Astra stood at the edge of his soul sea, the abyss yawning beneath him like a mirror to the heavens. The lone star hung low above the black waters, its radiance scattering into ripples that bent and broke against the dark. Around him, shadows stirred like restless beasts, patient but hungry. His celestial mana burned within him—strange, volatile, new—demanding mastery with the urgency of a voice whispering behind his ear.
He raised his hand.
A burst of starlight lanced from his palm. Blinding. Brief. The shadows recoiled, curling back with an almost feral hiss. Yet the light flickered out too quickly, its brilliance collapsing under its own instability. Astra's lips thinned. Not enough. Again.
Another flare, sharper this time, jagged and bright. The waves below churned with its reflection, scattering light into fractured pieces. Better. Still imperfect.
Exhaling, he shifted. Shadows gathered at his fingertips, pliant under his will.
One slipped free—detaching from his feet like smoke. It crawled across the water, formless and sly, until it latched onto an unseen presence. Its whispers were unintelligible, not words but intention. A spy made from the absence of light itself. He almost laughed. Yes. That will do.
He pivoted smoothly. A streak of starlight cracked from his palm, arcing like a comet before striking the surface of his sea. It shattered, sending ripples glowing outward. Weak. Inconsistent. A promise without teeth.
The shadows answered with seething displeasure, thickening around him like smoke choking out a flame.
He snapped his fingers. The reflection beneath him convulsed, then stilled as a patch of shadow froze unnaturally solid amidst the shifting dark. Astra stepped onto it, testing. A subtle tether tugged against his weight, fragile but real. His mouth curved upward. Progress.
Starlight surged once more, wrapping him in brilliance. His body blinked from existence, reappearing a few feet away on the abyssal plane. The rush came first—then the dizziness. His jaw tightened. Not yet stable. Not yet perfected.
The shadows pounced on the lapse. Darkness curled up around him, swallowing his glow until his form merged with the night. His pulse quickened. This time, the magic clung to him. His steps were quieter, his spells steadier. As though the shadows wanted him.
"Good," he muttered, unable to stop the smile from twitching across his lips. "Very good."
He summoned his weapons.
In his right hand, a blade of starlight burned into being, its edge singing with celestial energy. In his left, the same form was swallowed, distorted, drowned beneath layers of shadow until it became something unseen and terrible. Light and darkness fused into one deadly edge, twin halves of the same truth.
His gaze flicked to the daggers strapped at his waist—the stolen one, and his own weathered blade. Familiar tools. But compared to the longsword forged by an angel… they were pebbles before a mountain.
The star above pulsed. The shadows below writhed. Astra's breath came sharp, his chest heaving with exhilaration.
He was not simply caught between light and dark. He was the bridge—the place where the two bled together. And bridges, he realized, could carry armies.
....
Later, Astra slumped on a cracked stone bench outside the Forge District, sweat cooling against his skin, the air thick with the stink of coal and molten steel. Every muscle in his body ached from hours of forcing light and shadow to obey him, his head pounding with the aftershocks of clashing mana currents. Yet beneath the exhaustion was something else. Excitement. A restless fire. Progress had been made, and mastery felt tantalizingly close—even if the stars themselves still mocked him from their unreachable height.
The Regal Coin thrummed faintly in his palm, alive, eager, as he flicked through the archive. Lines of ancient script shimmered before him, knowledge carved into the bloodline of his House. His eyes lingered on one entry:
The Sword of the Stars.[Mastery: 0/9]
He studied the description. A style of brilliance and inevitability—momentum and dazzle. Strikes that fell like fragments of constellations, weaving radiance into every motion. Elegant. Unpredictable. It was a swordplay made for those who declared themselves openly, who fought in the blaze of truth.
His temple throbbed as something foreign stirred—instinct, faint but undeniable. Fragments of a foundation laid for him, weak yet present. A door cracked open.
On the other hand.
The Sword of Shadows.[Mastery: 0/9]
A stark contrast. Where one dazzled, this concealed. Precision sharpened into inevitability. Movements honed until waste did not exist. The unseen hand that ended battles before they began. Its practitioners were executioners who moved as the darkness itself, their enemies never knowing the moment they had already lost.
