Somewhere in the distant past…

  A tiny child with crimson hair that shimmered like molten copper in the moonlight stood quietly beneath the wide expanse of night. Her gaze lifted to the sky. Searching, perhaps, for a comet, or tracing the scattered consteltions like salt across a velvet tapestry. Or maybe she was simply hoping for a glimpse of something she couldn’t name, something she’d seen once in a dream or in the corner of her mind.

  It didn’t matter. Not really. All she knew was that Celestia’s silent nights brought her peace, far from the noise that filled her waking world.

  “My dearest, why are you still awake?”

  The voice came soft and warm, wrapping around her like a familiar melody. A woman stepped into the starlight, her hair the same crimson hue as the child’s, flowing over her shoulders like liquid fire. She bent and wrapped her arms around the child from behind, her touch light but steady.

  The child turned slightly, tilting her head back to meet the woman’s eyes. She reached up, pcing her small hand against her mother’s cheek.

  “Your eyes remind me of the heavens at night,” the girl whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  The woman’s expression softened. A quiet understanding flickered across her face, as though the child had just spoken a truth too old to be taught.

  “Do they?” she murmured, crouching to meet the child’s gaze fully. “I’ve always thought the same about you.”

  “Why?” the child asked, her voice no more than a breath, carried away on the night breeze.

  The woman smiled, running her fingers gently through the child’s hair. Moonlight kissed their faces.

  “Because, my dearest… your soul is like the night sky. Vast. Mysterious. And filled with stars I could never hope to name.”

  The child blinked up at her, eyes wide, as though trying to memorize the moment. She didn’t fully understand the words, but the warmth in them sank deep into her bones.

  Without another word, the woman rose slowly and gathered the child into her arms. “Come,” she said softly. “Let’s go inside before daybreak finds us.”

  As she carried her daughter back toward the small, quiet home nestled beneath the hills, the child looked once more at the sky. Somewhere up there, beyond the reach of her small fingers, were answers. But for now, the gentle strength in her mother’s arms felt like enough.

  “Will you tell me the story again?” the child asked, her voice hopeful, muffled against her mother’s shoulder.

  The woman ughed under her breath. “Are you not tired of that tale?”

  The child shook her head. “I want to hear it again.”

  Later, when the child had been tucked beneath a mountain of bnkets and the room had grown still, the woman sat beside her bed in the old wooden chair. Her voice dropped low, weaving into the hush of night like thread through cloth.

  "Alright," the woman whispered, her voice low and comforting. "The ancient mages, yes?"

  The child nodded, her eyes wide, filled with a quiet anticipation.

  "Long ago," the woman began, her voice soft but carrying the weight of the story, "before the Gods ever existed, there were beings who lived in Celestia. They were known as Spiorads—mages who could bend the fabric of the world to their will, who could speak to the stars and command the winds. The Spiorads were not like the mages of today, who study in towers and seek knowledge only for power. No, the Spiorads were creatures of the earth, bound by an ancient bond with Celestia herself. They were protectors, healers, and guardians of secrets older than time."

  The child shifted under the covers, her eyes never leaving the woman's face. "What happened to them?" she asked, her voice soft but filled with wonder.

  The woman hesitated, as though unsure how to continue. "Some say they vanished, taken by the heavens or swallowed by the earth. Others believe they were destroyed, torn apart by forces they could not control. But one thing is certain," she said, leaning closer to the child, her eyes glinting with the spark, "they were bound to the stars, and when they disappeared, the bance between the heavens and the earth began to shift."

  The child’s eyes widened further. "But the stars are still there."

  The woman smiled, her expression distant, as if lost in the memory of a time long past. "Yes, they are. The stars are eternal, just as the Spiorads were once. But the bond they shared with the heavens has weakened over the ages. The stars are no longer as close to us as they once were. And so, we, those of us who remember must protect what remains."

  The child curled her fingers around the edge of the bnket, her small hands trembling ever so slightly. "Can we bring them back?"

  The woman’s gaze softened, and for a moment, there was an unreadable sadness in her eyes. "I don’t know, my dear. But that is the task of those who are chosen. And perhaps, just perhaps," she whispered, as if speaking more to herself than to the child, "someone will rise to carry the mantle. Someone whose blood calls to the stars."

  The room fell silent, the weight of the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. The child’s gaze grew distant, as if lost in the vastness of the possibility that had just been id before her. She didn’t fully understand the depth of the tale her mother had told, but something within her stirred, a calling that whispered in the back of her mind.

  The woman watched her daughter closely, as though seeing something she had not before. A flicker of recognition fshed across her features, though she quickly masked it with a soft smile. "Rest now, my love. There is much to dream of, and we will face the morning soon enough."

  The child nodded, her eyelids fluttering with the pull of sleep. The woman pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before slipping quietly from the room, leaving the door slightly ajar so that a sliver of moonlight could bathe the child’s dreams.

  As she walked away, the woman paused, her hand resting on the doorframe. She gazed back at her daughter, her mind troubled by a thought that had been growing stronger with each passing day.

  The world was changing, and the stars had begun to call once more.

  ~

  I woke to the sound of knocking.Three soft raps. Precise. Controlled.

  My skull throbbed. Not as violently as before, but still with that dull, lingering ache that seemed to hum just behind my eyes. Rum. I think it was rum. The memory of it was hazy, like fog curling over the edge of something sharp and dangerous. My mouth was dry, but my lips weren’t cracked. Someone had given me water. Someone had id a damp cloth on my forehead. Someone had…

  Gods.

  I groaned, cracking open one eye.

  The room was dim, shadows pooling in the corners. A sliver of moonlight slipped through the window, catching on the dust in the air. Jax was slouched in a rickety wooden chair beside the desk, boots up, arms crossed. His long coat had been draped haphazardly over his chest like he couldn’t be bothered to properly use it as a bnket. His eyes were closed, but the knock made them twitch.

