Astra woke before the lanterns dimmed.
Duskfall was a city of night—its people stirred when twilight bled into a deep violet sky, and rested only when the pale pink of dawn scraped across the horizon. Yet House Shadow never truly slept. The estate murmured with restrained life: attendants drifting like wraiths through stone corridors, wardens patrolling in silence, and cloaked scholars whispering prayers to half-forgotten spirits of darkness.
He sat up on the edge of his bed, the obsidian chamber humming faintly with ancient sigils etched into every wall. Shadowlight—blue and soft as moon-ink—pooled around the corners of the room, rippling faintly with his breathing. A cool draft slipped in through the half-open balcony doors, carrying the rare scent of shadow-blossoms blooming in the inner gardens.
For a brief moment he simply sat there, suspended between worlds. Not groggy. Not refreshed. Just… present.
A boy raised in grime, hunger, and blood had no right to wake in the private chambers of a noble scion. Yet here he was, draped in the dark mantle of House Shadow, living among people who whispered his name with equal parts awe and confusion.
Another day, Astra thought.A long one.
He dressed, fastened his mantle, and stepped into the hall.
The whispers reached him instantly.
Soft. Constant. A thread of voices woven through the corridors.
"It's him… the one the elders compare to Prince Vesperion and Lady Velora," murmured an older rank-two scion, smiling as Astra passed.
"I heard he's not quite their equal, but close. Unbelievable for a commoner," said a middle-aged noblewoman whose tone hinted she was far too well-connected to be repeating mere gossip.
Astra didn't need to see their faces.His hearing—sharpened by the devil's blessing of curiosity—caught every breath, every stray word. If he focused, he could unravel even the quietest conversations like threads pulled from a tapestry.
Of course, anyone could erect a mana barrier to mask their voices… but why waste effort on a rank-one boy with no declared lineage?
He walked on, keeping his pace steady. The mantle of House Shadow flowed behind him like liquid night, swallowing lanternlight in its wake. His own shadow trailed unnaturally long—alive, almost—as if it leaned forward to listen with him.
"No noble blood, no lineage… a pity," another scion said plainly. "Still, House Shadow is fortunate to have adopted him."
He wasn't wrong. The houses of the realms respected lineage above all, a hierarchy being present every one can go. Adopted members ranked lowest, true bred scions above them, sacred-blood descendants, kin to the Angels of the past or present above those, and finally the main bloodline the bloodline of the goddess herself, favored by angels themselves. Prince Vesperion stood at the peak of that hierarchy. Velora belonged to a sacred bloodline.
House Shadow, the kings of the penumbra region of Sahara have an estimated population of one to two billion. To be a member of House Shadow placed you above all even those who were demigods, a mortal rank one can have higher status than a rank four, that was the kind of status great house nobles had! They were seen as more than mortal, as decedents of the gods.
To even get adopted however was extremely hard and selective. One had to be a genius, a secret bastard or extremely well connected to even be granted a chance at being adopted. Most adopted were considered cream of the crop, extremely talented individuals who had earned the attention of a great house. Most were rank two to three, some rank four, being adopted at rank one was an extremely rare feat and did not happen often, Astra knew most the rank one adopted, they numbered fifty! meanwhile the rank two far surpassed that. The reason?
Genius's give birth to genius's. Every noble house would not turn away talent, they would pump it into their lineage to cultivate talent. This act had been happening since the dawn of time, this is why most nobles are all talented individuals, this is how nobles keep their rule!
How does one know if they had such a lineage? One way is the main bloodline curates it, the grandfather of Vesper being Saint Valerius and Saint Valerius's father being an angel and current leader of House Shadow and High King to Penumbra. Bastards existed sure, once found they are either culled or adopted, then there exists a third extremely rare phenomenon.
The Gods may bless one with their true lineage from beyond the grave. Such a thing has happened less than a dozen times throughout the history of the realms. The most famous case being the goddess Evergreen, she was a mere kind commoner who was blessed by the goddess of life a two hundred thousand years ago and now bears her true lineage.
Astra did not know if he was such a case for Shadows lineage, he had yet to truly unravel the mystery of his lineage or its past.
Anyways, hierarchy gets even more complicated when power is involved.
If an adopted member became a demigod, they would rise to scion status.
But if an adopted joined as a demigod they would stay at that status lest they ascend their rank.
If a member married a scion their children would be scions.
If they became angels, they would be of sacred blood and their children would be born as sacred-blooded nobles.
To the general public and the world Astra was a merely talented adopted member of House Shadow, one who is seemingly close with the prince giving him an unofficial elevated status.
But in truth, he was something else entirely.
He bore the true lineage of both the Goddess of Shadow and the God of Night.
House Shadow did not even fully know how deep his lineage to the goddess was. after all he had inherited one of her divine symbols . The godhood, Cloak of Secrecy.
By all rights, he qualified to stand beside prince Vesperion in the main family, that being if the Angel of Shadow extended the offer. Astra doubted he ever would. And Astra doubted he would accept.