Astra leaned back, breath spilling white in the cool night air as he rose from the Forge District, the path winding upward toward the Human District. Coal smoke gave way to the softer scents of the city, but his thoughts burned hotter than ever.
Two legacies. Two blades. Two truths.
He did not yet know whether he would choose one—or weave them into something that belonged to no one but him. But the answer would come, and when it did, the world would see not just a heir of House Night, but its rebirth.
For now, there was work to do.
The clang of hammers faded behind him, replaced by the distant hum of the Springtime Advent Festival still raging above. Yet, something had changed. The fireworks had stopped, and the air felt charged, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
He walked calmly avoiding eyesight as he glanced back down at his Regal Coin, his mind a storm of thoughts.
"Sword of the Stars... Sword of the Shadows..."
He had never been trained in either. Never had a proper mentor—save for those few sessions with Iskander, before the madman disappeared chasing adventure. The last word Astra had of him placed him somewhere in a mana-dense zone, one so saturated it disrupted the Regal Coin networks. That was two years ago.
Astra exhaled, the sound heavy.
In truth, he had always fought like a survivor, not a warrior. But now—with his star awakened, his shadows answering his call—he stood at the threshold of something more. The potential to walk both paths, light and darkness alike.
"I wonder if it's possible to make my own sword style…" His fingers brushed the coin, violet eyes narrowing. "Odin did say I was the only one ever blessed by both Shadow and Night…"
Even so, Astra did not dare whisper the true gods' names aloud. He could. Being of their blood meant the world's resistance would not choke him for it. But it still felt wrong—blasphemous in a way he was not yet ready to embrace.
He sighed again, violet eyes catching the glimmer of lanterns as a breeze tugged at his curls.
He stepped into the festival streets. Warmth washed over him—lantern glow, the scents of roasted meat, honeyed bread, and spiced wine mingling in the air.
The Springtime Advent Festival was still in full bloom. Silken banners of midnight blue and gold rippled from rooftops, and enchanted globes hovered above the cobbled lanes, flickering like captured fireflies.
But something had shifted.
The revelry lingered, yet beneath it thrummed unease. The fireworks had stilled. Music dwindled to softer chords. Laughter carried thin and brittle, stretched over conversations sharp with caution.
Duskguards flooded the streets. The air grew heavy.
Astra caught it at once—the change in guard activity.
The usual ceremonial patrols, loose and half-drunk on festival cheer, had been replaced by ranked knights clad in blackened steel. Their Regal Coins glinted like cold stars on their cloaks. They moved in disciplined formations, steps in perfect rhythm, hands never straying far from the hilts of their weapons. Lantern light shivered across polished breastplates. Their eyes were alert, scanning, calculating.
He tugged his hood higher, melting into the current of the crowd. He wasn't the only one who noticed. Merchants darted wary glances across their stalls. Nobles whispered behind jeweled fans. Even the street performers—those who lived for such nights—kept their acts subdued, their gazes drifting to the looming silhouette of the fortress walls.
Something had happened.
Something big enough to put the city on edge.
Wait. No. I'm an idiot. I definitely caused this.
A wry thought cut through the tension. This is because of my godhoods. My little stunt was loud enough for half the world to notice. I still remember those gazes—indescribable, suffocating—trying to pry into what Odin was doing. If not for him shielding me, the Seraphs would have intervened outright.
A slow grin tugged at him, unbidden. So I've set the whole city on edge, have I? Gods, I really am moving up. I went from putting a district on high alert to rousing an entire city… He fought back a laugh, shaking his head at his own mockery.
He kept walking, footsteps light across stone. The mana in the air shifted—subtle, but undeniable. The shadows leaned toward him, drawn close. The stars above, veiled by violet twilight, bled through brighter than before, pricking at his awareness.
