The rebellion was no longer rumor. It was a fire with a face.
And that face was Aren Valen's.
Three days had passed since he marked Sylven Ordane with the sigil of memory, since the Ashwake lit the first signal fire atop the ruined tower. In that time, nothing at the Celestial Dominion Academy was the same.
The Tribunal had not declared war openly—but the shift was palpable.
Professors who had once turned a blind eye to noble cruelty now looked over their shoulders. Wardings around the inner sanctums were reinforced. Spellcasters with ties to the Divine Courts were called back to the capital under the pretense of "reassessment." Secret oaths passed between Houses. Noble-born students began to vanish from class rotations, reappearing with more divine markings, more power—and less humanity.
The gods were preparing their champions.
Aren felt it in his bones.
But his focus remained elsewhere.
The Ashwake was no longer a scattered band of loyal misfits. It was a structure now—militant, organized, and growing. He had given it form. Kaelith gave it teeth.
And now… it needed purpose.
That came with the first death.
The moon hung low that night, a fractured crescent bleeding faint silver into the sky. Aren stood in the courtyard of the Ashwake stronghold—a half-collapsed dome they had reclaimed from the Academy's ancient crypt archive. With shadow-wards erected and parasite-threaded glyphs shielding the perimeter, they were invisible to all but the most powerful starseers.
The meeting had ended an hour ago.
New initiates were being trained in shadowcasting. Others were learning combat against celestial-blessed opponents—how to read divine rhythms, where to break constellation flow, how to sever a summoning mid-channel.
But Aren's thoughts were far from tactics.
He stared up at the stars—quiet now, colder than before.
He could feel the absence in them. Like something was watching and choosing not to intervene. Or perhaps it already had.
Kaelith approached, barefoot and quiet. Her hair was tied back in a braid that was part ceremonial, part practical. Her left eye still bore the faint burn scar from her last battle, though she'd refused to heal it.
She sat beside him without speaking.
"The stars are dimmer tonight," he said after a while.
"They're hiding."
"From me?"
"From themselves."
She passed him a slip of parchment—stained with blood.
A name.
Eriar Dast.
Aren's gut twisted. "When?"
"An hour ago. They found him in the east training chamber. Throat slit. Divine residue in the blood."
Eriar had been seventeen. A fast learner. Faster to laugh. He was the first to volunteer when Aren proposed training to counter divine summons. He had tried to sketch a constellation of his own using fragmented sigils, saying, "If the gods won't answer, I'll make one that does."
Aren stared at the blood-soaked name until his vision blurred.
"I didn't even get to tell him he was brave," he whispered.
Kaelith didn't look at him. "You don't have to carry this alone."
"Yes, I do."
He stood.
His shadow flickered strangely.
The parasite stirred.
The Ashwake buried their dead in silence.
They did not light candles or offer prayers to stars that had abandoned them. Instead, they carved the names of the fallen into blackstone slabs reclaimed from the forgotten wing of the Hall of Triumph—where the Academy once celebrated divine victories by crucifying the losers in gilded cages.
Aren placed the first etching with his own hand.
Eriar Dast. Unchosen, Unyielding. Ashwake.
He didn't speak afterward. Didn't train. Didn't sleep.
He just stood watch at the eastern hall, for fourteen hours straight.
When the next attack came, he was ready.
It wasn't subtle.
It wasn't meant to be.
Three masked combatants cloaked in celestial veils breached the training chamber wall in synchronized silence, moving as if puppeted by the same hand. Their weapons shimmered—half-real, summoned from faith, not steel.
They moved like ghosts.
Until Aren dropped into their midst like a star collapsed into rage.
He didn't summon the parasite. Not yet.
He wanted to feel the kill.
The first attacker went for his throat. He dodged, disarmed them with a spin, and drove their own dagger through their shoulder. The second slashed with a blade of flame. He ducked and twisted her arm until it broke like dry wood.