  Another knock. Not loud. Just enough to matter.

  Jax stirred, swinging his legs down and pnting his boots on the creaking floorboards. His movements were slow, but measured. He crossed the room in three strides and cracked the door open with the kind of care that said he expected a dagger on the other side.

  “Oh,” he said, voice dropping to a mutter. “You.”

  “It’s me.” The voice beyond the door was unmistakably Arty’s. Quiet, composed, and sharp as a bde that had never dulled. “Let me in?”

  He didn’t argue. Didn’t sigh or crack a joke. Just stepped aside and let her through.

  Arty slipped inside like a shadow. Her hood was pulled low, casting most of her face in shade, and her cloak carried the faint dust of travel. She looked around, assessing the space, then turned her eyes to me.

  They nded first on my face. Then my hands.

  I instinctively pulled the bnket tighter. Too slow.

  “Your hands,” she said softly.

  “They’re fine,” I muttered.

  Her eyes flicked to the bandage at my neck. I saw the faint tightening of her jaw, the fre of something quiet and deadly beneath her composed exterior.

  “Neck too?”

  “It’s fine,” I said again, sharper this time.

  “It doesn’t look fine.”

  “I’m alive. That’s fine enough.”

  “Nice to see you too, Arty,” Jax drawled behind her, the corners of his mouth twitching up. He sounded amused until she turned her gre on him, and he threw up his hands. “Alright, alright. No fun tonight.”

  “I told you I was coming.”

  “I didn’t think you meant tonight,” he grumbled, rubbing at his temple.

  “I travel when I won’t be followed.”

  She turned back to me. And gods help me, there was something in her expression that wasn’t irritation or suspicion. A flicker of worry, maybe. Real worry.

  “I heard what happened. At the Bck Griffin.”

  My stomach twisted. I forced myself to sit up straighter. “What did you hear?”

  “Not much. Just that you got the letter there. But something went wrong.” Her voice dropped slightly. “I didn’t mean to put you in danger. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said quickly. “It was… something else. Just bad luck.”

  She looked at me like she didn’t believe in luck. Not here. Not in Araes.

  She stepped forward, hesitating only once before lowering her hood. Her braid had come partially undone at the end. Her sleeves were rumpled. Her eyes were still sharp but there was weariness behind them. The kind you didn’t fake.

  Then, unexpectedly, she sat. Perched on the edge of the bed like someone who didn’t want to admit she needed the rest.

  I stared at her.

  Not the noble. Not the perfect girl with the unshakeable posture and polished words. Just a girl. One who looked my age, and very tired.

  I didn’t know what to do with that.

  Jax didn’t either.

  He broke the silence, his voice unusually subdued. “What happened to her?”

  Both of them looked at me.

  Jax’s eyes flicked to the bandages again. He frowned just briefly, but the expression was sharp, cutting through the usual mischief like a knife. His hands clenched, once, then rexed as he looked away.

  “I’m okay,” I said quietly. “Really. Just… tired.”

  Arty gave a small nod, but she didn’t look convinced. “Alright. I’ll go. I just needed to know if you’re doing fine.”

  She stood, pulling her hood back over her head.

  “You should rest. Both of you.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling Jax to rest?”

  “I’ve seen the way he eats. If he doesn’t sleep too, he’ll fall over and die.”

  Jax grinned. “That sounds suspiciously like concern, Lady Fanum.”

  “Don’t get used to it.”

  My brain stalled.

  “…Wait,” I said, blinking. “Lady Fanum?”

  She froze.

  Jax leaned back in his chair like he’d been waiting all night for that to nd.

  “You’re from House Fanum?” My voice rose without my permission. “The Fanum? The ruling house of Ara? One of the southern lords?”

  Arty hesitated, then gave a short, almost reluctant nod. “Third daughter. Doesn’t mean much.”

  “It does to me,” I snapped. “You’re nobility. You—what are you doing here? Running secret letters and sneaking into pces like a—like a—”

  “Like someone trying to fix something without getting beheaded for it,” she said. Her voice was ft. No drama. No apology. Just truth. “Title or not.”

  I stared at her.

  For a moment, I didn’t see the elegant girl with perfect posture and smart eyes. I saw a Fanum. One of them. The kind of people who let cities like Araes rot from the inside while they dined on gold.

  But she looked tired. She looked like she hadn’t slept. And she was here. For me.

  She moved toward the door, then she paused and looked back at me.

  Her voice, when it came, was low. Steady.

  “I meant what I said. I’m sorry.”A pause, soft as a breath.“I am in your debt, Dawn of Araes.”

  The door clicked shut, and the silence swelled to fill the space she’d left behind. Quiet as smoke slipping through a crack, leaving nothing behind but the echo of her presence

  I sank back into the bnkets, the mattress groaning faintly beneath me. The room felt colder somehow, though nothing had changed. The stillness pressed in, thick and absolute.

  I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. Gratitude, maybe. Confusion. A strange emptiness curled low in my chest, too quiet to name.

  Across from me, Jax hadn’t moved.

  He sat slouched in the same chair, his silhouette drawn in shadow. He didn’t speak, didn’t stir, just watched. Like he was waiting for something I hadn’t yet decided to give. His eyes were unreadable, the usual glint of mischief gone from them.

  The silence lingered.

  Then finally, his voice, low and even:

  “You gonna tell me what really happened?”

  I shut my eyes. My voice came quieter than I meant it to.

  “Not tonight.”

  A beat passed.

  Then, simply he says, “Okay.”

  And that was all.

  No coaxing.No jabs.No games.

  He didn’t push. He didn’t leave. He just stayed.

  Anchored in the quiet, steady in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.