The constellations were supposed to appear when a child was born.
But that night, they didn't. Not a single one.
Above the village of Theral, the sky lay in unnatural darkness. No constellations shimmered—not the Warrior's Flame, not the Seer's Eye, not even the humble Shepherd's Guide. For the first time in living memory, the heavens gave no sign.
Inside the cottage on the hill, a baby wailed. The sound cut through the silence like a blade.
Then—just as suddenly—it stopped.
The midwife stepped back, her face pale, hands trembling as she held the child.
"He's alive," she whispered. "But... the constellations gave him nothing."
Kael Valen came into the world without a mark.
No sign.
No fate.
Elder Muran, the village's keeper of celestial records, arrived soon after. He peered through the frost-lined window, his brow creased.
"This hasn't happened since the Age of Darkness," he murmured. "He is constellationless."
The word echoed through the room like a curse.
In Theral, every child's destiny was written in the constellations. Warriors bore the Claw. Healers the Veil. Even beggars were blessed by the Wandering Path. Everyone had a constellation—a future—etched in light.
Everyone but Kael.
His parents tried to love him, but being powerless has weight, and Kael carried it from the moment he could walk. His mother watched the sky each night, waiting for it to change. His father became a man of few words, hardened by the eyes that followed them in the village.
The villagers never said it outright, but they feared him. A boy without a constellation was a question the gods had not answered. And unanswered questions frightened people more than curses.
By the time Kael was five, he'd learned to keep his head down. Speak little. Listen more.
But it was that year—under a winter sky—that he saw something no one else did.
A single star moved.
He sat alone on the hill behind the cottage, his breath misting in the cold. The sky, clear and cold above, glittered with familiar constellations. And then—one star pulsed. Once. Twice. Then vanished.
He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Gone.
He didn't tell anyone.
By then, he had learned not to speak of strange things.
At seven, a boy named Laren threw a stone at him.
"starless freak!" he yelled as it struck Kael's shoulder.
Kael didn't cry. He didn't run. He just stared at Laren until the boy's smirk faded and he turned and fled.
After that, no one threw anything again. But the whispers never stopped.
Elder Muran was the only one who still came to visit.
"Still no sign?" he asked when Kael was ten, finding him sitting beneath the stars.
Kael shook his head.
Muran sighed and sat beside him with a groan of old bones.
"You're the only child who didnt got any blessing I've ever known. The last time this happened, the records say it was before the Great Burning. Back then, they called it a bad omen."
Kael looked up at him. "What do you think I am?"
Muran didn't answer right away. He looked to the stars, his voice thoughtful.
"I think the sky always speaks. But not always in ways we understand."
That night, Kael dreamed of a sky that wasn't his own. The stars there were brighter, sharper—alive. They spun and shifted, forming shapes he'd never seen. In the center pulsed a black star, beating like a heart.
He woke gasping, his hands warm—too warm. When he looked down, they glowed faintly with light, like coals beneath ash. Then the glow faded, and the night returned to stillness.
But Kael knew something had changed.
The constellations had begun to notice him.