In a certain realm, a realm mostly devoid greenery, the sun dipped below the horizon, a vast desert seemed to hold its breath, a, barren expanse of silence that stretched to the horizons.
The once-blinding golden expanse of the day dissolved into the darkening hues of night, the sky bleeding from fiery crimson to deep, bruised purples. The brutal heat of the sun, which had scorched the earth and turned it to ash, began to wane, leaving behind an eerie, unnatural chill that clung to the air.
The sands, once shimmering with an almost blinding heat, now lay like a vast ocean of bloodstained ochre, their contours twisting and curling in the shadows, obscured by the growing darkness.
Silence fell, broken only by the occasional moan of the wind as it swept over the dunes, a sound that echoed like a distant wail of a lost soul. The scent of dry earth, sharp and biting, mixed with the faint trace of something ancient and forgotten, as though the desert itself held secrets long buried.
In the distance, the first stars appeared, their light cold and distant, fragile like the dying embers of a long-forgotten fire. As the seconds passed, their flickering grew, the heavens above seemingly pierced by their light, until the sky was speckled with a glittering array of icy stars, like the scattered shards of shattered glass.
The chill of the night settled deeper, more pronounced now, suffocating the last warmth of the day. The stars, cold and indifferent, gleamed in their infinite beauty, as the moon—a pale, twin reflection of death—rose to claim its place in the sky. Its light, ghostly and cruel, bathed the desert in a spectral glow, painting the sands in shades of silver and ash, perhaps the land had been cursed by some ancient god.
The dunes, now silent and ominous, seemed to shift, their forms pulsating with a dark rhythm, like the heartbeat of some ancient, slumbering beast. The air thickened with an unsettling energy, the weight of the cosmos pressing down upon the earth.
The night had begun.
In an area of the sky, a single star shone brighter than all the others. It pulsed, its light flickering with an unsettling, almost sentient awareness. The brightness grew slowly, faintly at first, but with an undeniable certainty, as though something ancient and dreadful was stirring in the depths of the heavens. As if it was calling out.
A lone figure, draped in a cloak of shadow and dust, sat on the cold, desolate sands, his gaze fixed upon the sky, upon the pulsing star. His form was still, but his presence felt immense, like a shadow that stretched beyond the limits of mortal perception.
He was meditating. His breath, slow and steady, did not disturb the silence around him.
The robe he wore, once white and pure, was now tarnished by the desert's cruelty, the fabric stained by the ever-blowing winds and the ceaseless, grinding sands. It clung to him like a shroud, a reminder of the long, tortured journey he had endured, the path that had led him here, to this very moment.
His gaze, however, never wavered from that singular, glowing star.
The air around him grew colder still. The wind, once howling and restless, fell into an unnatural stillness. The stars above seemed to intensify, their light turning cruel, burning into his skin with an almost malevolent force. It was as if the very fabric of reality was warping, bending in response to some unseen call.
The energy in the air hummed with a deep, otherworldly power, the taste of ancient magic—of old, forgotten things that slumbered beneath the earth.
The figure's lips parted slightly, a smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth, a bitter, mocking laughter escaping his chest.
"Oh?" he whispered, the sound carrying in the stillness. His voice, low and rich with age, held a knowing, a certainty. "It's starting... Finally." His tone, dripping with both triumph and menace, sent a shiver through the air.
He rose slowly, the movement fluid, predatory—like a serpent uncoiling from slumber. His eyes, gleaming with the light of a thousand lost souls, remained fixed on the star above.
"Oh, Night..." he murmured, his voice carrying an almost reverent darkness
....
In a realm filled with endless sunflowers sat a tall young man—a lone figure amidst the golden sea. His golden eyes gleamed beneath the strange light, his pale skin kissed with freckles that softened the sharp regality of his face. He looked like a prince torn from an ancient heroic tale, the kind spoken of in reverent whispers, destined for greatness.
Above him stretched skies of molten orange and gold, yet there was no sun.
He wore intricate golden armor, each plate traced with delicate engravings and elaborate embellishments. Upon his chestplate shone the emblem of a sun, proud and unyielding.
The young man's gaze grew lucid, his eyes taking on a faint, otherworldly glow. He lifted his head—and saw the sunflowers stir. From every petal, golden sparks began to rise, drifting upward like embers caught in a slow, swirling wind.
He smiled arrogantly.
The sparks descended, each one sinking into him, merging with his armor, his skin, his very soul.
