The stars had dimmed above the palace.
Not vanished. Just... retreated. As if hiding behind a veil.
Seraphina stood alone in the Royal Archives, far past curfew, the golden candlelight flickering over ancient scrolls that no longer comforted her.
The prophecy had once been her anchor.
"When fire and star unite, the world shall be remade."
She had whispered that line into the dark every night since she was old enough to read it.
But now?
That line felt like a blade pressed gently to her throat.
She unrolled another scroll. Parchment older than the realm itself, crackling under her fingers. It wasn't the official version the ones taught in temples or etched in mosaic across the Academy gates.
This was a forgotten draft, retrieved from a sealed wing, hidden beneath layers of dust and starlight.
Its words were jagged. Fragmented. As if time itself had tried to erase them.
"Of twin-born flame, one shall rise, the other shall fade."
"The crown will choose the veiled, not the first."
"And in the end, not fire, but hunger shall remain."
Seraphina's breath caught.
She read it again. And again.
There was no mention of her name. No fate for the second born. No glory.
Just fading.
Just erasure.
The sound of soft footsteps pulled her from the page.
She turned but saw no one.
The candle flickered violently.
And then... she was no longer alone.
A woman stood in the far arch of the library, robes of silver-gray that seemed to drink light instead of reflect it. Her face was obscured by a delicate veil translucent, like breath caught in silk.
"Who are you?" Seraphina demanded, clutching the scroll.
The woman didn't speak. She simply extended her hand.
Something pulsed in Seraphina's palm.
A tiny vial. Glass thin as ice. Inside, a dark liquid shimmered with impossible color like twilight melted and bottled.
Seraphina stared at it.
"Is this... poison?"
"No," the woman finally spoke. Her voice was a breeze through hollow stone. "A choice."
Seraphina tightened her grip on the vial.
"I'm not a murderer."
"Not yet."
The woman stepped closer, and with every step, the words of the scroll seemed to fade, as if she carried forgetfulness with her.
"You feel it," the woman whispered. "Don't you? The unraveling. The crown pulling away. The stars no longer calling your name."
Seraphina's throat closed.
"Who are you?"
"I am the quiet between prophecies. The pause between breaths."
"You're not real."
The woman tilted her head, almost amused.
"You said the same thing about her. And now the world sings for her."
Seraphina stepped back.
"I'm not jealous."
"No," the woman said. "You're empty. And you think she's the reason."
Silence.
"But she isn't," the woman continued. "You were always meant to be more. You could still be. But first, you must choose what you'll become once the world forgets who you were."
Seraphina looked down at the vial again.
It no longer shimmered. It pulsed. Like a heartbeat.
The wind howled that night.
Storm clouds gathered over the palace, violet and silver-gray, laced with threads of gold lightning.
Seraphina didn't return to her rooms. Instead, she stood beneath the old sundial where she once crossed out her name.
This time, she spoke it aloud.
"Seraphina."
A pause.
Then again, louder.
"Seraphina."
As if daring the stars to remember it.
But they didn't answer.
Not even the wind.
She uncorked the did...
the
vial. Held it in her palm as thunder cracked overhead.
It smelled of winter and ash.
Of endings.
She didn't drink it. Not yet.
She simply poured one drop into the stone at her feet.
The spiral symbol burned where it fell.
And somewhere, far below the palace, something stirred.
The Moonbridge Courtyard was technically off-limits after dusk.
Which, of course, made it the most popular place to sneak into.
Floating lanterns drifted between ancient archways, and the enchanted sky dome above shimmered with stars that responded to mood and memory. Students had once used it to flirt. Or duel. Or cry about essays.
Tonight, it was quiet.
Kai sat on the edge of the cracked fountain, idly tossing a pebble into the glowing water. Beside him, Mina was trying (and failing) to braid her hair while also eating a sticky bun.
"I'm just saying," she mumbled, "if I vanish mysteriously, it's definitely Seraphina. I saw her reorganizing knives."
"You're being paranoid."
"She labeled them. With emotions."
Kai gave her a look, then stood.
"She's not the one I'm worried about."
Footsteps echoed on the stone.
Maria stepped into view, hood pushed back, hair catching the lantern-light like spilled frost. She paused when she saw them.
Kai said nothing. Just nodded once.
Mina grinned between them. "Welp. That's my cue." She popped the last bite of bun into her mouth, winked at Maria, and vanished toward the kitchens with a whistle that sounded suspiciously like a love song.
Maria sat on the other end of the fountain. Not close. Not far.
The silence between them wasn't awkward. Just... complicated.
Kai finally said, "You've been avoiding me."
Maria picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "I've been avoiding everyone."
"Any particular reason?"
"I found out I'm a myth."
"Ah," Kai said. "That old problem."
She huffed a laugh. "It's ridiculous. People whisper when I pass. Professors bow. Even the brooms move out of my way now."
"They did that for me once," Kai said. "But I'd enchanted them to trip someone else."
That pulled a real laugh from her.
For a moment, they were just two students under lanterns.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"Of what?"
"Of forgetting who I was. Of becoming who I'm supposed to be."
Kai nodded slowly. Then stepped closer, sitting beside her.
He didn't take her hand. Not yet.
"But what if," he said, "you don't have to become anything?"
Maria looked at him.
"What if you just... choose? Not for prophecy. Not for gods. For you."
Their hands brushed.
She didn't pull away.
The lanterns above flickered.
A soft breeze stirred the courtyard.
He turned to face her fully.
She did the same.
Their heads tilted in the same breath
And then:
A cough.
A very deliberate cough.