Astra walked among them, clad in the Nightshroud. Its underlayers hugged him like a second skin, snug, fitted. The travel cloak draped over him in flowing waves of gray and midnight blue, shadowed folds shifting with every step. Woven enchantments blurred his outline, dulling edges and swallowing light. He seemed less a figure than a suggestion—something the eye might slide over unless it truly sought him.
At his hip, the Regal Coin pressed cool against the fabric of his Nightshroud, its surface gleaming with a mirror-black sheen. Across it coiled a golden Ouroboros, a Perfect replica of Shadows insignia.
He had sent out a request through his Regal Coin using a encrypted subtle mana network message, one that would avoid detection from other houses, or even worse the Eternal Keeper and her wrath, He had to actually worry about Gods now, a thought that startled and absolutely terrified him.
Anyhow Astra invoking Shadow's authority was like a flare in the dark. The response had not been immediate—House Shadow was many things, but swift in matters of politics was not one of them—yet the coin's features had been granted.
For all legal and political purposes, he now walked beneath Shadow's banner.
Astra almost smirked at the thought. I can only imagine how confused they are right now—receiving an asylum request from someone carrying an imperial coin of House Night. His house had been eradicated long ago, only the Church of Night persisting, bound in uneasy alliance with House Shadow and its ever-watchful clergy.
Coins bearing Night's crest still existed—dusty heirlooms in vaults, forgotten tokens in collectors' hands—but none carried imperial clearance, that was reserved for core members. His must have caused a stir. More than that, the angels of Shadow would have felt the divine disturbance he had roused. However minor, no ripple in the higher realms went unnoticed. Any person can put two and two together and figure out who was seeking asylum.
As Astra walked his intuition sharpened. He felt it: presences reaching, threads of intent brushing faintly at the edges of his being, as if trying to fasten him to a location.
Deep within his soul, a shadowy cloak of secrets stirred. A heavy mantle, corporal and unseen, its folds obscured him however subtly. Astra had but a mere claim on this godhood and its effects were already astonishing.
The anti-divination properties are holding… good. A small measure of comfort, knowing no god could simply fix their gaze on him and send some saint or angel to capture or kill him by letting some lower rank individual do it.
House Shadow has countless branches, countless scions and offshoots slipping through the city's veins. To most, I'll look like just another visiting noble. With care, I could blend with their bloodlines, link up with a few of their agents, draw support.
But he had to be careful. Avoid the wrong circles. I need to steer clear of any Houses or Churches with strongholds in Duskfall. Especially Knowledge, Dawn, and Dusk. They'll be searching for me already, or trying to.
He slowed near a modest street stall, drawn by the scent of sugar and citrus. A broad-shouldered vendor ladled out rosy-pink lemonade that glistened in the lantern-light, faintly fizzing. The air was sharp with fruit and sweetness.
Gods knew he needed a drink.
Astra passed three bronze standards across the counter, fingers brushing briefly against the man's calloused hand, and lifted the glass. The liquid was chilled, sweet, tinged faintly with alcohol. Refreshing.
Astra did not fail to notice an encircled X on a vertical stick with a star shining above it. The holy symbol for the Illuminator. Most believers of his divine church are usually very welcoming truthful and have an absurdly strong moral compass. Also there is a stereotype that most of his believers tend to own business's quite a fitting one. Ironically, a lot of lawyers also believe in him.
he exhaled, savoring the fleeting ease, then leaned against the stall's frame. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and casual, the practiced cadence of nobility slipping easily into place.
"The festival feels… different tonight." His gaze flicked toward a passing patrol of knights, their armor throwing hard gleams into the night. "Did something happen?"
The vendor rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing slightly as though he were replaying the moment. His voice, lowered, carried unease despite the effort at composure. White hair caught the lantern-glow, his dark features lined by age and rank. A man weathered, a Rank Two if Astra guessed right.
"Aye, my lord," he said, leaning a fraction closer.
The vendor rubbed a rough hand over his chin, eyes flicking toward the sky as if replaying the moment in his mind. He leaned in slightly, voice hushed but tinged with unease. His features were weathered, darkened by sun and soot, framed with a crown of white hair. His bearing wasn't that of a simple lemonade peddler—no, Astra could see it in the way the man's shoulders rolled, the faint crackle of mana clinging to his skin. An old Rank Two, hardened by years of battle, reduced now to selling drinks to survive.
