Starry flipped slowly through the book’s weathered pages, the parchment whispering with each turn. Faded ink sketched out towering mountains capped in snow, oceans that stretched beyond the edge of the world, and fields blooming with radiant flora no longer found on any known map. Each illustration pulsed faintly with divine energy—residues of a time when gods still walked among mortals, or so the legends cimed.

  She paused at a full-page illustration: nine human figures encircled by elemental sigils. Fire. Water. Earth. Wind. Lightning. Ice. Shadow. Light. Spirit. Their faces were serene, yet power radiated from their stances like unseen wind. The text beneath was worn but legible.

  “In the age of bance, mortals and gods coexisted in harmony. But harmony is fragile. Jealousy is not.”

  Starry’s eyes lingered on the figure inked in jagged strokes—cloaked in shadow, hunched and faceless. The shadow god. She traced the lines carefully, feeling a chill rise under her fingertips.

  “Enraged by humanity’s rising strength, the shadow god cursed the bance, summoning creatures of nightmare to drag the world into fear. Though the gods united to banish him, his followers remained… sowing discord, crafting rituals in secret. And through one, they tore open the first gate to the Fallen World.”

  She whispered the words aloud, each sylble falling like stones in water. Her voice trembled at the end, and she shut the book with a quiet thud, the sound echoing faintly across the rooftop garden.

  “Stories meant to scare children,” she muttered, but the uncertainty in her tone betrayed her. What if they weren’t just stories? What if the Unknowns, the infections, the elemental awakenings—what if they were echoes of something older, darker? Something divine.

  She let out a sigh and leaned back on her hands, perched on the edge of the rooftop. The book rested beside her, its deep violet cover embossed with a faded golden sigil—half-worn, but still warm against her fingertips, like it remembered being worshiped.

  The city of Ancaster stretched before her in shimmering yers—concrete towers, neon signs, ancient stone tucked between sleek metal. Her long purple hair lifted in the wind, catching light from the streetmps below like strands of spun silk. Her grey cape billowed behind her, and her dark blue dress rustled with the breeze, an echo of stars wrapped around her.

  She shouldn’t have taken the book. She knew that. But curiosity had always been stronger than fear. Stronger even than the quiet dread she felt when Umberto looked at her with those unreadable orange eyes—eyes that seemed to see not just her actions, but her thoughts before she had them.

  If he found out… He wouldn’t raise his voice. He never had to. One sharp gnce, and the guilt would crush her.

  But even that didn’t stop her. Not when questions burned hotter than fear. Not when the word Celestia hummed like a half-remembered melody in her bones.

  What if it was real? What if the gods hadn’t vanished but simply... turned away?

  She stood, clutching the book to her chest as she stepped toward the rooftop railing. The air smelled of ozone, flowers from the rooftop garden, and distant fried food. The sounds of the city below were muffled—almost reverent.

  The clock tower chimed the hour in the distance. She was going to be te. The others would start asking questions. Again.

  Starry rested her arms on the railing, gazing at the stars. A streak of light tore across the sky—a shooting star bzing bright before vanishing into the night. Her breath caught.

  Make a wish, she thought—but nothing came. Her throat ached, tight with something unnamed.

  Then the wind changed.

  It wasn’t gentle. It howled.

  A burst of searing white light split the sky above her, and for a moment, the world burned.

  The book slipped from her hands.

  She gasped, staggering back as an image exploded across her vision—so real she could smell the smoke.

  A woman with golden hair stood defiantly amidst crumbling buildings, her eyes fierce and glowing with raw magic. Darkness surrounded her—living, snarling, aware. It coiled around her like a beast, reaching, grasping. She screamed, not in fear, but fury. Her voice was a battle cry—sharp, human, and heartbreaking.

  Starry stumbled, clutching the railing for support. Her knees buckled. Tears sprang to her eyes as her vision blurred, but the images didn’t fade.

  Who is she? The thought struck like lightning. And worse—Why do I know her?

  The wind didn’t answer. It only howled louder.

  A hand touched her shoulder.

  She whirled around, breath caught in her throat.

  Umberto stood behind her.

  He wasn’t angry. Not visibly. But the weight of his presence was enough to make her heart falter. His straight crimson-red hair fell around his face like a curtain of blood and silk. Those orange eyes locked onto hers—intense, unreadable, ageless.

  “What business do you have up here at this hour?” he asked calmly. “You have school in the morning.”

  Starry’s pulse thundered. “I… I couldn’t sleep. I thought the air might help,” she said quickly, eyes downcast. She couldn’t meet his gaze. It was like trying to look at the sun through gss—reflected, refracted, dangerous.

  He didn’t move. “You’ve been crying.”

  She flinched.

  He sighed, soft but heavy. “Another vision?”

  She said nothing.

  “I felt the magic ripple from inside. That’s how I found you.”

  Starry bent quickly, scooping the fallen book off the ground. She could still feel heat pulsing from its cover. Without another word, she brushed past him and slipped back into the building, her footsteps hollow against the tile.

  Umberto didn’t follow.

  He stood alone on the rooftop, gaze turned toward the stars—toward the pce the light had torn through.

  His eyes narrowed.

  And the wind stopped.