Weekly tales #459
The charter of Lumestra and When the stars move
The charter of Lumestra
Genre: gaslamp fantasy
Word count: 785
On the eleventh day of Frostwane, in the year of the High Reckoning, the Grand Assembly of the Empire of Solenora ratified the Act of Sundering. By a single stroke of quill upon parchment, the Province of Verdellan was split in twain, and the new Territory of Lumestra was born.
From the gallery of the Assembly Hall, Ellara Vey, junior archivist to the Ministry of Histories, watched the ceremony unfold. Her ink-stained fingers clutched the railing as she strained to hear every word. The chandeliers above her, dripping with crystal prisms, scattered gaslight into shards of gold and sapphire across the chamber.
“…and let it be decreed,” proclaimed Loder Chancellor Marrin, his voice echoing, “that the lands east of the River Glast shall henceforth stand as the Territory of Lumestra, under its own appointed governor and council, in the service to the Empire and in defence of our arcane borders.”
The crowd exhaled in a hush, as though the mere utterance of the new name carried the weight of thunder.
Ellara felt her chest tighten. Lumestra. The name glimmered in her mind like the shifting glow of etherlight. Maps would have to be redrawn, histories rewritten, and trade routes renegotiated. But more than that, Lumestra was rumoured to be a place thick with wild sorcery, a place where the veil between the mundane and the arcane lay dangerously thin.
When the Assembly adjourned, Ellara slipped into the flow of scholars and officials pouring into the marble corridors. She meant to return to the archives, but a voice snagged her.
“Archivist Vey,” said a tall man in a green frock coat, his spectacles glinting. “I’ve been seeking you.”
It was MAster Gavrin Rook, Keeper of the Seals, a man whose reputation for secrecy rivalled the spies of the Imperial Cloak.
“Master Rook,” Ellara said, bowing. “How may I serve?”
“You’re assigned to the Lumestra Commission,” he said briskly. “Your task is to accompany Governor Talan’s expedition to the territory and record all discoveries, especially… anomalies.”
Ellara blinked. “Anomalies, sir?”
Gavrin lowered his voice. “The Ethers have always touched Lumestra. The Sundering may have disturbed forces we don’t yet comprehend. The Emperor demands knowledge. And discretion.”
Before she could protest, he thrust a sealed parchment into her hands.
“Your orders. Pack at once. The airship Dawnchaser departs at midnight.”
And so, when the clock struck midnight, Ellara stood on the deck of the Dawnchaser as its vast hasbag unfurled above her, shimmering with faint violet light. The vessel creaked as flames roared within its engines, lifting them into the star-pricked sky.
Governor Talan, a broad-shouldered woman in a military greatcoat, approached.
“You’re the archivist?” she barked over the wind.
“Yes, Governor.”
“Good. Keep your quill sharp and your eyes sharper.”
They flew eastward over forests blanketed in frost, following the winding ribbon of the River Glast. As dawn tinted the horizon, the airship descended toward the new border of Lumestra.
Below lay a landscape bathed in stranger colours, as though the air itself glowed from within. Fog rolled across marshes dotted with luminous blue reed. Trees wore blossoms of silver, glittering like ice.
A sudden jolt rocked the vessel. Sparks leapt from the brass fixtures as etheric static crackled around them.
“Steady!” cried Talan, gripping the rail.
Ellara stared over the side and gasped. Rising from the mist was an enormous shape: a tower of black stone etched with symbols that pulsed like molten gold.
“By the Empire…” she whispered.
Talan shouted for landing crews. Ropes dropped. Ellara, clutching her satchel and her orders, climbed down into Lumestra.
On the ground, the tower loomed higher than any cathedral in Solenora. Strange currents rippled in the air, raising the fine hairs of Ellara’s neck.
Governor Talan ordered a perimeter set.
“Archivist!” Talan called. “What do you make of this?”
Ellara stepped closer to the stone. Her fingers brushed the glowing sigils, and images flooded her mind: a vision of Lumestra in ages past, when mages in silver masks called forth storms and creatures of shadow.
“It’s a warding tower,” she breathed. “An ancient seal. The Act of Sundering must have disrupted the spellwork holding it dormant.”
“So we’ve opened a locked door,” Talan said grimly. “And we’ve no idea what waits beyond.”