"It was just after dusk," the vendor began, his voice low and deliberate. "The fireworks had been lighting up the sky, aye? But then—" he snapped his fingers, the sharp crack cutting through the air—"they stopped. Like someone had smothered the fuse. No final burst, no embers falling, just… silence."
His hand tightened against the stall's edge, knuckles pale. "And then the air changed. Heavy. Suffocating, like the whole damn city was holding its breath. The stars—" his gaze darted upward, sharp and suspicious, as though expecting them to shift again—"they weren't right. Too sharp. Too bright. Like something behind them was pushing through."
He hesitated, and his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the counter. "And the shadows…" His breath hitched. "They moved. Not by torchlight. Not by lanterns. They moved on their own. Stretched where no light cast them. Twisted like they were alive. Celebrating."
The vendor's jaw clenched. "Only once in my life have I seen that before—when a Shadow Lord came down upon a battlefield. We thought the war was won, till the darkness itself turned traitor. I barely lived to crawl away." His gaze, suddenly sharp and prying, cut toward Astra. "And tonight, the shadows danced again."
Astra nearly choked on his lemonade, the fizz pricking the back of his throat. Shit. Did I leave too large a mark? Already discovered? The thought knifed through him, his heart racing faster than he let show. His instincts screamed. The Regal Coin at his hip seemed to grow heavier, its golden Ouroboros gleaming like a beacon daring the world to notice.
But then—no. The panic dulled, replaced by cold logic. Calm. He doesn't know. He's fishing. Probing like a soldier who's seen too much, desperate to confirm his suspicions. Plus a shadow lord? A ceremonial title, given to those with high affinity with shadows and extreme potential, it's crazy I was actually given such a title. Astra forced his breath even. The mask of a Shadow noble slipped neatly back into place.
Still… damn. Did I really cause such a commotion? The vendor's words rang truer than he liked. If ordinary men were seeing faces in the dark, feeling the weight of celestial gazes, then his awakening had been anything but subtle. He cursed inwardly. Congratulations, Astra. From putting one district on high alert to throwing an entire city into panic. He mocked inwardly. Wait it's actually worse I put churches on high alert as well! Wow what a truly a meteoric rise.
The vendor, perhaps misreading Astra's silence as permission, pressed on.
"People whispered after. Said they saw faces peering from alleyways that vanished when looked at twice. Guards muttered they felt something brush against their armor—like invisible hands testing their steel. And the knights…" He gave a bitter laugh, though it quavered. "You ever seen a Duskfall knight rattled? Those bastards wear steel hearts. But tonight, I saw fear in their eyes."
He shook his head, muttering almost to himself. "Something passed through the city. Divine, aye. But not holy. Not blessed. If it was a miracle, it was one for the gods, not for us. House Dusk knew it, too—that's why their banners fell silent. This wasn't meant for common folk to witness."
Finally, his gaze slid back to Astra, deliberate, searching. "But you nobles…" He gestured toward the Regal Coin gleaming at Astra's hip. "You always know more. So excuse this old man for being preposterous oh lord but do tell me,—" his voice hardened, a challenge wrapped in false deference—"should we be worried?"
Astra swirled the glass in his hand, the pink liquid catching lanternlight. He let the question hang, savoring the faint tremor in the vendor's tone. Internally, he weighed the risk. Press me too hard, old man, and you might learn more than you bargained for.
He met the vendor's eyes with a seriousness that could have frozen blood. "Oh, absolutely. You should start digging a hole to hide in immediately."
The vendor froze. His cloth slipped from his hand, forgotten, as his expression contorted between disbelief and mounting dread. His eyes flicked down to the cobblestones, as if already judging how deep he'd need to dig before the world collapsed.
Astra sipped casually, relishing the absurdity. Then, at last, he smirked. "Or better yet—sell apocalypse-proof lemonade. Triple the price. The nobles would pay it gladly."
