The city sprawled beneath the palace like a sea of scattered stars, each light a fragile pulse against the encroaching darkness. From his vantage on the highest balcony, Prince Caelum Nocthyr was an ethereal figure—his platinum-white hair drifting in the night breeze, eyes swirling galaxies that no mortal could comprehend. The capital, with all its noise and chaos, seemed distant, irrelevant even, compared to the quiet calculus running behind those vast orbs.
Beside him, Lysara stood, her silver eyes reflecting both the city lights and the swirling black suns hidden within Caelum's gaze. She had spent the day navigating the intricacies of loyalty, trust, and power, each new servant revealing a different facet of the prince she'd pledged herself to serve. The threshold room was now home to those who had chosen their allegiance, a constellation beginning to form around the enigmatic center that was Caelum.
He spoke softly, his voice low and deliberate. "Tomorrow, you will meet Kieran."
Her breath caught. "The watcher?"
"The only other who truly sees me," Caelum replied, his voice a mixture of reverence and cold inevitability.
The weight behind that statement settled heavily between them. Kieran was more than a servant—he was a sentinel in the shadows, a blade forged from silence and precision. Unlike the others, he bore the burden of understanding the prince's true nature—the black suns that orbited behind Caelum's calm exterior, the impossible symbols etched in the Old Tongue, and the devastating dark beam that could level entire districts in an instant. Yet, despite such power, Kieran also understood restraint, the chilling patience that kept this force from obliterating everything.
Lysara's mind raced with questions she dared not ask aloud. How does one serve a prince so dangerous, so unknowable? What did it mean to be part of a constellation that could burn or protect? And what of the others, the siblings who adored Caelum but were blind to the storm he concealed?
⸻
In the shadowed depths of the palace, Kieran moved unseen—a specter slipping between walls layered with wards and ancient sigils. His dark robes brushed the cold stone floors with practiced silence. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned every flicker of magical resonance, every whisper of intent.
He was a guardian born of necessity, the only figure apart from Caelum who fully grasped the gravity of the prince's existence. He had witnessed the bloom of black suns, the twisting of reality by ancient words, and the catastrophic beam that could erase all that stood before it—yet Kieran had learned to navigate the narrow path between protection and destruction. His loyalty was absolute, but it was not without caution.
His role was clear: to watch, to wait, and when necessary, to strike.
⸻
The king sat alone in his chamber, heavy curtains drawn against the outside world. The weight of his crown pressed upon him like an immovable stone, and in his eyes lingered the knowledge of a son whose beauty masked cataclysm.
"Thirty servants," he murmured to his advisor, voice thick with concern. "Thirty stars forming a constellation no one else can see."
The advisor nodded slowly. "The city loves him. They see only a child, a prince without threat."
The king's gaze hardened. "They will never suspect what lies beneath. But I will not let this constellation burn the kingdom to ash."
His words hung in the air, a quiet promise of vigilance amidst the calm.
⸻
Caelum turned from the balcony, his expression unreadable beneath the soft light of a rising moon. The night was young, and the intricate game he played was only beginning to unfold.
His thoughts drifted to the servants he had gathered—their hidden talents, their fears, their ambitions. Each was a thread woven into a web only he could see. Every choice was deliberate, every step calculated. The constellation he was forming would be both shield and sword, a force to shift the tides beneath the city's unsuspecting gaze.
Tomorrow the watchers would convene.
And the prince no one feared would begin to show why fear was long overdue.
⸻
The following dawn broke cold and sharp. In the vast chamber where the servants had been gathered, a circle formed beneath ancient arches carved with runes older than the city itself. Caelum stood at the center, his hands folded lightly in front of him, eyes gleaming with galaxies.
Around him, the servants shifted uneasily. Each had been chosen for something rare—a spark, a skill, a potential unseen by the wider world. Their loyalty was tentative but growing, forged by glimpses of the prince's subtle power and the unspoken promise of purpose.
Caelum's voice cut through the murmurs, low and commanding. "You are no longer just performers or shadows of nobility. You are the constellation I command. Bound not by chains or fear, but by choice."
A quiet murmur of assent rippled through the group.
He turned toward Lysara, who stood near the edge of the circle, eyes bright with anticipation.
"You will lead among them," he said. "Learn to see the threads that bind us, the threads others cannot touch."
She nodded, determination settling like armor around her.
⸻
As the days passed, the constellation grew—new servants drawn in by whispers of the prince's favor, their talents diverse and carefully curated. Some were scholars who could decode forgotten tongues; others were assassins whose blades whispered death; others still were artists whose performances could bend emotions like clay.
Caelum observed all with the patience of a predator, nurturing loyalty and testing resolve. Each servant was a star in his private galaxy, their orbits defined by his will alone.
⸻
Meanwhile, the siblings continued their easy affection for Caelum, unaware of the dark gravity he commanded. They teased him gently about his quiet ways, laughed at his apparent innocence, and indulged his whims.
Yet the king's warnings echoed like thunder beneath the palace walls.
"Do not anger him," the king had said, voice brittle with fear. "There is nothing good to come from provoking the prince no one fears."
They had laughed. They still did.
⸻
But shadows were gathering.
The city's undercurrents shifted subtly—markets faltered, alliances cracked, rumors of strange lights and inexplicable vanishings began to whisper through the streets. None connected these threads to the gentle prince with the galaxy eyes, but the constellation's formation was sending ripples through the unseen currents of power.
⸻
In the dead of night, Caelum stood once more on the balcony, the black suns glowing faintly behind him like silent sentinels. His voice slipped into the Old Tongue, fingers weaving impossible symbols that bent the very fabric of reality. The city pulsed beneath him, a delicate web of fate and fortune held together by fragile threads.
He spoke again, words ancient and profound, and the darkness responded.
Far below, unseen by any but the king and his watcher, the first silent black sun bloomed, a quiet herald of the storm yet to come.