Why lower his status? Why chain his future to a house when he intended to go beyond?
He exhaled quietly and continued on his way, letting the whispers fall behind him.
He no longer feared attention. He only feared what attention demanded. Astra often found himself overwhelmed and feeling lost, he'd spend every ounce of free time he had available reeling in his mind, going over his plans and trying to predict the future, the best and worst case scenarios. It was as if he was not living in the present but instead living in his past and possible future.
The obsidian hall opened into the training courtyard. Night-blooming trees rustled in a phantom breeze, their silver leaves bending toward him as he passed. Two young members of the house paused in their sparring and bowed deeply.
"Good morning, Astra."
"Morning," he replied.
House Shadow's younger ranks looked at him not with contempt but with hope. A symbol. Proof that talent could rise from the gutters. Proof that the old bloodlines were not the only ones chosen by the darkness.
Admiration. Envy. Respect.He felt all of it.
Inwardly he felt bad, he did have a divine lineage, he actually had two. The only thing he shared with these adopted members was the fact he grew up in similar if not harsher conditions than them.
"A life of extremes, from gutters and peasants to gods and royals" Astra inwardly laughed.
And by now, he was used to it.
He crossed the courtyard, the first steps of the day echoing softly behind him.
Already, the day was sharpening its teeth.
The Twilight Academy's marble gates glittered with the soft violet sheen of enchantment. As Astra crossed the threshold, the murmurs doubled.
Students snuck looks mid-stride. Conversations dimmed down like a candle under wind.
Some watched him with wariness. Others with envy.
Several stared with naked fascination.
It had been only a week since the training hall video spread—Astra dismantling five rank-one combatants with high battle-prowess for their level, moving with the poise of a seasoned star-forged veteran despite having begun his officialtraining only weeks earlier.
House Shadow had fanned the flames mercilessly, feeding rumors until his name burned through every academy hall. His sudden ascent now drew the same attention reserved for the top rank-one prodigies—Princess Aster Hunt of Dawn, Prince Lucien Solaris, and the others whose rare magics were whispered about like omens.
Astra sighed as he walked. Lately, he found himself thinking too much—another side effect of that damned blessing.
A tournament filled with the Royal and Great Houses of every realm… and House Shadow can tilt the field this far?The realization settled in him like a stone sinking through deep water.The depth of their influence was beginning to feel bottomless.
Or…He stopped mid-stride.Or someone is letting them.
A cold shiver traced his spine.
For a moment, he ran scenarios through his head—each darker and more twisted than the last—before forcing himself to stop.
House Shadow wants war. Dusk and Dawn know it; their escalation is obvious. Dune is instigating. Everyone's waiting for Shadow's move. They're allowing House Shadow more room than usual—houses always push to flaunt their champions, especially before the spring tournament. Dawn does it every year at many tournaments with their golden prince, practically parading him as the future number one genius of the generation why would such a tournament as grand as the spring time advent be any different?…
Astra exhaled sharply and tilted his head back, staring at the amethyst sky overhead.
Maybe I'm overthinking. But even so… this might work in my favor. If I can get close to Prince Lucien or Aster Hunt, I could announce my resignation in front of the entire realm—show off star-magic, make a spectacle of it. Yes… a direct proclamation. The effect would be enormous.
But beneath that plan lurked the question that bit at him constantly:
Could I actually win?
A cold gleam flickered behind his eyes.
There was a strange pull inside him—a drive to challenge those he shouldn't, to reach where he wasn't meant to reach. It had been growing stronger ever since the blessing. Dangerous. Tempting.
He shook his head and sighed, resuming his pace."Gods, I need to stop stressing myself," he muttered.
Maybe I'll win… or maybe I'll be crushed.Either outcome felt almost irrelevant compared to the irresistible urge to try.
Astra stepped into the grand hall—a vaulted corridor where rune-lit pillars washed the shifting crowds in pale blue light. High windows opened to the eternal twilight of Duskfall, the violet sky shimmering like an omen.
Commoners were the first to approach.
They dipped their heads slightly, offering respectful bows.
"Lord Astra," said a young woman he had sparred with once. "It is good to see you again."
"Just Astra," he corrected gently. "And likewise." Embarrassingly enough for him, he had been so busy he had forgotten her name.
She flushed crimson and quickly stepped aside.
Two boys he had dueled in a public exercise nodded to him, awkward and earnest. Unlike the nobles, commoners never hid admiration behind barbs, they were open and honest, almost disarmingly so.
Khalid of House Mirage caught sight of him first. A slow, amused grin spread across his lips as he lifted one brow with theatrical flourish.
"So the famed beauty of Shadow graces us again," Khalid drawled, voice smooth as desert satin. "Try not to break any more mana-network records today, will you? Sybil and Lance fled into secluded cultivation for five days after your little spectacle. Poor bastards never expected to be humiliated before the entire realm—much less by a first-year."
Astra winced. "You say that as if I intended for my face to be slowed down, magnified, dissected frame-by-frame…" He shuddered. "And don't even start on the edits. Gods above."