And then—dawn came.
With it, a newborn sun rose upon the realm.
....
The Fracture shivered.
Across the infinite weave of realms, reality seemed to draw a slow breath. Mana swelled in unseen tides, bending and twisting as if the world's very bones were shifting. In places both holy and forsaken, the air grew heavy—charged with something ancient, something watching.
In the black vault of the heavens, a constellation in the shape of a crown began to burn with a pale, otherworldly fire, each star pulsing as though it shared a single heartbeat.
Far below, in the fathomless abyss, an unfathomable shadow stirred, its vast shape shifting until it folded into the likeness of a cloak—woven from night, threaded with whispers.
Elsewhere, the great World Tree—whose branches scraped the vault of the sky—trembled. At its roots, where no mortal dared tread, two eyes opened in the dark soil: One a Sapphire blue with Flecks of Gold, the other a Midnight Purple with specks of red inside, their glow faint yet unblinking.
In the molten arteries of the earth, where magma raged with the fury of dying suns, an obsidian heart began to lose its shape, fading in and out of the physical world like a phantom.
And in a wide, wind-swept meadow of ordinary wildflowers, a boy plucked a rose. Without warning, a storm of petals rose around him in a silent whirlwind, swallowing him whole.
In an ancient quiet library, an empty book began mysteriously writing as it described key points in the past, present, future. Recording.
Such scenes—strange, inexplicable, impossible—unfolded across the realms in unison, each echoing through the unseen currents of the Fracture. The threads of Fate shifted. The flow of calamity bent.
From the highest thrones to the loneliest wanderers, eyes turned toward the change.The old order was moving.
.....
Duskfall. One of the Royal capitals of Sahara
At the heart of the endless desert, upon a jagged plateau that caught the breath of every wandering wind, lay one of the royal capitals of the great realm Sahara—Duskfall. It sprawled across the plateau in endless tiers of stone and light, its districts unfurling like the petals of a great steel-and-marble flower. From the high roads, the city seemed alive, its veins lit with the glow of mana flowing through crystal channels embedded in every street. Airships drifted lazily between towers, their hulls wrapped in the shimmer of warding spells, while banners of deep violet and silver snapped in the wind, bearing the crest of the royal line.
At the city's crown, commanding every horizon, rose the
Castle of House Dusk—a fortress-palace wrought from grey and black marble and deep volcanic stone, each block fitted so perfectly it might have been carved by the hand of the earth itself. Tall, narrow windows gleamed like polished obsidian, and great buttresses curved outward like the wings of a slumbering predator. Its towers rose in layers—some capped with silver spires, others with open platforms where robed sentinels kept silent watch. Within its walls, bridges of black stone spanned over gardens lit by hovering orbs of moonlight, and long, echoing halls were floored with polished marble that reflected torchflames like still water.
And above even the palace loomed the Twilight Tower—a solitary, impossibly slender spire of dark stone that caught the light of the moons like liquid silver. It was not merely a building, but a relic of divine craftsmanship, older than the city yet perfectly fused into its heart. Its surface was carved with runes that seemed to breathe, glowing faintly with each pulse of mana it drew from the world. On certain nights one every few months, when the last light of the sun bled away, the tower's runes flared to life, and streams of magic would coil upward into the sky like ribbons of fire. The sight brought the city to a standstill—merchants, soldiers, and nobles alike lifting their faces to watch the tower crown the night with its eternal light, sealing Duskfall once more in its perfect, unending violet twilight.
Beneath the tower's shadow, the city spread in great rings of distinct quarters. Closest to the palace lay the Noble Quarter, where grand estates rose behind wrought mana-gates, their gardens blooming under false daylight conjured by private mages. Beyond that, the Artisan's Quarter hummed with enchantments—streets lined with glassblowers shaping molten crystal, smiths forging armor that shimmered with protective wards, and clothiers spinning fabric from threads of living mana. The Bazaar Quarter followed, sprawling like a sea of silken canopies and floating lanterns, a place where one could buy anything from bottled storms to blades carved from the bones of sky-serpents.
Further out still, the Common Quarter pulsed with life at all hours—a dense, warm heart of taverns, public baths, market halls, and gathering squares lit by glowing mana-orbs that drifted lazily above the rooftops. Even here, where the streets narrowed and the buildings leaned close, the hum of Duskfall's magic never faltered, running through the cobbles underfoot and up through the walls like the heartbeat of the city itself.
