"Prince....you are late."
"Apologies lord, tutors kept me."
"Excuses are for those who lose." Alistair gestured to the shadow-forged dueling circle. "Enter."
Astra stepped inside.
"Begin," Alistair commanded.
The bishop drew his sword. It was carved of pure darkness—its edge not metal but condensed night, shimmering faintly with tendrils of shadow.
Astra summoned his own practice blade, shadows curling up his arm like vines.
Alistair spoke as they circled.
"Shadow is not merely darkness. It is absence and presence. It is truth hidden and truth revealed. It remembers every wound it has ever seen."
He struck.
Astra blocked—and nearly lost his footing from the sheer weight behind the blow.
Alistair continued, voice calm as stormless night:
"Shadow Sword is not a form. It is a philosophy. A strike born of fear collapses. A strike born of pride falters. A strike born of nothing—of emptiness—cuts true."
Strike. Parry. Slide. Shadows twisted.
Astra matched the bishop, barely—but matched him.
Astra knew that Lord Alistair had not even used ten percent of his skill. The distance between mortal and demi-god was truly like heaven and earth.
Alistair's eyes narrowed in satisfaction.
"You learn quickly. Too quickly.""That a problem?" Astra asked."For your enemies, yes."
They trained until Astra's arms burned, until shadows shimmered like heatwaves around them.
And when Astra bowed at the end, Alistair placed a cold hand on his shoulder.
"Seven weeks remain. By the end, you will know shadow better than most priests know prayer."
The violet sky above Duskfall deepened, its hue sinking from amethyst into a brooding, dim twilight—dark enough to drink in starlight, yet bright enough to remind the city that night never truly ended here.
Astra exhaled slowly.
Then he closed his eyes.
His soul shifted.
The physical world dissolved like dust caught in a tide, replaced by the vast immensity of another existence entirely—
the Kingdom of Stars.
A sacred realm, ancient and unfathomable, a realm he commanded.
The marble underfoot shimmered with galaxies trapped beneath crystal floors. Pillars of stellar stone rose like monuments carved by gods. Every breath hummed with the gravity of creation itself.
And waiting at its center, haloed by the quiet pull of celestial force—
Saint Satalus.
Tall, robed in twilight silver, the air around him curved subtly, bent by gravitational pressure. His staff—an impossibility forged of matte-black star metal—spiraled upward to cradle a living star at its tip. The divine artifact radiated a deep, ancient authority.
The Staff of Stars.
He bowed his head.
"You came early, my prince. Good. We have much to discuss."
Astra approached, his steps echoing faintly in the astral hall. "Greetings, Saint. Good indeed."
They spent hours discussing rituals of the church, house night, and other things Astra needed to learn but could not from mortals or servants. After that they moved on to training.
Astra opened his palm. Celestial mana flickered there—too bright, too alive—shimmering into clusters of miniature stars before sputtering violently.
"I am still struggling with my output and creativity," Astra muttered. "It feels like I have too much at once—too much power. Like a dam trying to hold back a river in flood."
Satalus's smile was calm, seasoned by centuries.
He lifted his hand. The Staff of Stars pulsed, and a stream of celestial mana drifted free—coiling around him like luminous serpents. The saint shaped it effortlessly.
"That is natural," he said gently. "You have been given authority, but not the discipline to wield it. Many prodigies suffer similar fates. Fire-blessed children burn their hands. Storm-blessed youths electrocute themselves. You are no different."
The orbiting stars around him stretched and folded into intricate shapes.
"To wield celestial mana, you must govern it with precision—will refined into clarity. You must know what you want it to become before you command it. Celestial mana is volatile. Even with godhood traced in your blood, you may harm yourself if you pull too deeply too fast."
Astra's curse—his blessing—devoured every motion, every fluctuation, every detail the saint offered. His mind drank in the lesson like a starved beast.
Satalus let the celestial glow fade from his hands.
"I am not a true star mage," he admitted, voice touched by something like humility. "I borrow the authority of this artifact—and suppress celestial force using gravity. The two harmonize well enough, but it is crude. Without this staff, I could not battle the divine to the extent required."
He looked at Astra—truly looked.
"But you, prince… you may one day command the stars with an elegance beyond even my comprehension."
Astra felt the words settle upon him with the weight of entire realms.
Satalus gestured. "Let us begin. Attack me. This sacred realm empowers you—perhaps too much—but here, even your failures will enlighten you."
Astra nodded. He gathered celestial mana again, shaping stars that spun and flickered around him. He launched them forward.
They detonated one foot from the saint, a sunburst swallowing the air before fading harmlessly.
Satalus nodded. "Good. Again."
They continued.
Astra cycled through spell after spell.He summoned starfire—too powerful, detonating in his own face.He conjured falling stars—too dense, collapsing under their own gravity.He shaped burning satellites—too unstable, spiraling into premature ignition.
But he took no damage.Not here.In his realm, he possessed a strength no mortal understanding could quantify.
Even so, he refused arrogance. Power here was not real—not yet. Understanding was.
And understanding came with pain.