Ellara met her eyes. “If this tower is awakening, it could mean Lumestra is more than just a new territory. It may be a threshold to the Ethers themselves.”
Governor Talan drew her sword, its blade flickering in the pale light.
“Then we better be ready for what comes through.”
Above them, the tower hummed louder, as though answering her challenge. And Ellara, her quill trembling, began to write the first words of Lumetra’s true history.
The end
When the stars move
Genre: gay romance
Word count: 1,400
On a cool evening in Florstein, the lamps along the cobblestone streets cast trembling circles of gold on the pavement. Theo Weiss pulled his overcoat tighter around his shoulders as he stepped out of the Royal Institute of Natural Philosophy, clutching a sheaf of papers to his chest as though they were the last fire in a cold world.
Inside the folder lay his lifeblood: an article he had titled Über die Lichtstrahlung bewegter Sterne. His colleagues dismissed his notions of clocks ticking at different rates for moving observers as fantasy, but he believed the math was sound. He had drafted in secret, scribbling equations by candlelight in his narrow flat overlooking the River Rauen.
Theo paused at the end of the Institute’s steps, considering whether to send his manuscript to Zeitschrift für Himmelsmechanik, the pre-eminent journal in Neustern Hafen. He feared ridicule, but more than that, he feared the loneliness that might come if he followed his ideas into the wilderness.
He set off through the evening mist, intent on the post office. Every footstep echoed like a hammer on stone. Halfway there, he collided with a man rounding the corner at speed.
“Pardon me,” Theo blurted, catching the stranger’s elbow.
The man turned, face half hidden by a soft grey scarf. His eyes were sharp, the colour of dark amber under the lamplight. His hair was wavy, a dark tumble beneath a wool cap. His voice, when he spoke, carried a quiet music.
“I should watch where I’m going,” he said. “Or perhaps the universe should make space for me.”
Theo blinked. “The universe does no such thing. It’s rather stubborn.”
A spark of interest flashed across the man’s face. “That’s exactly my complaint.”
He extended his hand. “Kaspar Zielke.”
“Theo Weiss,” Theo said, shaking it.
“Are you…?” Kaspar paused, glancing at the bundle of papers clutched to Theo’s chest. “A writer?”
Theo hesitated. He was used to hiding the physics from strangers, and other things besides. “Of sorts,” he said finally.
Kaspar’s grin widened. “I’m a painter. Oils and charcoal, mostly. But lately, I’ve been obsessed with stars. The idea that they might shift if we’re moving. Does that sound mad?”
Theo nearly dropped his papers. “Not mad at all. In fact, that’s…” he caught himself. He was not sure how much to reveal.
Kaspar leaned closer. “I’m boring you. Forgive me.”
“Not at all,” Theo said. “I’ve… I’ve been thinking about moving stars, too.”
Kaspar tilted his head. “Are you going to the Café Hildebrandt? It’s warmer than the street.”
Theo considered. He rarely allowed himself distractions. But Kaspar was looking at him like he was something marvellous, not merely odd. He nodded.
The café was smoky and crowded, full of university students and revolutionaries arguing over politics and poetry. Theo and Kaspar found a table near the back, where a brass lamp spilled golden light over stained teacups.
Kaspar peeled off his scarf and coat, revealing a paint-smeared vest and shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were strong, flecked with dried ochre and ultramarine. Theor tried not to stare.
“So,” Kaspar said, “tell me about moving stars.”
Theo drew a slow breath. “All right. Imagine two people on a train: one inside, the other standing beside the tracks. A bolt of lightning strikes the tracks. The one on the train might not see it happen at the same time as the one outside.”
Kaspar raised a brow. “Is that possible?”
“Time isn’t absolute,” Theo said. “It changes depending on how fast you’re moving.”
Kaspar blinked. “That’s…beautiful.”
Theo flushed. “It’s only math.”
“Apparently, then, math can be beautiful,” Kaspar said. “So can you.”
Theo choked on his tea. “I…”
Kaspar laughed. “Sorry. I’m abrupt. But the world is so cold these days, and people keep so many secrets. I prefer to say things.”
Theo swallowed. His pulse thudded in his ears. “That’s… brave.”
Kaspar leaned in. “And what secrets do you keep, Theo Weiss?”
