A knock…then the door creaked open.
Lumina stirred beneath the heavy blanket, groggy and still aching in places she couldn't name. The fire in the hearth had long since died out; the air in the room felt colder than it should've been. Her vision cleared just enough to see Damien standing in the doorway, silhouetted in shadow and early light.
"Up," he said.
She blinked. "What time is it?"
"Too early for more questions. Get dressed. We're leaving."
Lumina sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. "Leaving? Where are we—?"
"Ten minutes," he cut in, voice as smooth and final as a closing book. "That's generous."
He was gone before she could argue. She stared at the door for a long moment... then sighed.
There was no warmth left in her limbs. Only cold... and confusion.
---
By the time she emerged, dressed in a long coat and simple dress one of the maids had laid out, a dark carriage waited in the courtyard. The morning mist clung to the stone like a second skin. Two horses stamped quietly in the fog, their breath fogging the air like ghosts.
Damien stood beside the open door, gloved hands behind his back, not bothering to look at her as she approached.
"Where are we going?" she asked again, climbing inside.
He finally looked at her. "To see someone I trust."
The interior of the carriage was quiet, almost too quiet. The wheels began to move, the horses pulling them through winding mountain paths blanketed in frost and silence.
She folded her hands in her lap. "You don't seem like the kind of man who trusts easily."
"I'm not."
"Then why him?"
A pause.
"Because he's not afraid to say the truth. Even when it's inconvenient."
They didn't speak again for a while.
Lumina stared out the window, watching the landscape unfold; misty hills, dead trees, and eventually the dark edge of a forest that never seemed to end. Somewhere along the way, she drifted to sleep.
When she opened her eyes again, they were pulling into the ruins of a half-forgotten village.
Or so it seemed.
Hidden beneath crumbling stone and vine-covered arches was a towering structure, part cathedral, part library. Its windows were stained with the dust of centuries, its doors too wide for ordinary guests.
She stepped down from the carriage slowly, heart skipping.
"You brought me to a graveyard?" she asked.
Damien didn't answer. He was already walking up the steps.
---
The doors creaked open without touch; old magic clung to every wall of the place like a second breath. Inside, the cathedral-library stretched toward a domed ceiling carved with celestial constellations. Endless shelves rose to impossible heights, and the air carried the dry perfume of ink, wax, and ancient spells.
A figure appeared in the middle of the great hall; tall, robed in gray, with silver hair falling past his shoulders.
His face lit up the moment he saw Damien.
"Well," the man said with a slow smile. "There's the prince of brooding shadows himself."
Damien smirked—barely. "Hello, Father Thorne."
The old priest chuckled, stepping forward with arms half-spread. "And you've brought a guest. Rare. You don't usually let people breathe long enough to accompany you anywhere."
"This one's... different."
Lumina felt his eyes land on her. Not unkind, just observant.
"Lumina," she said softly, nodding.
The priest gave a small bow. "An honor."
Then he looked back at Damien.
"She's the one, isn't she?"
Damien nodded once.
Father Thorne's expression changed. "Come."
He led them through an archway of whispering stone, past rows of suspended scrolls and hanging lanterns that glowed with blue flame. The silence here felt sacred... like the walls themselves were listening.
They reached a private alcove at the back of the hall lined with tomes so old their spines had become part of the stone.
The priest gestured for them to sit.
"I know what you're wondering," he began. "But answers come slowly. Especially the ones that matter."
"I've seen her aura," Damien said. "It's not normal."
Thorne nodded. "No. It's not."
He turned to Lumina. "May I?"
She hesitated. "May you...?"
He raised a hand…not touching, just hovering near her face.
"I won't harm you. I only want to read you... as I would a book."
She nodded slowly.
The moment he lifted his fingers closer, a strange warmth spread through her chest—followed by something deeper; something ancient. It wasn't pain... but it made her shiver.
The priest pulled his hand back after a few seconds. His eyes had darkened slightly.
"There's something bound to her. Something sealed. But that seal is cracking."
Lumina's heart skipped. "What does that mean?"
"You've had dreams," he said. "Visions. Pain that doesn't belong to you."
Her throat tightened. "Yes."
"You're changing... even if you don't understand how yet."
She glanced at Damien. He was watching her again—that same unreadable stare.
"I need to show you something," Thorne said, rising.
He led them deeper into the archive, where a locked gate opened with a whispered incantation. Inside was a table with only one item: an old, tattered journal, bound in red leather with a golden clasp.
Thorne opened it carefully.
"This belonged to a prophetess... from over a century ago. She was hunted by both vampires and witches for what she foresaw."
He turned the page to a faded illustration.
Lumina leaned closer. Her breath caught.
The drawing was of a girl... not her, exactly, but the resemblance was undeniable.
Hair like wildfire. Eyes pale as silver.
Below it, in delicate ink, were the words:
**"The Starborn shall awaken in ruin... and be crowned in ash."**
Her voice was barely a whisper. "What does that mean?"
"No one knows," the priest said gently. "But we believe she... you... carry something inside you. Something old. Older than the kingdoms. Something forgotten."
Her fingers trembled. "So what am I?"
He looked at her... then at Damien.
"That's what we need to find out. Before others do."
---
They remained in the library until late afternoon.
Father Thorne showed them more texts, more symbols, more mentions of the *Starborn*. Most were vague. All were unsettling. None offered comfort.
When it came time to leave, Thorne clasped Lumina's hand.
"You don't need to understand your purpose to begin walking toward it," he said. "But walk you must. And not alone."
She nodded, her voice failing her.
As they stepped into the carriage, the sky had darkened, clouds churning like stirred ink. Thunder echoed faintly in the distance.
Halfway through the ride home, Lumina broke the silence.
"How did you know?"
Damien didn't look at her. "Know what?"
"That I was different."
His fingers flexed on the edge of the seat. "I know a lot of things, Lumina."
She studied his face, searching for cracks in his mask.
"And what do I owe you for your kindness... my lord?"
He turned his head slowly. His lips curled—not quite a smile, not quite mockery.
A sound escaped him... something too soft to be called a laugh.
"I suppose..." he said quietly, "we'll find out soon... little star."
Her breath caught again.
Outside the carriage, the wind picked up. Leaves swirled across the path like the beginning of a storm.
And somewhere deep inside her, something began to stir.
---