They trained beneath the cosmic canopy—gravity bending, starlight screaming like choral blades. Astra pushed until his mana trembled, until his spirit felt scorched by revelations his mortal mind could barely contain.
At last, when Astra's very soul wavered, Satalus raised a hand.
"Enough."
A soft smile touched the saint's lips. "You continue to impress, prince. A few more sessions, and you will be ready for high-velocity battle simulations. Your affinity surpasses even what I anticipated. And truthfully—" he lowered his voice, reverent—"I, too, have gained insights from watching you."
Astra bowed his head, satisfaction blooming beneath his ribs."It is thanks to your guidance, Saint. Though… I must admit, I have begun to sense a tiny fraction more of your abilities."
He studied Satalus quietly.
It isn't just gravity. He governs mass itself… and the absence of it. A concept more than a force. No wonder why Angels respect him.
Satalus sighed, almost fondly.
"It is my honor, prince. You carry the last known lineage of the Night God. You are the one the Church has awaited for centuries. Even now, as I stand in your realm… I feel myself nearing the precipice of angelhood."
Astra inhaled softly.
"It seems we must continue rising together, Saint."
And above them, the astral sky glowed brighter—responding to him, acknowledging him, waiting for him.
The stars listened.
When Astra returned to the physical world, three robed figures waited for him in the estate library. They stood between shelves carved of blackwood, stiff-backed and unaware of the truth before them. Rank Two tutors of the Church of Night—minor priests smuggled into Duskfall with the heaving crowds of the Springtime Advent. The city was too swollen with visitors to monitor every face; even if these men had been stopped, they could have said nothing incriminating. They had been given a simple order: House Shadow required instructors for its younger scions. That was all. None of them recognized that they bowed before the hidden master of their own church.
They lowered themselves deeply."My lord Astra," the eldest said, "today we begin your lessons on the history of Sahāra—its great houses, its fallen royal lines, and the legacies of House Night and House Twilight."
Their voices filled the dim library, blending with the cold purple glow filtering through the high stained-glass windows. They taught him the First Oath of the Shadowborn, recited the Nightlit Sermon, and then moved into darker, heavier ground.
Forbidden spells.
The eldest spoke quietly, as if afraid the shelves themselves listened. There were countless forbidden arts across the realms, far too many to catalogue, yet all shared three unmistakable traits.
The first were the spells that destroyed the caster—rituals so violent that even a successful casting left wounds that could never fully mend. Some tore at flesh, others at the soul, and the worst could crack a mana core beyond repair all for the sake of power.
The second were the spells turned upon others. These were the cruel arts: slaughtering innocents for power, harvesting living mana cores, rituals that demanded unwilling sacrifice. The tutor admitted, with a weary bitterness, that such magic was used far more often than any council would ever confess. "Too many mages," he said, "find evil efficient."
The last were the spells cast against the realm itself. These were rarities, the domain only of the divine and those who approached such heights—magic capable of sundering landscapes, wiping out species, or unraveling the weave of a realm entirely. "If such a spell is ever invoked," the man whispered, "mortals can do nothing but pray they stand outside its shadow."
But forbidden magic was not universal. What one realm found abhorrent, another revered. In Alfheim, blood magic was a sin punished by death. Yet among humans of the southern tribes, among beastkin and orcish clans, blood mages were honored—healers and destroyers in the same breath. The laws of magic changed from one realm to the next, tangled in culture and history.
"Travelers must learn each realm's policies," the tutor warned, "even nobles. And yet… those of great houses, and the royals most of all, enjoy certain immunities. Unless they cause devastation too vast to ignore, they are seldom punished."
Astra snorted inwardly. So essentially, the highborn may wield whatever magic they desire, while everyone else faces death for attempting the same. He had always known as much. Power decided right and wrong, as it always had. It was a major reason he dared not flaunt his star magic even at a young age.
The tutors continued their lessons, drifting into tales of Sahāra's ancient wars, its shifting dynasties, and the buried conflicts between realms. Their words blended with the slow turning of pages, with the growing hush of night settling over the estate.
By the time they finally bowed and took their leave, the sky outside had deepened into full twilight, the moon pale and watchful through the glass.
The training hall of House Shadow trembled with the clash of mana-forged steel, each strike sending a shiver through the stone foundations as if the manor itself recognized the ancient ritual of honing strength.
Velora moved first—she always did.A blur of razor wind and disciplined fury, she struck with the precision of someone sculpted by years of merciless desert training. Her blades howled, slicing clean arcs through the air, but Astra answered with shadows that rose like smoke from his skin. They swallowed her gusts whole, devouring speed and turning momentum into nothing.
She snarled when he pinned her wrists to the mat.
"Again," she hissed through clenched teeth.
"You've said that ten times already."
"I'll say it a twenty."
Before he could reply, heavy, confident footsteps echoed across the chamber.
Vesper entered like a walking sunrise—broad-shouldered, bronze-skinned, irritatingly handsome even when sweat-darkened and breathless from his own drills. His presence warmed the room in a way Astra found profoundly troublesome.
"You look tired," Vesper observed.
