The world felt too quiet.
Lira lay still on the woven reed bed, listening to the soft crackle of the fire and the distant chirping of night insects. The room was dim, lit only by a single oil lamp that cast trembling shadows across the wooden walls. Everything felt unfamiliar — the scent of herbs, the rough texture of the blanket, the weight of her own body.
Her body.
She lifted her hand again, staring at the small, delicate fingers. They trembled slightly, as if unsure they belonged to her.
This isn't right, she thought. This isn't me.
But who was she?
Astra Vale.
The name drifted through her mind like a fading echo. She remembered metal floors, glowing screens, the hum of machines. She remembered Eli's voice, desperate and breaking. She remembered the ChronoGate exploding in a burst of blue light.
And then… nothing.
Nothing except this world.
This body.
This name.
"Lira."
The voice was soft, warm, grounding. The woman — Elara — sat beside her, gently stirring a bowl of steaming herbs. Her movements were practiced, graceful, as if she had done this a thousand times.
"You're awake again," Elara said, smiling with relief. "Good. Your fever has finally broken."
Lira swallowed. Her throat felt raw. "Where… am I?"
Elara paused, her smile faltering for a heartbeat. "You're home, child. In Aravelle. In my care."
Aravelle.
The name meant nothing to her.
Lira's heart pounded. "I don't… remember."
Elara reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Lira's forehead. "You've been ill for days. Fever steals memories. But they will return in time."
Lira wanted to believe her.
But the memories she did have — the ones of the future — felt too vivid, too sharp, too real to be dreams.
"Elara," she whispered, "I… I saw things. Cities made of metal. Lights that floated. Machines that spoke. And a boy—"
Her voice cracked.
Elara's expression tightened, just for a moment. A flicker of something — fear? Worry? Recognition? — crossed her eyes before she masked it with a gentle smile.
"Fever dreams," she said softly. "Nothing more."
But Lira wasn't convinced.
She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. The room felt too small, too warm, too ancient. She felt trapped between two worlds — one she remembered, and one she was supposed to belong to.
A sudden knock on the door made her flinch.
Elara stood quickly, her posture stiffening. "Stay here," she whispered.
She crossed the room and opened the door just enough to speak through the crack.
A man's voice answered — deep, stern, unfamiliar.
"Elara," he said, "the village council has questions. They heard the girl woke."
Lira's stomach twisted.
They know about me?
Elara stepped outside, closing the door behind her. Lira strained to hear their voices through the thin wooden walls.
"She survived a fever that should have killed her," the man said. "And the mark on her shoulder—"
"It's just a birthmark," Elara snapped.
"A glowing birthmark?"
Silence.
Lira's breath caught.
Glowing?
She pushed the blanket aside and pulled down the collar of her tunic. Her skin was pale, smooth — and there, just above her shoulder blade, was a faint symbol. A star-shaped mark, delicate and intricate, like lines of light etched into her skin.
It pulsed softly.
Like it was alive.
Her heart raced. She touched it with trembling fingers. It was warm.
What is this?
Outside, the man continued, "The elders believe she may be the Starborn Child."
Elara hissed, "Don't say that. Not here."
"It's the prophecy, Elara. A child born under a falling star. A child who brings change — or destruction."
Lira's blood ran cold.
Starborn Child? Prophecy? Destruction?
She didn't understand any of it.
But she understood fear.
And Elara was afraid.
The man lowered his voice. "If the prince hears of this, he'll send soldiers. You know what he does to omens."
Elara's voice trembled. "She's just a girl."
"She's something more."
Lira's breath quickened. Her hands shook. She felt the room closing in around her.
I need air.
She slipped off the bed, her legs weak but determined. She pushed open the back door and stepped outside into the cool night.
The village was quiet, bathed in moonlight. Simple huts lined the dirt path. Trees swayed gently in the breeze. The sky above was vast and unfamiliar, filled with stars she didn't recognize.
She stumbled toward the river, drawn by the sound of flowing water. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and earth. She knelt by the riverbank, staring at her reflection in the water.
A girl stared back.
Dark hair. Pale skin. Wide, frightened eyes.
Not Astra.
Not fully Lira.
Someone in between.
Someone lost.
She touched the glowing mark on her shoulder again. It pulsed brighter, reacting to her touch.
"What are you?" she whispered.
A sudden rustle behind her made her spin around.
A figure stepped out from the shadows — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing dark leather armor. His eyes were sharp, scanning her with a mixture of suspicion and something else she couldn't name.
He looked like someone who had seen too much.
Someone who trusted too little.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice low and steady.
Lira's heart pounded. "I… I don't know."
He stepped closer, his gaze flicking to her shoulder. "Your mark. It's glowing."
She covered it instinctively. "I can't explain it."
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he said something that made her blood freeze.
"The prince is looking for a girl with a mark like that."
Lira's breath caught. "Why?"
"Because he believes she's the one from the prophecy."
He took another step toward her.
"And if he finds you… he won't let you live."
The wind stilled.
The river quieted.
Lira felt the world tilt beneath her feet.
She didn't know who she was.
She didn't know why she was here.
But she knew one thing:
She was in danger.
And the boy standing before her — the warrior with storm-dark eyes — might be the only one who could save her.
Or the one who would destroy her.