From the highest marble balconies of the castle to the farthest edge of the plateau, Duskfall was a city that dazzled, consumed, and embraced all who walked its streets—a capital not merely of a realm, but of an age.
A young man stood at the edge of a high-rise balcony, the wind tugging at his dark curls as the ritual unfolded over the city. Far above, the Twilight Tower blazed with life, its runes igniting one by one until the whole spire shone like the spine of some colossal god.
Astra's violet eyes narrowed. His lips curved faintly—not in wonder, but in distaste.
He hated the Ceremony of Dusk. Hated the way it bathed the heavens in shimmering false light, shutting out the stars. The people of Duskfall called it beautiful. They called it sacred. They called it protection. To Astra, it was theft.
The stars had been his companions since childhood—tiny distant fires that made the world's silence less empty. When he looked at them, the hollow ache inside him eased, if only for a breath. And tonight, as at every seasonal change, the ceremony was stealing them away again.
The reason for the ritual was older than living memory. House Dusk—the grey-and-black-clad sovereigns of the Eastern Heartlands of the Realm Sahara—had never spoken the truth of it. Neither had the dynasties before them such as the olden eradicated House Night, nor the ancient House Twilight who had constructed the massive divine tower. Some whispered it was a ward against something lurking beyond the Veil. Others claimed it kept the curse of a dead god sealed beneath the desert. In the oldest tavern tales, it was both—shield and prison at once. Astra didn't care which was true. He cared only that it blotted out the sky.
"How beautiful," he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with sarcasm. A sly grin touched his lips as the Tower's mana rose in a vast luminous web, pink and violet strands unfurling into the firmament. The light thickened until the stars were gone, and for a heartbeat the entire city lay under a sky that glowed like molten glass.
His grin faded.
Every seasonal change, he climbed as high as he could in the city, waiting for that brief stutter in the perpetual twilight when the magic faltered and the stars broke through. He had done it since he was six years old.
This time, he had seen them for nearly a full minute—the real stars, the unbroken night.
"I'll see you in the fall," he whispered inwardly, a promise as much as a farewell.
Straightening, the wind snapping at his long coat, Astra cut a striking figure against the skyline—tall, lithe, with the predatory grace of someone who knew how to move unseen. His hair, curling and black as moonless midnight, framed a face that was both youthful and dangerous: a beauty sharpened into a weapon, with an almost feminine charm that could disarm the unwary. His skin was pale, rare in sun-scorched Duskfall where most bore the bronze of the desert. But his eyes—deep violet, full of mischief and something unspoken—were what marked him as truly different in a city where most learned to blend in.
From this height, the city sprawled like a living tapestry. Even the colossal walls, miles away, were little more than a faint arc against the horizon—so vast they seemed to bend with the curve of the world.
From his perch in the Human District's central spires, Astra could map the quarters at a glance. The Upper Bazaar to the north glittered with floating mana-lanterns and gilded rooftops, home to merchant princes, noble houses of minor blood, and wealthy guildmasters. Beyond it lay the Noble Quarter, where marble avenues wound through palace gardens fed by channeled mana-streams. The Artisan Quarter to the east shimmered with forge-light and the scent of molten glass, while the southern Common Quarter pulsed with street music, food stalls, and strings of luminous sky-orbs swaying in the desert wind.
But Duskfall was more than its districts. It was one of the beating hearts of the Great Realm Sahara—One of the largest Cities in the Fracture, harboring thousands of cities and billions of people. Hundreds of Millions lived here alone in Duskfall. Mana-fed towers rose higher than mountains. Skyships drifted between spires like crystal leviathans. Aerial rails stitched the city together in lines of light. And each quarter had its own embassies to realms scattered across the fractured worlds.
Tonight, the city throbbed with life. The avenues churned with revelers—it was the Springtime Advent, a celebration older than the city itself.
The old myths told of the War of Fracture, when the Goddess of Life fought the God of Death here in Sahara. Their battle had turned a paradise into a desert wasteland. Life had prevailed, but only barely—oases still bloomed like emerald shards in the sand, stubborn against the desolation. The war had ended in spring, and so the people marked the season with feasts, music, and firelight, honoring both life and death as the twin forces that shaped this realm. As it stood Sahara was one of six great realms, it was an utterly massive planet spanning hundreds of thousands of miles, there existed many more smaller realms in the great fracture but none competed and were as inhabited as the six great realms.