"I am tired."
"Good." He cracked his knuckles, grinning. "Means you're learning."
And then came the real trial.
Vesper fought like the living embodiment of bedrock. Each of his earth-infused blows sent vibrations up Astra's arms, rattling bone and shaking loose the breath in his lungs. Astra answered with edges of shadow as thin as silk and twice as sharp, weaving in footwork Alistair had slammed into him through days of brutal instruction.
Every collision of their mana cracked in the air like distant thunder.
When Astra finally forced the older boy down to one knee, both of them heaving for breath, Vesper laughed.
"You're frightening," he managed between breaths. "And I'm very proud of you."
Astra turned away. "…Don't say it like that."
"What? That you're extraordinary?"
"Like that."
Vesper only smiled wider, as if Astra's annoyance were a kind of victory.
By the time Astra returned to his chamber, his limbs felt carved from stone. His head throbbed with dull heat. His vision swayed at the edges as though gravity itself had grown heavier.
He collapsed onto the bed without removing his cloak.
But exhaustion could not silence the storm in his mind.
Sword forms whispered through his thoughts. Political treaties unfurled in perfect detail. Satalus's gravitational theories spun in elegant loops. Alistair's doctrines repeated themselves in ritual precision. The Church's chants threaded themselves into his senses.
Knowledge poured into him faster than any human mind should contain—yet his blessing absorbed it eagerly.
Curiosity. Endless, devouring, insatiable.It seized every fact, every movement, every stray whisper of magic or gossip or history. Nothing escaped it.
Astra drifted toward sleep with the sensation of unseen strings tightening and weaving inside his skull.
Somewhere far away, the devil's laughter echoed across the void of memory.And Astra, unaware of the unseen hands shaping the path ahead, sank into dreamless dark.
Days folded into themselves.
Time blurred.
Week One, He read battle maps the way poets read verse. He learned the old rites of House Night and felt—slowly—a root of pride take hold. Velora stopped pretending he needed mercy and had unleashed her darkness upon him. Astra sparred with a plethora of other mages in the academy, enjoying all kinds of different battle styles and mana types.
Week Two, He mastered the differences between three desert dialects used in centuries-old treaties. Samir began asking him for strategic advice. Khalid called him "rival." Sparring had picked up, Astra felt his understanding of the shadows deepen.
Week Three, Alistair struck him so hard he saw stars—Satalus later taught him to use those stars, to bend their positions into gravitational footwork. Astra began sewing starlight into every movement. He began to conceptualize mending both shadow and star, a trump card he could use.
Week Four, Commoners greeted him like a rising prince. Nobles assessed him like a threat—or an opportunity. He saw himself plastered on banners across Duskfall, joining the few other top contending rank ones.
Week Five, He caught himself smiling. Truly smiling. His strength swelled, his mind sharpened, and for the first time, his days felt like life instead of survival. He began to truly understand his strength and weakness.
Week Six, rumors spread that House Shadow was grooming a new champion. Old families took notice. Vesper and Velora, both former competitors—third place and fifth place—were not competing this year, leaving the weight of expectation on Astra's shoulders for rank ones.
Week Seven, He surpassed nearly every Rank One at the Academy. He acted like a true noble knew the customs and traditions of society, he had fully acclimated to high society.Every night, he dreamed of stars, blades, and threads he could not yet name.
This—this speed, this growth—was the natural consequence of a devil's potent blessing, two demigod tutors, one genius saint who battles rank six's, one bishop who's very might struck fear into other rank fours, a sacred realm of the god of night, the full support of a great house at the height of their power, the endorsement of the Church, and two pinnacle-tier rank one training partners.
Astra had been invested in—heavily.And he rose each morning stronger than the last.
For the first time in his life, he felt himself becoming someone.
The night before the tournament, Astra climbed the highest spire of House Shadow's estate. Duskfall sprawled beneath him: lanterns burning like captured stars, streets curling like serpents, skyscrapers rising like the bones of ancient titans. Great walls loomed at the city's edge, and airships hovered in the violet night like drifting dreams.
The wind tugged at his cloak.
Satalus's voice whispered through his memory:"The stars will watch tomorrow. Fight for the world you wish to build."
Astra closed his eyes.
A wave of longing crashed through him—old, sharp, familiar.
"What would I be doing right now… if not for this?" he murmured to the night. "Robbing nobles? Fighting gangs? Caught by a bounty hunter? Killed in some alley?"
The thought made his stomach twist.
He wiped his cheek when a tear slipped free. The wind stole it before it fell.
"Even now… I'm still in danger. My existence could be snuffed out on a whim."His voice trembled."But if it happened now… I think I would die happy. I've finally felt what life is supposed to be—warm beds, ambition, dreams, strength."
He sniffed, staring across the sprawling cityscape, letting the enormity of it sit heavy in his chest.
Astra had always had a habit of going somewhere high up and sitting there to think, he often did this when he found himself overwhelmed, beat up or lacking. It helped keep his sanity.
Astra sat there for a long time, letting the night hold him.
Letting himself feel how far he had come.
How far he still hoped to go.