The air in the archive was heavy. Not stale, exactly—just dense with time. Okjin stood there, surrounded by centuries of silence, the echoes of his breathing caught between the old stone and magic-laced dust. The prayer still hung in the back of his mind, written not just in ink, but in a memory older than words.
He took a slow step back from the tapestry. There was too much to feel. Too much he couldn't let himself feel.
The worst part? Half of it wasn't even his. The ache in his chest, the sting behind his eyes—he didn't know if they belonged to Lirien, to himself, or to whatever celestial nonsense was tangled up in this body now.
Some divine echo, maybe. Some leftover grief soaked into the bones of this place. A side effect of being… whatever he was now. Some radiant beacon the gods dropped into a mortal shell and hoped would sort itself out.
He scowled faintly. "Great," he muttered under his breath. "Star-powered identity crisis. Just what I needed."
Whatever being "the Star" actually meant, he didn't know. But judging by the cryptic tapestry, the sealed archives, and the general haunted crypt vibes of this place, he had a strong feeling he'd find at least one answer in this creepy moon-branded tomb-library.
He turned toward the shelves. If he wanted answers, he would need to stop trembling and start reading.
The tomes were organized in ways that defied logic—not alphabetical, not chronological, but by moon phases and mana signatures. He didn't know what that meant, but his body did. His fingers trailed the spines until one book prickled faintly under his touch, like a match catching air. He pulled it free.
Its cover was pale leather, worn but intact. No title. Just an impression of a moon, waxed and waning.
He opened it.
The ink glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with the magic in his chest.
"An heir born under dual alignment," the first line read, "must not be allowed to manifest unaided."
Okjin blinked. His pulse skipped.
Dual alignment.
The phrase clung to the corners of his thoughts like it had been there all along—waiting. Something in him, deeper than instinct and older than memory, stirred.
Is that what I am?
He hadn't picked this book at random. No way. His hands had moved like they were following a trail left by someone else—someone who already knew what he was looking for.
Some divine breadcrumb trail. Some Star BS.
The magic in his veins pulsed again, as if smug about being proven right.
He sat down slowly. The stone was cold. His hands were hot.
He turned the page.
"There is precedent for celestial hybrids unraveling. Light and void are not meant to coexist within a mortal vessel. Attempts to harness both have led to rupture: mental, magical, physical. The Starlet-born are the only exception."
Starlet. He'd seen that word before. In the records in Lirien's room. In the prayers. In the whispering edge of sleep.
He turned another page. This one was a diagram.
A figure, outlined in constellations, tethered to both a rising moon and a black star. Lines of mana ran through the body like veins, looping in ways that made Okjin feel dizzy to look at.
There was a note in the margin, hurried and cramped:
"The vessel has survived its twentieth cycle. The seal remains intact, but signs of destabilization are appearing. Celestial dissonance peaks near full moons. Additional restrictions may be necessary."
Okjin stared at it.
This wasn't just history. It wasn't theory.
He read the entry again. Slower, this time.
Twentieth cycle. Seal. Celestial dissonance.
He remembered the fevers. The way his mana spiked and twisted under the full moon, like it didn't know which direction to pull.
Those weren't just symptoms. They were signs. Warnings.
His gaze fell back to the earlier phrase. The vessel has survived.
He swallowed hard.
They weren't talking about some forgotten test subject. These records weren't describing an ancient failure locked away in obscurity.
They were about this body.
About Lirien.
Okjin sat very still. Let the cold seep into his skin. Let the weight of it settle.
The ache crawling up his spine didn't feel like fear. Not exactly. More like realization cracking something brittle open.
He closed the book with trembling fingers.
How many more like it were down here? How many more secrets?
He stood again, light-headed, and moved deeper into the vault. The mana butterflies stirred as he passed, drawn to him like he was a bloom gone strange in the dark.
He paused before a sealed case tucked into a half-collapsed alcove. The glass shimmered faintly with defensive magic. Inside lay a collection of documents bearing the seal of the Sylvaine religious faction—long since disbanded, if he remembered correctly.
One parchment had been partially torn, the rest blackened by old fire magic. What remained chilled him:
"In preparation for the Star's return, the vessel must be crafted with care. Human lineage alone is insufficient. A mortal body cannot bear divinity.
Our solution lies beyond the veil. A bloodline not wholly human. Not wholly beast.
Only then may the Star survive the fall."
Okjin stared. His heart skipped. Then stuttered.
A breath caught somewhere between his ribs.
They didn't just choose Lirien. They made him.
Holy shit.
Lirien wasn't even fully human.
Another scroll lay nearby—its top intact, the bottom lost to scorch marks. He unrolled it with trembling fingers.
"Lady Seryne Sylvaine of the Matriarchal Line has volunteered her womb for divine convergence. The child shall be marked and monitored by the Lunar Sect, until the day the veil thins once more."
He froze. Lady Seryne. That was Lirien's mother.
She had volunteered. She had known.
Okjin swallowed, stomach twisting.
If Lirien was half-human and half—whatever divine beast they used—then…
"What beast?" he whispered. Then blinked. "Wait. Oh my god. Am I… am I technically a furry?"
He stared blankly at the half-burnt scroll.
The bottom half was missing.
"Cool, cool, love that," he muttered. "Mystery parentage and cursed beast blood. Truly peaking in my magical girl era."
He let the scroll roll shut in his hands.
Everything made sense now. Too much sense. And also somehow not enough.
But this? This was a beginning.
A terrible, terrifying beginning.
His temples ached. His head pounded under the weight of what he'd learned. Too much, too fast. He needed time. Time to think. To breathe. To confront the gods who let this happen.
The scrolls had given him permission to question everything. And he would.
The temple. He had to go to the Temple. Whatever answers still waited—they were up there, hidden beneath divinity and dust.
He turned to leave, steps slow but sure.
He slipped the records into the inner fold of his sleeve, spine straightening, expression cold.
The vault didn't resist him. He placed a hand against the wall, and a silent exit spell flickered to life—Lirien's muscle memory, not his own.
The archive vanished behind him, sealed once more with a flicker of silver light.
He rose to the surface of the Moon Pool garden as if from a dream, breath sharp, limbs aching.
And the moon above him—still bright, still full—seemed suddenly far too close.
Like it was watching. Waiting. Just like the elders.