Theo hesitated. His throat tightened around words he had barely allowed himself to think, let alone speak. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I like men.”
“I know,” Kaspar touched the back of Theo’s hands; his fingers were warm, roughened by brushes and canvas. “So do I,” he murmured.
Theo felt as though the floor had fallen away beneath him. For a moment, it seemed the entire café blurred into a sea of shifting lights. The idea that time could bend, that space could wrap, that seemed less astonishing than this simple confession between two men in a crowded room.
When they emerged into the street, Florstein’s gas lamps flickered under a rising wind. Theo realized he still held his manuscript, crumpled at one corner.
“You should send it,” Kaspar said, gesturing to the papers. “If the world moves, let them know how.”
Theo gave a weak laugh. “It could ruin me.”
“Or change everything,” Kaspar said. “If your stars move, perhaps hearts can, too.”
They walked to the post office in silence, each step measured like an experiment. Theo could feel the heat of Kaspar’s arm beside his, though they did not touch. In the vestibule, the postal clerk regarded Theo’s bundle of papers with faint boredom.
“To Zeitschrift für Himmelsmechanik,” Theo said.
Kaspar squeezed his shoulder as he slid the envelope into the slot. “Brave man.”
Outside, the night had grown colder. A gust of wind carried Kaspar’s scarf away for a moment. He caught it, laughing, then stepped closer, searching Theo’s face.
“Can I see you again?” Kaspar asked.
Theo managed a small nod. “I’d like that.”
Kaspar bent his head, brushing lips lightly across Theo’s. The kiss was gentle, tentative. Theo felt his entire body tighten, like the instant before a thunderclap. When Kaspar pulled back, he was grinning.
“You’re shivering,” Kaspar noted. “Come home with me. I’ll paint you. Maybe the stars, too.”
Theo found himself smiling despite the tremor in his chest. “All right.”
Kaspar’s studio overlooked the river. The windows were latticed with frost, catching reflections of lanterns swaying outside. The scent of linseed oil mingled with turpentine and the faint metallic tang of river air.
Kaspar gestured for Theo to sit on a high stool. “Don’t look so terrified,” he said, rummaging for charcoal sticks. “It’s only a sketch.”
Theo sat stiffy as Kaspar began tracing lines on paper. His eyes flicked between Theo’s face and the page. The sound of charcoal scratching over paper filled the silence.
“Relax,” Kaspar murmured. “Imagine you’re on your moving train.”
Theo exhaled. He let his shoulders drop. Kaspar paused his drawing and touched Theo’s cheek lightly, smudging graphite.
“You look like someone who sees the hidden gears of the world,” Kaspar said. “That’s very attractive.”
Theo huffed out a laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called physics attractive.”
“Then they’re fools,” Kaspar said. “I like men who think about impossible things.”
Theo blushed. “And I like… you.”
Kaspar smiled. “Good.”
He set the charcoal down. “Enough posing. Come here.”
Theo slipped from the stool, and Kaspar caught him by the waist. They kissed again, deeper this time, lips parting as Theo’s breath hitched. The closeness was terrifying and exhilarating. A force stronger than gravity.
When they parted, Kaspar rested his forehead against Theo’s. “You’ll be famous one day,” he murmured. “And I’ll say I knew the man who told the world that time can bend.”
Theo swallowed. “And I’ll say I knew the man who made me brave enough to try.”
Kaspar laughed. “Deal.”
Months later, Theo stood at the window of Kaspar’s studio, clutching a letter bearing the seal of Zeitschrift für Himmelsmechanik. It was an acceptance. They would publish his paper.
He turned to Kaspar, who was wiping paint off his fingers. Theo held up the letter. “They said yes.”
Kaspar whooped and seized him in a messy embrace, smearing blue paint across Theo’s collar. He kissed Theo fiercely, heedless of the pigment staining his cheeks.
“See?” Kaspar cried. “The stars move, and so do we.”
“And so do we,” Theo repeated.
Theo laughed breathlessly. Outside, the River Rauen glimmered under the pale spring sun. A barge slipped past, the ripples warping the reflections of rooftops and sky. It was idyllic.
He felt as though he, too, was moving, hurtling through space, carrying his own measure of time and love with him.
And for the first time, the motion felt like freedom.