhabitants scurrying through the last errands of day like ants unaware of the cosmic drama unfolding above their heads.

She caressed the ancient brass telescope before her, its metal cool against her fingertips despite hours of use. The instrument had been her father’s, and his father’s before him—seven generations of Nightwhispers who had maintained the astronomical records of the realm. Celestial guardians, they called her family in the old texts. Keepers of the sky’s memories.

Tonight, the rare alignment of the twin moons would happen just after midnight. Already she had prepared her specialized ink—crushed moonstone suspended in distilled dewdrops—for recording the event in the great ledger that documented every significant celestial occurrence for the past three centuries.

But as she gazed upward at the early evening stars just beginning to emerge against the deepening blue canvas, a familiar ache settled in her chest. A yearning that had been her constant companion since childhood.

“Lady Astrid?” The voice belonged to Corvus, her apprentice, a gangly boy of fifteen winters with a mind as quick as his eyes were keen. “The Council messenger delivered this.” He held out a sealed parchment bearing the Lord Magistrate’s insignia.

Astrid accepted it with a sigh, already knowing its contents before breaking the wax seal. Another request for astronomical calculations to determine auspicious dates for some political alliance or royal journey. Another demand that would keep her bent over charts and mathematical instruments during precious nighttime hours when she could be watching the sky itself.

“Let me guess,” she said, scanning the elegant script. “Lord Hargrove requires celestial favorability readings for his daughter’s wedding?”

Corvus nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Three different potential dates. He requires your assessments by tomorrow’s council meeting.”

Astrid folded the parchment carefully, tucking it into the pocket of her midnight-blue robes. “Of course he does.” She turned back to the telescope, making a minute adjustment to its position. “Heaven forbid anyone in this realm plan anything without consulting the stars—though they seldom actually look at them.”

The apprentice moved to the observation table, where star charts lay anchored against the evening breeze by polished river stones. “Shall I begin the wedding calculations while you prepare for the lunar alignment?”

His eagerness to help touched her, yet Astrid found herself shaking her head. “No. Tonight you’ll join me at the telescope.” She gestured toward the eastern horizon, where the first moon would soon rise. “The calculations can wait until morning.”

Surprise registered on the boy’s features. “But the Magistrate—”

“Will receive his predictions in time,” she finished firmly. “But tonight, we observe. Actually observe, not just record and measure.”

The words emerged more forcefully than she’d intended, carrying the weight of decades of frustration. How many nights had she spent hunched over tables calculating celestial positions rather than witnessing their beauty? How many dawns had passed while she compiled reports rather than watching the sun paint the heavens in colors no earthly artist could reproduce?

Corvus must have sensed the undercurrent in her voice, for he studied her with unusual intensity. “Master Nightwhisper, may I ask a personal question?”

Astrid nodded, her attention still partly fixed on calibrating the telescope’s tracking mechanism.

“What do you wish you could do more every day?”

The question—so simple yet so profound—caught her off guard. She straightened, wincing slightly as her spine protested years of bending over instruments and charts. The honest answer rose immediately to her lips, though she had never voiced it aloud.

“Look up,” she whispered. “Simply look up.”

Her hand swept toward the darkening sky, where stars now emerged in earnest, ancient light finally reaching her eyes after journeys spanning incomprehensible distances. “Not to calculate planting times or validate royal horoscopes or determine auspicious wedding dates. Not to map or measure or quantify.”

Astrid moved away from the telescope, leaning against the ancient stone battlement where countless astronomers before her had stood watch. “I wish I could simply witness the sky—its vastness, its patterns, its breathtaking beauty—without always needing to extract practical value from it.”

The admission felt like setting down a burden she’d carried so long she’d forgotten its weight. She had become Royal Astronomer at twenty-three, after her father’s unexpected death. For thirty years since, her relationship with the heavens had been primarily professional—dutiful observation, meticulous documentation, precise calculation.

“When I was very young,” she continued, her voice softening with memory, “my father would sometimes take me to a meadow beyond the city walls. We’d bring no instruments, no charts, no purpose except to lie on our backs and watch the stars wheel overhead. He knew the stories of every constellation, not just their navigational significance or seasonal relevance.”

Corvus listened attentively, his young face solemn in the gathering darkness.

“In those moments, I felt… connected to something greater than myself, greater than this kingdom, greater than all human concerns.” Her hand moved unconsciously to the silver pendant at her throat—a perfect circle intersected by wavy lines, the ancient symbol of celestial harmony. “That feeling of wonder, of humble recognition of beauty beyond comprehension—that’s what I wish for more.”

The first moon crested the horizon then, its massive silver disc casting new shadows across the tower parapet. Soon its smaller golden sister would follow, beginning the rare dance that astronomers and astrologers across the realm would document with scientific precision.

“Tonight,” Astrid said with sudden decision, “we will record the alignment as required. But afterward, we’re going somewhere.”

“Going?” Corvus echoed, clearly confused. “Where would we go after midnight?”

A smile transformed Astrid’s features, softening the lines that years of squinting at distant stars had etched around her eyes. “To a meadow beyond the city walls. To lie on our backs and watch the stars without purpose or expectation. To remember why we became astronomers before we became royal servants.”

Understanding dawned on the apprentice’s face, followed by a flicker of anticipation. “Is that… permitted?”

“The stars don’t belong to the kingdom, Corvus, though sometimes I forget that myself.” Astrid turned her gaze fully skyward, where thousands of stars now punctuated the darkness. “Tonight, we’ll do our duty to the crown. But afterward, we’ll remember our duty to ourselves—to wonder, to marvel, to simply be witnesses to glory.”

As the second moon began its ascent, Astrid felt something long dormant stir within her chest—not the familiar weight of responsibility, but the lighter, more buoyant sensation of anticipation. For a few precious hours after their official duties concluded, she would reclaim what she wished for most—the simple, profound joy of looking upward not as Royal Astronomer Nightwhisper, but as Astrid, daughter of the stars, gazing homeward.

The alignment would be documented in the great ledger, as all celestial events had been for centuries. But the feeling of lying in dewy grass, watching infinity unfold above without agenda or expectation—that would be recorded only in the private constellation of her heart, where the truest star maps had always been kept.