The third stabbed for his heart.
Aren let him.
The blade hit flesh.
But didn't pierce.
His body shimmered with internal starlight—dark and hungry.
He gripped the man's wrist, and the parasite pulsed.
The assailant's mouth opened in a scream that never escaped.
Aren devoured the man's constellation directly.
Not just a core fragment.
Everything.
The attacker collapsed—empty-eyed, unmarked by stars. A husk.
Kaelith arrived seconds later, blade drawn, her eyes blazing.
"You didn't wait for backup."
"I didn't need backup."
He looked at his hands.
They trembled.
Kaelith noticed.
"You're not as cold as you think."
"I'm not cold," he whispered. "I'm burning."
The three attackers were identified quickly.
They weren't students.
They were summoned vessels.
Hollow bodies created by divine contractors. Illegally. Dangerous. Illegal under every known celestial code.
Their existence confirmed Aren's greatest fear:
The Tribunal had already broken their own laws.
They weren't hunting a heretic.
They were covering up a revolution they'd caused.
And Eriar's death was the first message.
Aren would make sure the reply was unforgettable.
It came on the night of the celestial convergence.
Every seventy-seven years, the Academy hosted the Vigil Ascendant, a holy ceremony where students offered gratitude to their constellations in exchange for new blessings. It was not mandatory—but all noble families were expected to attend. Especially those in the Divine Council's favor.
Aren had once stood in that line. Powerless. Forgotten.
This year, he returned as the ghost in their prayers.
The courtyard was a cathedral of starlight—sigils etched into marble, offering bowls filled with incense and divine crystal. Students in ceremonial robes knelt under the open sky.
High on the platform stood Lyon Dareth, cloaked in silver and crowned with artificial halos—four new constellation marks burned into his skin.
He raised a blade carved from comet-iron.
"On this night," Lyon declared, "we swear again to the gods. To purge heresy. To rise above the void. To become—"
The platform shattered.
Aren dropped from the sky like a divine punishment.
His shadow landed first. Then the body.
Black wings stretched, cloaked in swirling parasite aura.
"You want to rise?" Aren asked, eyes glowing. "Then bleed your way to heaven."
Chaos erupted.
Students screamed. Professors raised barriers. Divine guards closed ranks.
But Aren didn't attack the crowd.
He walked straight toward Lyon.
A duel, then.
Lyon smirked. "So you finally crawl out of your rat-hole."
"You killed Eriar."
"He was nothing."
"He had a name."
Lyon lunged.
Aren caught the blade in one hand.
It carved deep.
He didn't let go.
He pulled Lyon forward—and headbutted him with enough force to break bone.
Lyon staggered.
Aren punched him once in the gut, once in the chest—and then drove a knee into his ribs, cracking divine armor.
But Lyon wasn't weak.
He screamed—and his constellation marks flared.
He exploded in speed and light, wings of astral fire forming behind him.
Aren was blasted back into a column of stone.
Blood in his mouth. Bones cracked.
He grinned.
"Finally," he gasped. "You stop hiding behind the stars."
They clashed again.
Blow for blow.
Magic against mutation.
Grace against hunger.
They fought until the platform burned, until the offerings caught fire and prayers were drowned in screams.
Until Lyon's sword snapped.
Until Aren's wings tore.
Until both lay broken.
And the stars looked away.
After the battle, Aren vanished.
Kaelith dragged him back through the shadowways, losing two guards to intercept squads.
He didn't wake for two days.
When he did, he was changed.
The parasite had evolved again.
But so had he.
Not just in strength.
In grief.
Lira, the half-starborn who named the Ashwake, had been caught in the crossfire. Struck by a stray blast meant for Aren. Her body had shielded two younger recruits.
She died smiling.
Holding a glass rune that spelled only one word:
"Live."
Aren placed her name beside Eriar's on the wall.
And beneath it, he carved a third word.
"Burn."