Seraphina stood at the far arch, arms crossed, flanked by two stone-faced attendants and an aggressively judgmental owl perched on her shoulder.
She raised a brow. "Am I interrupting the cosmic romance? Or is this just an unapproved courtyard date?"
Maria blinked.
Kai groaned.
Seraphina stepped closer, gaze sharp but not cruel. "You should be more careful, Princess," she said coolly. "The stars may love you. But the court loves scandal more."
Then she turned.
The owl blinked twice and muttered, "I liked the other one."
"Not now, Giles," Seraphina snapped as she swept away into the hall.
Kai sighed. "Well. That could've gone worse."
Maria smiled faintly. "I think the owl liked me."
Their hands were still touching.
They didn't move.
High in the temple's dome, the sacred tapestry flared to life light curling across its threads like fire searching for truth.
The priests screamed. Candles shattered in their holders. The image of a nameless goddess wreathed in shadows and half-forgotten myth burned away in a roar of celestial flame.
And there, behind it, revealed in molten gold and divine fury: Aurelith.
Her eyes were open. Her wings were made of flame and starlight. In her hand, a sword of memory the blade forged from the regrets of a hundred past lives.
Below, Maria collapsed to her knees, her breath stolen, her body shuddering. Not from pain. From recognition.
Around her, light surged. Not from magic cast but from belief igniting.
The crowd beyond the temple steps surged forward. Windows opened. Bells rang though none had pulled their ropes.
A voice filled the air ancient, celestial, merciless:
"She shall rise. And all shall fall before her light."
The priests fell to the ground. Nobles dropped to one knee. The commoners raised their arms in prayer.
And the chant began.
Not Maria.
Aurelirth. Aurelith. Aurelith.
And with every repetition, her light grew brighter, and the past came clawing closer.
The sun hung low over Aurelis, washing the cobbled streets in honeyed light.
In the crowded village square, children chased one another between laundry lines and old market stalls. Vendors called out in half-song, waving plump figs, scented oils, bright cloth.
At a crooked wooden table, three old women played cards
their laughter sharp, their eyes sharper.
"Did you hear?" crooned old Hessa, fanning herself with a bent playing card.
"They say the palace girl glows now. A proper star-child, just like the old songs."
"Bah," snorted Mags, slapping a card down. "I heard she sprouted wings. Gold wings! Flew clean over the gardens."
"You're both wrong," grinned Fira, chewing a toothpick. "My nephew works in the palace kitchen. He says she burst into light at the ball. Nearly blinded the duke's third son."
They cackled, throwing down their cards.
A boy ran past, waving a wooden sword.
"Look at me! I'm the Star fallen Knight!"
His sister chased after, yelling, "No! I'm the goddess! Kneel before me!"
Nearby, an old storyteller sat cross-legged on a rug, children at his feet.
"Long ago," he intoned, "the stars sent their youngest to walk among us. She loved too deeply, they say. Burned too brightly. And so, she fell not from failure, but from love. And now..."
He leaned close, eyes twinkling.
"Now they say she walks again. Right here. In this kingdom. And she's not the only one."
The children gasped.
"Who else, Master Linn?"
"Ah," he smiled slyly. "That's the thing about myths. They always start with one name... but they never end there."
The bell tower tolled.
People bustled.
Life moved on
but the myths lingered, dancing between fruit stalls, echoing in alleyways, humming in the corners of taverns.
And so, the stars' return was not just a royal whisper,
nor just a council's fear,
nor just a goddess's wound.
It was a living myth,
breathed in kitchens,
shouted in games,
and carried, always,
on the tongues of the people.
Because in Aurelis,
magic was not only in palaces.
It lived in the streets,
and it waited
hungry, patient,
for the day when the stars would fall
for them, too.
Beneath Eldemere, under the old, cracked streets and crooked alleys, there was a door no one touched.
It was not marked by symbols
no crest, no noble seal, no merchant's sigil but by the absence of sound.
No birds perched on its frame.
No rats scurried nearby.
Inside, torches flickered blue.
The smell of ash and old copper clung to the stone.
And at the center of the cavernous chamber, kneeling on black sand,
a hundred robed figures chanted.
"Dust to ash. Ash to bone. Bone to silence."
Above them, seated on a jagged black throne, the Dust-Crowned Prince smiled.
He wore no crown tonight just a thin circlet of thorned iron biting into his brow.
His bare feet rested on cracked stone, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest.
"They're distracted by the star-child," he murmured, eyes half-lidded.
"By the goddess reborn. By the court, the palace, the old myths..."
He leaned forward.
"Let them. Let them stare at her light and never once look down."
The crowd of worshippers exhaled, as if on cue.
Behind the throne, carved into the stone itself, loomed a monstrous figure:
a mural, ancient and half-destroyed,
showing a faceless god devouring suns,
its hands reaching not upward,
but downward,
into earth, into flesh, into mortal roots.
"They call him the god-Unmaker," the prince whispered,
"but they forget his first name: Hunger."
He stood, barefoot in the ash.
The cult fell silent, trembling, swaying.
"I will not kneel to old heavens," the prince said softly.
"I will not bend to fallen stars.
Let Vaelith weep for his lost love.
Let the court scramble to hold up their little goddess."
His eyes flashed red, hungry, bottomless.
"We will tear the earth open.
And we will unmake them all."
And so, in the shadows of Eldemire,
as prayers rose for light,
and hopes clung to reborn stars,
another hunger stirred.
Older.
Colder.
Hungrier.
Because not all gods fall.
Some wait.
And the Dust Prince?
He was ready to call his waiting god home.