Astra let the noise drift up to him—the beat of drums, the smell of spiced bread and fire-roasted meat. His expression did not change.
One last look at the sky.
Then he stepped onto the ledge and dropped into the night, moving from rooftop to rooftop with the practiced ease of someone who knew the city's bones better than its streets. In moments, the tower was behind him, and Astra was gone, swallowed by the festival-lit sprawl of the greatest city in the realm.
Astra hopped down from the high-rise, boots skimming ledges and jutting beams as he descended floor by floor, weaving between stone and steel like it was second nature. The spring air carried the hum of the city upward to meet him—laughter, music, the distant pop of fireworks.
Duskfall was swollen with visitors. Every Springtime Advent drew travelers from across the Great Fracture, eager to witness what was whispered to be the most dazzling festival in all the realms. Even in a city accustomed to spectacle, the Advent was something else—a week where commerce, magic, and indulgence collided in a single, intoxicating haze.
As Astra neared the lower streets, the first volley of fireworks cracked open the sky. Colors bloomed against the lingering violet dusk, scattering emerald, gold, and crimson light across the rooftops.Airships cast down colorful lights on the districts. Against the perpetual twilight's soft glow, the bursts looked almost unreal. Even he had to admit—they were beautiful.
Street-level was a different storm entirely. The scents hit first—spiced meats sizzling over open braziers, honeyed pastries, tangy fruits, sharp wine. The noise came next: musicians weaving bright threads of melody from zithers, flutes, and drums; the rhythmic clapping of dancers; the overlapping roar of barter, laughter, and drunken songs from all of the realms, Wai water dancers, Apu tribal ceremonies, Dunyan percussionist, Snaer whistlers and Saharan magicians . Mages played for the crowds, sculpting water into leaping dolphins, spinning fire into serpents, bending light into birds of impossible plumage. One man shaped ice with such precision it caught Astra's attention for a moment—an uncommon skill in this desert realm.
Still, amid the chaos, he felt… detached. Like he was moving through someone else's celebration. I don't belong here, he thought. Then, smirking faintly, answered himself aloud, "Of course I don't. I'm a broke nobody with the social appeal of a kicked cactus."
His stomach growled as he passed a wine stand, the aroma of oak-casked vintages pricking his senses. He kept walking.
"I need to get rich," he muttered, the thought curling into something sharper as his violet eyes glinted. The Duskguard were out in force tonight, their polished armor catching the light, but Astra moved in the crowd like smoke—visible if you stared, gone if you blinked. His reputation in this part of the city wasn't spotless. The wanted posters hadn't exactly flattered him, but they'd gotten the jawline right.
He slipped past a Dunya fruit vendor, the tang of fresh lemonade making his mouth water. Down the row, a stall boasted some exotic Alfhiem nectar—thick, iridescent, and laughably expensive.
The crowd opened slightly as he passed a fruit vendor, the sweet tang of fresh lemonade making his mouth water. A stall a few paces down caught his attention—brightly lit, boasting some exotic imported drink whose name was longer than the coin he carried.
The lower bazaar was alive in every sense—a creature of barter and banter, argument and laughter. Astra slipped through it like it was his natural element, eyes scanning, cataloging. Then he saw him.
A merchant, draped in crimson and gold, belly pressing against his silks as though trying to escape them. Rings glittered on every finger, his gait radiating self-importance. Rank two, Astra estimated. The man's bearing was still a touch martial beneath the fat—probably a washed-up warrior or adventurer who'd stumbled into wealth. Maybe he'd sold some rare relic, maybe he'd just been lucky. Either way, luck didn't keep coin purses safe.
Astra timed it perfectly, stepping into the merchant's path just as the man lumbered past. Their shoulders collided. The impact was deliberate; Astra gave way, posture folding as if the bigger man's bulk had shoved the air out of him. His hands moved like whispers—pouch, dagger, gone.
He even let himself stumble, boot catching a cobblestone in a clumsy half-trip.
"Watch where you're walking, you street rat!" the merchant snapped, brushing at his robes as though the touch had somehow stained them.
Astra's eyes narrowed for the briefest moment. If he realizes what I took… But the mask slipped back into place instantly.
Bowing his head low, Astra's voice came smooth, syrup-thick with mock deference. "My deepest apologies, honored sir. This unworthy wretch should never have crossed your path. I'll remove myself from your sight immediately."
The merchant harrumphed, already half turned away. "Good. At least you know your place."