He lifted the glass in mock toast, his posture refined, his smirk cruel in its elegance. "To surviving ominous celestial events and mysterious shadow shenanigans." And with the composure of a man born to House Shadow, he took a dignified sip of his very pink, very harmless drink.
The vendor blinked, his mind stumbling between terror and confusion. "A… a hole?" he muttered, dazed. He even bent slightly, staring at the street as if imagining shovel hitting stone.
Then Astra's smirk clicked into place.
The vendor jolted back upright, exhaling hard. "By the Illuminator, don't jest like that my lord!" He slapped the counter with his palm, the sound sharp and irritated. "Nearly had me sprinting for the hills.."
His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the cloth again, wiping the stall with exaggerated force, as if scrubbing away his own fear.
Astra's smirk lingered, faint but knowing. Relax, old man. If I told you the truth, you wouldn't sleep again for a week.
But as Astra toasted with his drink, the vendor snorted, shaking his head."Apocalypse-proof lemonade, huh? Maybe I should! Double the price for the nobles, triple if they look paranoid."
A few nearby patrons laughed, easing the air. The vendor chuckled too, pouring another drink for a waiting customer. Yet even as his hands moved with practiced ease, his eyes flicked back toward Astra, wary, measuring.
"Still…" His voice dropped again, low and steady. "Whatever that was, it wasn't normal. I'd rather be selling drinks than finding out if we should be running."
He leaned in slightly, cloth twisting between his fingers. "The fortress of Dusk is restless. Rumors say the Holy Queen herself stirred, and when she moves, the whole city pays attention. After all—when Angels move, us mortals can only watch."
The words slid into Astra's chest like a blade. He swirled the lemonade in his glass, feigning mild curiosity, but his mind sharpened instantly.
The Holy Queen of Dusk… stirred?
A shiver ran beneath his skin, unseen but biting. An Angel, not just any—his sworn enemy. The one whose shadow loomed over his every step. The thought constricted his lungs for half a heartbeat before he forced it down, burying it beneath a polished smile.
Gods.
He let none of that touch his face. Instead, Astra flashed the vendor a bright, charming smile as he tipped back the last of his lemonade, savoring its fizz like a noble savoring wine. With a graceful flick of his wrist, he set the empty glass aside and raised two fingers in a casual wave.
"I'll be fine. Thank you for the lemonade, old man."
His tone was light, almost flippant, but the words carried an odd finality, like a man walking into the dark with no fear of what lurked inside.
With that, Astra turned and drifted back into the crowd, his pace easy, unhurried—yet every step was deliberate, coiled with intent. Around him, the festival still hummed, alive with laughter, lanterns, and the bright clamor of voices. But to Astra, it all blurred, muffled beneath the weight of revelation.
The vendor watched his back recede, brow furrowed. The boy's confidence was unsettling, his farewell stranger still.
"I'll be fine…" the vendor muttered, half to himself, shaking his head. He rubbed the cloth hard across the counter, as if to scrub away the unease Astra had left behind. "What a strange Scion."
And with that, he turned back to his work, though the unease lingered, curling in his chest like smoke.
Astra's new armor, the Nightshroud, clung to his form in its travel mode, its dark weave drinking in the lanternlight until he seemed more suggestion than man. The fabric moved as though it had learned his body—each step fluid, seamless, almost too natural. His presence blurred against the world, not vanishing but refusing to settle into the eye. The Regal Coin at his hip, obsidian and cold, gleamed faintly in the folds of his cloak like a hidden oath, its golden Ouroboros a reminder of the deception he carried. A banner of House Shadow to anyone who dared look too closely.
He passed a pair of Dusk Knights at the mouth of a side street. Their armor caught the glow of enchanted lanterns, casting pale, angular shadows onto the cobblestones. The knights gave him a glance—trained, quick, and disinterested—then turned away. That was the strength of the mask. The armor, the coin, the bearing of a scion: convincing enough to make the world look elsewhere. They would not risk offending the blood of House Shadow, not on festival night, not with tensions this high. Fear did more work than secrecy ever could.
