The sky was burning.
Not with fire—fire was honest, predictable—but with light, sharp and screaming as it tore across the heavens. The night split open like a wound, and for a breathless moment the world seemed to freeze, as if even time itself feared what was descending.
A star was falling.
Aren Valecar stood on the edge of the cliff, ash swirling around his boots, and watched the sky die.
The elders had always said falling stars were omens. Some claimed they were blessings, fragments of divine mercy cast down to the mortal world. Others whispered they were punishments—gods being executed, their corpses hurled from the heavens to remind humanity of its place.
Aren had never believed either story.
But as the light tore a blazing scar through the clouds, his chest tightened with a sensation he had no name for. Not fear. Not awe.
Recognition.
The star screamed as it fell.
No sound reached the earth, yet Aren heard it anyway—inside his bones, behind his eyes, deep in the marrow of his soul. His vision blurred, the world dimming at the edges as the falling light reflected in his dark pupils.
Then, far beyond the jagged mountains and ruined plains, the horizon erupted.
A pillar of radiance struck the land, silent and absolute. The ground beneath Aren's feet trembled. Loose stones skittered over the cliff edge, vanishing into the endless fog below. A shockwave rippled through the air, flattening dead grass and bending ancient trees as if bowing before an unseen throne.
And then—it was over.
The sky closed its wound. Darkness returned. The stars resumed their distant, indifferent watch.
Only the ash remained.
Aren exhaled slowly, unaware he had been holding his breath. His hands were clenched so tightly his palms burned, nails cutting crescents into his skin. He loosened his grip and stared at the faint blood seeping between his fingers.
"Another one…" he murmured.
Below him lay the Ashlands, a vast wasteland of gray dunes and shattered stone. Once, centuries ago, this had been fertile territory—so the old records claimed. Now it was a graveyard of civilizations that had grown too close to fallen stars.
Aren turned away from the cliff and began the descent toward the settlement.
Calling it a village would have been generous.
Blackened stone structures leaned against one another like exhausted corpses. Roofs were patched with scavenged metal and star-glass shards—translucent fragments that faintly glowed at night and were worth more than gold in the inner kingdoms. Ash drifted constantly from the sky, fine as snow, coating everything in a dull gray veil.
Children no longer played outside here. They learned early that ash clogged the lungs if breathed too deeply, and that wandering beasts—mutated by starfall radiation—prowled the outskirts after dusk.
As Aren entered the settlement, heads turned.
Eyes followed him.
Whispers began.
"—that's him."
"The Ash-Bound."
"He was near the cliff again."
"Does he think the stars will answer him?"
Aren ignored them. He always did.
At seventeen, he was already taller than most men in the settlement, his frame lean but hardened by labor. His black hair hung messily around his face, ash caught in the strands despite his attempts to keep it clean. His eyes—dark, almost unnaturally so—never reflected light the way others' did. Some claimed that alone was proof he was cursed.
They weren't entirely wrong.
He stopped before a low stone building reinforced with iron braces. The sigil carved above the entrance had been weathered nearly smooth, but its shape was still visible: a broken crown encircled by a ring of stars.
The Registry Hall.
Inside, the air was thick with incense meant to counteract ash poisoning. Old Keeper Maelor sat hunched behind a desk carved from star-fossil wood, his thin fingers trembling as they traced symbols across a glowing slate.
He did not look up when Aren entered.
"You felt it," the old man said quietly.
Aren stiffened. "Everyone felt it."
Maelor shook his head. "Not like you did."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
Finally, Aren spoke. "Where did it fall?"
Maelor's fingers paused. The glow of the slate flickered. "Too close."
Aren's jaw tightened.
"How close?" he pressed.
"Within three days' travel," the Keeper replied. "East. Beyond the Scorched Pass."
That close meant trouble. Starfall zones attracted factions—hunters, cultists, royal agents—all eager to claim whatever fragment lay at the impact site. And where factions gathered, blood followed.
Aren turned to leave.
"Wait," Maelor said sharply.
Aren stopped, though every instinct screamed at him not to.
The old man finally raised his head. His eyes were clouded with age, but sharp with fear. "The Crown-Stone reacted."
Aren's breath caught. "That's impossible."
"I thought so too," Maelor said. "But when the star fell… the readings spiked. The same resonance as—"
"As me," Aren finished coldly.
The Keeper did not deny it.
A low hum filled the room.
Aren staggered, gripping the doorframe as pain exploded behind his eyes. The world warped, colors bleeding into one another. For a terrifying moment, he saw something else layered over reality—a vast, broken throne suspended in an endless void, its surface cracked and burning with dying starlight.
A voice echoed.
Not words. A command.
Kneel.
Aren screamed.
The vision shattered. He collapsed to one knee, gasping, sweat soaking his clothes despite the cold air. His heart thundered like it was trying to tear free of his chest.
Maelor stared at him in horror.
"It's awakening faster than predicted," the old man whispered. "If the Inquisition finds out—"
"They already know," Aren said hoarsely.
He pushed himself to his feet, eyes blazing with something darker than fear.
"They've always known."
Outside, the ash continued to fall.
And far beyond the horizon, something ancient and broken stirred—drawn inexorably toward the boy who refused to kneel.