Then his mind snagged on one sentence.
"Wait—record? I broke a record?" he asked, genuinely startled.
Khalid's grin only widened.
With a flick of his fingers, he summoned his mage-coin. A shimmering projection unfurled above his palm—an elderly analyst from the Guild of Information, standing before a wall of arcane screens.
The man's voice rang crisply through the hall.
"Rank One Astra of House Shadow has, against all expectations, shattered the viewership record for the Springtime Advent Tournament. His training-hall engagement—commonly referred to as The Fivefold Dismantling—has reached a staggering five billion views in the past night alone, surpassing Aster Hunt's long-standing record of four point five billion."
Astra stood frozen, his expression stuck somewhere between disbelief and horror.The projection ended after a minute of breathless praise and wild speculation.
He swallowed hard.
"Five… billion?" he whispered.
"Oh, it's climbing even now," Khalid said cheerfully. "The Guild of Information is practically feasting on your existence. They may start a prayer cult at this rate."
Astra dragged a hand down his face.
Inwardly, he cursed whoever in House Shadow was orchestrating this spectacle.
Damn that bastard… he overdid it.
The rune-lit corridor echoed with Khalid's laughter—rich, bright, and merciless.
"Astra," Samir said, offering a nod. "Your rise is… troubling half the academy."
"It troubles me as well," Astra admitted.
Samir's lips twitched, the smallest hint of a smile."Mm. Of course. You adore the attention."
Before Astra could protest, the academy bell tolled a slow three times.
Dong. Dong. Dong.
The sound reverberated through marble and bone alike.
Classes were beginning.
His first tutor of the day was an elderly scholar whose name Astra could never properly recall—an old man bent like a bow left out in the rain, with a voice thin as flaking parchment. He shuffled before the rows of desks with a trembling candle in hand, the flame sputtering each time he gestured too widely.
"Remember this well," the professor croaked, lifting the candle so close to a vellum scroll that several students winced. "Mana does not remain—it cycles through the great eras of the world. In the third war of fracture, the Sacred Path reigned. But in the fourth, ah…" His eyes gleamed. "The Cursed Path held dominion."
The room was silent but for the candle's weak hiss.
Astra's brow furrowed.Sacred… Cursed…The memory of the devil's words flickered at the edge of his thoughts like the afterimage of a flame:Devils in House Night. Secrets buried beneath the sanctity of Shadow. Ancient bargains sealed in dusk and blood.
He leaned forward slightly.
What, truly, separates the Sacred from the Cursed? Is the line as thin as we pretend?
The professor shuffled past him, still speaking.
"The Cursed Path," he rasped, "is infamous for granting… gifts disguised as blessings. Power wrapped in thorns. One must tread carefully near those who can bestow such things."
In a lesser academy the students would have laughed him out of the room.Everyone knew the truth—beings who offered blessings or curses were few: angels, devils, gods, and sins. No mortal teacher could presume his pupils might encounter such beings.
But this was Twilight Academy, the oldest and most prestigious seat of learning in the Sahara Realm, older even than some kingdoms. Here, scions of minor and major houses studied beside the children of royals. Here, commoners only entered if they bore prodigious talent—so fearsome and undeniable that even nobles could not bar their way.
Here, failure meant expulsion, disgrace, and ruin.Here, whispers of angels and devils were not dreams.
They were warnings.
Astra raised his hand slightly.
"What," he asked in a calm, thoughtful tone, "is the true difference between curses and blessings? Both grant power, both guide the chosen… do they not?"
A few students turned toward him.
The professor stopped dead in his tracks.
"For most," he said slowly, "the difference is night and flame." He set the candle down, hands trembling. "A blessing of the Sacred Path nurtures, uplifts. It is steeped in purity, tempered with mercy."
His voice sank lower.
"But a curse of the Cursed Path? It casts the chosen into chaos. It demands suffering. It reshapes the soul—without pity, without pause."
Astra lowered his gaze to his hand, flexing his fingers.
Purity is merely corruption that hasn't yet realized its potential, he mused.He did not speak that thought aloud. He would not risk revealing such cynicism—not here, not to a Sacred Path demigod in training, not to anyone who might guess the truth coiled around his soul.
He had already learned how quickly the powerful preyed on weakness.
He had only asked to gauge the academy's temperament… and its blind spots.
The professor moved on, but Astra remained still, feeling the familiar burn beneath his skin.
Astra had six other classes to attend, he had taken as many as he could fit in, his hunger for curiosity grew ever so insatiable.
His Blessing of Curiosity devoured every scrap of information with ravenous hunger, pulling it into him, reorganizing it, sharpening it.
His knowledge and mind was being tempered.
House Shadow Training yard. Early evening.
Here stood a demi-god few dared approach: Lord-Bishop Alistair Tenebrous, Master of the Shadow Sword, a high diplomat of Penumbra and a battle-master whose presence chilled the air.
He turned as Astra approached, cloak whispering like a blade sliding from a scabbard.