Astra's lips curled faintly under his hood. Masks upon masks. I was born to survive like this.
"I need to find a high-ranking member of House Shadow," he muttered, his voice almost lost to the river of chatter flowing around him. "But with my godhoods now… I doubt even they can find me."
It wasn't paranoia. He felt it—again and again, like cold fingers scratching against the skin of his soul. Attempts. Not too many, not constant, but sharp when they came. Angels testing the air, diviners reaching through veils. Most pulled back; few dared. They knew better than to probe too deeply into the secrets of a pinnacle-tier angel. But there were exceptions—the Gods, and others drunk on power or hubris. Those did not care for the rules of restraint. His cloak shifted against him like a living thing, shadows inlaid with obscurity, breaking each searching gaze against its hidden laws.
Still, he could not relax. Not here.
Perhaps even the Church of Night… they would never find me there. Not through this Cloak.
The thought slithered in, half-truth and half-danger. He tucked it away. For later.
His mind tightened around the more immediate truth: he needed someone who could guide him through this mess. Connections. Shelter. Not allies of circumstance, not borrowed daggers from strangers—but figures anchored in the world's power structure, people who could provide cover, legitimacy, a fortress of influence while he grew. Without it, his strength would remain raw, and raw strength was meat for wolves.
If I'm going to grow stronger, I need more than just mana. More than just the star burning inside me and the shadows waiting at my call. Training. Shelter. Direction.
The words uncoiled like vows, but another voice cut through—the survivor's voice. Or I leave. I could disappear. Adventure, drift, live between realms. He pictured it for a heartbeat: roads untraveled, nameless lands, freedom from banners and eyes. But then reality's cold weight dropped into his chest. Naive. They'll find me. I'm wanted by divinity itself. They always find you. The gods always find you.
He paused mid-step, gaze lifting toward the distant fortress.
The silhouette of the Castle of Dusk cut against the violet sky like a blade, a mountain of obsidian stone and silver banners that had haunted him since boyhood. To him, it had always been more prison than palace, its spires not monuments but spears poised downward, ready to pierce anyone who strayed too far from obedience. Tonight, though, the air made it worse. He could feel the fortress watching. Looming. And for once, it was not imagination. His godhoods, his transgressions of simply existing, had made the city's greatest predator stir.
A flicker of determination burned across his face as his stride lengthened. He could not wander lost through thoughts forever. His path was clearer, if not easier. Shadow first, then Night. Safety before power. A sanctuary before conquest.
He wove through the festival crowd, mind distant, body alert. Lanterns bloomed overhead like constellations caught in glass, their warmth spilling over the streets. Music drifted from street performers—flutes, drums, laughter weaving with the shuffle of feet and the clinking of coins. The scent of roasting meats tangled with sugar and citrus, pulling his mind back to half-remembered nights when festivals had meant something simple, something human. He tasted bitterness behind his teeth. Those days had died with his childhood.
The streets of Duskfall glowed with banners of midnight blue and gold, cloth snapping in the breeze. Children darted between legs, their giggles cutting through the subdued tension like sparks against iron. Merchants shouted over each other, selling sweets, trinkets, silks, blades dulled for festival combat. All of it a facade, and Astra saw it for what it was: a city dressed in borrowed joy, hiding the tension rotting beneath.
He adjusted the Nightshroud, letting its folds whisper with the crowd's movements. No one looked too long at him. No one saw more than a shadow passing through.
Stay small. Stay unremarkable. Avoid the eyes, avoid the nets. Don't give them reason to notice. A single spark is enough to burn the mask away.
And yet—even as he buried himself in the river of strangers—he could feel the weight of divinity hunting from above, a reminder that no mask, no cloak, no festival crowd would keep him safe forever.
Astra had enough on his plate without inviting more eyes to follow him. Drawing attention in a place like this was dangerous—especially when the streets swelled with nobles, hardened warriors, and magi whose names carried weight in entire provinces. One wrong step, one misplaced glance, and he could find himself caught in a web spun by families that would crush him without hesitation.
