For twenty years Vael Lorne had steered by the stars, and tonight the sky had turned to stone. He stood at the bow of his small boat and stared up at gray. No stars. No moon. Only mist, thick and cold, pressing down on the water. He rolled up his sleeves and looked at the map inked across both forearms. Half a star path, drawn in old scars. The other half was missing. That missing piece was the road home, and he could not draw it without the sky. He lifted the broken compass from his chest. The needle spun and would not settle, the same as always. He had stopped trusting it years ago. "Give me one star," he said to the mist. "Just one." The mist gave him nothing. His boat drifted where the current willed. Every hour without stars carried him farther from any path he knew. He struck a flint and lit his lantern. The flame barely reached past the rail. Then, ahead on the black water, another light answered. Small points of white, moving. Vael gripped the rail and squinted. A stag walked across the surface of the sea. Its hooves touched the water and did not sink. Across its dark coat glowed clusters of white marks, joined by faint lines. Vael's breath caught. He knew those shapes. They were stars. Real constellations, burning on living skin. He leaned closer and traced the patterns with his eyes. Near the stag's shoulder sat a cluster he had never seen in any sky. Seven points, bent like a fishhook, pulling toward a bright single star. His hands began to shake. He looked from the animal to his own bare forearm, to the empty gap in his scarred map. The shapes matched the edges on his skin. The stag carried the missing part. "Wait," Vael said. He grabbed his knife and a strip of sailcloth. He worked fast, copying the fishhook and the lone bright star onto the cloth in charcoal. The stag stood still and let him work. Its blue eye watched him without fear. Vael's charcoal snapped. He kept drawing with the stub, line by line, until the missing constellation lay complete on the cloth in his lap. When he looked up to thank the creature, it had turned away. It stepped deeper into the mist, its lights dimming with each stride. "No," Vael called. "I need to know where." The stag did not stop. In moments the glowing marks vanished, and the fog closed like a door. Vael held the sailcloth to the lantern. He had the shape now. He had the missing piece at last. But a drawing was not a direction. He knew the constellation. He did not know which way it pointed, or where in the drowned sky it belonged. To read it, he would have to follow the stag into the mist, and it was already gone.