He waddled back into the crowd, still oblivious.
Astra straightened, a grin tugging at his lips. Too easy. The weight of the coins was solid against his ribs, the dagger cool and reassuring under his cloak.
"Phew," he exhaled, chuckling to himself. "Good, but I need to work on my timing…"
For a moment he just stood there, watching the man vanish into the throng, feeling the quiet thrill of victory under the roar of the festival.
With a small chuckle, he melted back into the crowd, another mark successfully swindled, none the wiser to the hands that had taken everything.
Astra's fingers danced over the coins, counting them swiftly in his palm as he blended seamlessly into the throng of people moving through the bazaar.
He dismissed them inside his storage space. Astra's stomach still churned with hunger, the scent of lemonade still clinging to the air, but the thrill of the so called "perfect theft" was a much sharper, more satisfying hunger.
He had slipped the merchant's purse with the ease of a man who'd done it a hundred times before—the motion so fluid it seemed almost casual. The weight of it vanished into his cloak without a whisper. The dagger at the man's side had been a bonus—too ornate for Astra's taste and hardly impressive as a mere rank-one item. Pretty, though. Some fool would trade far above its worth for something that shiny.
For now, the coins were what mattered, their weight sitting pleasantly in his palm as fireworks shattered overhead. Brilliant colors flashed against the violet haze of Duskfall's sky, painting his path in strokes of crimson, cobalt, and molten gold.
The bazaar was chaos incarnate. Merchants barked prices in a dozen dialects, hawkers flaunted wares beneath mana-lamps that glimmered like bottled starlight, and the crowd churned in a restless tide of elbows and laughter. Somewhere in the distance, a troupe of Snear drummers beat out a furious rhythm, their sound cutting through the din like war drums.
Astra's gaze flicked back toward that exotic drink stall he'd seen earlier—iridescent liquid swirling in crystal decanters, lit from within by faint mana sparks. It looked expensive. And worth every coin he didn't have.
Then his eyes caught something far less appealing.
Pinned to a wooden noticeboard beside a spice vendor was his face—frozen in the flat, too-perfect clarity of a light-magic print. He remembered the moment well: shirtless, mid-arrest, and looking half-stunned. His violet eyes gleamed from the parchment like they were mocking him, his curls a frizzled mess around his face.
[WANTED]ASTRAAlive — 50 Gold Standards
He clenched his jaw. Fi-fity?! Thats a little too much! One can live their whole life off that sum and be comfortable! "That skank… Not only did she pressure me, but she had the gall to report me?" His voice was low but sharp with disbelief. "Has she no shame for her husband?" The anger faded just enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch upward in grim amusement. "Thinking about it… yeah. Definitely her husband who put the bounty up. Lovely. Just lovely."
He sighed. "Gods, the things I do for money…"
A visible shudder ran through him. "Noble women," he muttered, "are the most terrifying kind of women there are."
His eyes slid sideways as a family passed—young parents with a boy barely tall enough to reach the lemonade cart. They laughed, the light from a string of mana-lanterns gilding their faces.
Something cold pricked at Astra's chest. He hated that sensation. He had no family—not anymore. Only the faint memory of a mother's smile, long blurred by time. She had been gone since he was a child, and the world had taught him quickly that no one else could be relied upon.
He tugged the hood of his threadbare cloak lower, the frayed edges shadowing his features. The garment did little to mask the faint magical aura he carried, but he'd perfected the art of fading into a crowd—drifting into the seams of the city where no one looked too closely.
Still, there was a part of him that craved the opposite—to be seen, remembered, and more than just another shadow in the streets.
He kept moving, weaving toward the upper bazaar, where the real treasures glittered behind guarded stalls. Rich folk, careless in their comfort, were always worth the trip.
"The night is mine," he said under his breath, the words curling with excitement. Springtime Advent wasn't just a festival—it was his birthday, or at least as close to one as he would ever claim. He didn't know the day he'd been born, but every year, when the stars of the Vernal Convergence burned bright, he decided it was his.
And tonight, he was seventeen. An adult, by the reckoning of every realm—Sahara, Alfhiem, Apu, Snear, Dunya Wai. Old enough to drink, fight, marry, or be executed.
A mischievous gleam flickered in his violet eyes. He would make this birthday one worth remembering, and coin—lots of it—was the first step.
"Steal from the rich, steal from the poor…" Astra smirked, laughter slipping past his lips. "Or however the hell the saying goes."