I am still only Rank One, he reminded himself, a low growl in his chest as he shifted through the crowd. All this posturing, all these gods-damned lights, and I am one clean strike away from death. A blade in the ribs, a spell to the heart—that's all it would take.
His eyes wandered anyway, restless and searching. Lanterns painted the streets in rippling shades of amber and crimson. Banners streamed overhead, advertisements plastered on enchanted cloth: troupes promising miracle performances, merchants displaying alchemical wares, street conjurers offering tiny sparks of magic for coin. The air stank of roasted meats and spiced wines, undercut by the faint ozone of mana leaking from talismans on sale.
None of it interested him—until a sudden flare of gold pulled his gaze upward.
A massive crystal-screen hovered over the plaza, impossible to ignore. Its surface shimmered, a radiant emblem of crossed swords blazing beneath a starburst, as a bold script proclaimed:
"Springtime Advent Tournament—Open to All! May Mana Bless the Bold!"
Astra slowed, boots grinding against the cobblestone. The screen came alive, scenes of chaos and triumph playing in sequence: champions locked in duels beneath roaring skies, explosions of spellfire illuminating coliseum sands, crowds howling with ecstasy as names were immortalized in wreaths of light.
He tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Ah. I'd nearly forgotten. The memory crept in slow. The true reason Duskfall swells in spring. Not the markets. Not the saints' sermons. This tournament—the spectacle that lures scions and beggars alike to gamble blood for glory.
He could almost imagine it: the gates creaking open, the ground trembling beneath the roar of a thousand voices chanting his name. His figure stepping out into that burning light, the arena swallowing him whole as he carved a path toward legend.
For one sharp moment, Astra wanted it.
The screen shifted, showing a swordswoman in burnished steel, her greatsword cleaving through summoned beasts as if they were parchment. The audience lost its mind, drowning the image in thunderous applause. Then came the laurels—golden, glowing, placed upon her brow by a high-born dignitary whose smile dripped with approval.
Astra's mouth twisted into a scoff. He turned, continuing his walk.
"As if I could even compete," he muttered under his breath. "Half the realm is sniffing after me, and I'd waltz into an arena for all of them to see? Imagine it—the angels themselves, blind in their search, only to find me trending across the mana networks as the fool swinging a blade in the spotlight." He laughed once, sharp and humorless.
It wasn't disdain for the tournament that soured his tone. Quite the opposite—there was something alluring in its brazenness, its celebration of those willing to gamble their lives for recognition. An equalizer of sorts: nobles with centuries of training, vagabonds with nothing but raw talent—both cast into the same pit, forced to prove themselves.
But for him? Not yet.
"Not the season for parading," he said, softer this time, almost lost beneath the crowd's din.
He knew the prizes could change lives: fortunes in coin, enchanted relics, even the attention of houses that could propel one into greatness. Temptations dangled like bait on a hook. But Astra was no fool. That kind of light burned, and once burned, there was no going back into shadow.
No—his time was for sharpening unseen. To temper the strange alloy of star and shadow within him until it was no longer unstable magic, but a weapon. To hone his swordplay not merely to survive but to ascend—each strike a line of poetry written in steel.
The banner above flapped in the wind, its letters blazing like a dare. He let his eyes linger, the faintest curl of a smirk touching his lips.
"It's a fine show," he admitted. "Perhaps I'll watch a match or two."
Then he adjusted the weight on his shoulder, pushed through the laughter and music, and let the noise of Duskfall fade behind him as he drifted toward its quieter, darker veins.
There were inns to find, spells to refine, and strength yet to master.
The first night of the festival in Duskfall was beginning to close its curtains. The revelry that had drenched the air only hours before—laughter, drunken songs, the thunder of drums—was thinning out now, fading into a softer rhythm. Crowds bled back into their homes and inns, leaving behind lanterns still swaying from poles and the faint tang of spiced wine on the breeze.
Astra slipped into the quieter arteries of the city, where noise carried like a distant echo. The lantern light pooled against the cobbles, stretching shadows into long, distorted shapes that reached for his boots as he walked. His steps were steady, but his thoughts weighed heavy in his chest, layered with both fatigue and a strange clarity.
The festival's residue still clung to him, humming faintly beneath his skin, but rest called louder. He needed the silence of a room, the cool air of privacy, a place where he could put down the many masks he had worn since the morning.
The inn he found stood modest yet dignified, tucked between two looming stone buildings like a jewel caught in iron claws. Its wooden sign creaked softly as it swung in the breeze, painted with curling script that gleamed faintly in the lantern glow. Inside, the air was warmer, the revelry reduced to a murmur—the shuffle of travelers, the low negotiations of merchants too tired to haggle. Due to the sheer number of people at the city, it was normal for most inns to have quarters suitable for Nobles, so it wasn't too suspicious for Astra to be there.
He stepped to the front desk and, with practiced ease, placed a gold standard across the counter. Pain flickered through him at the expense—it was too much coin for one night's rest—but the act was necessary. His regal coin of House Shadow lay hidden beneath his cloak, another safeguard to keep the illusion intact. If he faltered in his role, if he looked like anything less than a scion of nobility, his disguise would unravel. Astra prided himself on being paranoid.
The attendant bowed low as if he were something more than he was, then gestured him toward a staircase winding into the upper floors. Astra climbed, each step dulling the noise of the common room until it was no more than a faint whisper behind him.
When the door closed with a muted click, he exhaled. Finally—walls that held no eyes. The weight of House Shadow's coin, of the Nightshroud,—all of it came off piece by piece, clattering and falling into silence. The noble scion's disguise crumbled in the privacy of the chamber. Here, he was only Astra—no one else.
The shower beckoned. He stripped and stepped into the steam, letting the warm water roll down his body. It washed away dust, sweat, and the faint traces of smoke clinging to his hair from the festival streets. Beneath the cascade, he felt himself unwind. His curls, unruly and wild by nature, softened beneath the flow, falling into smooth, deliberate shapes. Each strand seemed tamed, transformed—shaping him into something refined, almost ethereal.
Minutes stretched. He did not rush. For once, he allowed himself the small indulgence of simply being—water on skin, heat loosening muscles wound tight from vigilance.
When at last he stepped free, Astra stood before the mirror. His wet hair spilled down in gleaming waves, framing a face that looked less like the scrappy survivor of Duskfall's alleys and more like the heir of a forgotten throne. His reflection was uncanny—alien, even. A noble, beautiful figure stared back at him, as if some other self had been unearthed beneath grime and disguise.
Gods, I actually haven't showered in months, Astra grimaced, he only washed himself with water that he could summon so he was clean but the luxury of soap and a proper shower was just so comforting, it beat the hell out of washing in some back alley with summoned water and no soaps. Gods hen was the last time? Astra wondered. A small smile found its way on his face. he sighed. Right it was before I was with....with that mature noble who was cheating on her husband. Astra laughed.
His smile grew faintly at the sight, though there was no arrogance in it. Only acceptance. Two truths bound in one body: the broken boy carved by Duskfall's cruelty, and the figure who could command a room of lords with a glance. Both were real, both his. The weight of his new found position was intoxicating.
He crossed to the window, parting the heavy curtains. The sky spilled open before him—violet veils deepening into black, stars pricking the heavens in their quiet vigil. Yet even they were fading, paling beneath the horizon's slow turn.
He lingered, staring upward. The stars seemed to whisper, faint but insistent, their pull threading through his chest. They reminded him of what he had glimpsed tonight: that his path was no longer just survival. Something greater loomed.
I can't falter, he thought, closing his eyes against their glow. Not now. Not when everything is only beginning.
The window sighed shut. He turned back into the stillness of the room. The bed welcomed him like a trap of softness, his body surrendering to its weight as though it had been waiting all day for this collapse. His limbs sank, his thoughts grew hushed, the sharp edges of vigilance dulled by exhaustion.
As sleep pulled him under, he caught the last shimmer of starlight through the curtains—fading, dimming, as the night surrendered to dawn. It was the final thing he remembered before dreams claimed him: that quiet, distant glow, promising that tomorrow would demand more.