Satalus paused. He chose his next words carefully, letting silence stretch just long enough to make their weight felt.
"Godhoods," he said, "represent divine authority. There are only so many in existence. Some are created… others inherited. The difference is crucial."
He lifted a hand, fingers glowing faintly with violet mana.
"Think of an authority as a domain—space, time, death, dreams. If one bears a godhood tied to such a domain, they inherit certain unique powers to wield it. Not just as magic—but to suppress others who do."
He glanced sideways, as if weighing how much to confess.
"If I, as a Rank Five Saint, wield space and gravity, and I inherit a godhood of space—say, from the holy God of Night himself—then I may suppress even a Pinnacle-Tier Angel who uses the same authority. That is the difference. Not just in magic… but in dominion."
Astra narrowed his gaze, absorbing every word.
"There are two major kinds of godhoods," Satalus continued. "Those created through ascension—rituals of becoming an Angel. Those who claim an authority which is not in a form. And those inherited from greater beings, one can inherit them from Angels, Devils, Seraphs, and Sins even the dead gods.."
His voice dropped slightly.
"The most powerful godhoods? Those tied to the dead gods. Their quality is… beyond measure. Godhoods can also exist in many forms."
Stalalus looked outside "This very kingdom is a sacred realm left behind by Night himself, it is his dominion hidden away from all, only certain members of the church can enter and even then its only for a limited time, no one has a right to claim this kingdom so far or even mobilize all its latent powers, in fact as it stands you hold the highest authority here based on that crown alone and control who may enter or exit."
Astra nodded this was true. The realm in a sense was now his, yet he only could use it when he was inside the realm. Not outside, here he may be able to mobilize certain features but he knew well that he actually had no real power just yet. But the Church doesn't need to know that Astra mocked inwardly.
Satalus folded his hands as he continued.
"I don't know how many godhoods exist, or what they all do. But from what we've pieced together, the ancient gods possessed seven to nine godhoods each—corresponding to their dominions and names. It is unknown what the current Gods may claim as they all have their own secrets and divine schemes."
Astra remained silent. He didn't offer clarification, but inside he was already cataloging possibilities.
Satalus leaned closer, voice low and reverent.
"I do not know what your godhoods represent exactly, but I know a little on one. The Cloak of Secrecy most likely carries authority over secrecy and concealment as its name states. It is highly sought after by many angels and factions, for its uses as it can cloak one from the from the gazes of even Gods. It explains why we couldn't track you—even using methods stronger than any available to most factions."
He paused, considering the other.
"The Crown of Stars… I cannot say. It may represent sovereignty, celestial insight, certain domains of fate, command. It could be many things."
Astra gave a faint nod, eyes veiled. He wasn't about to reveal what he did know.
"But I haven't exactly claimed them," he said at last.
Satalus shook his head.
"No. Not yet. You've inherited a fraction of their strength. The godhoods themselves… have a will of their own. They detected your presence, found you worthy, and offered you a sliver of their power. They may even have blessed others."
He clasped his hands tightly.
"That fraction will grow. The stronger you become, the more they offer. At Rank Two you may hold 5%. At Rank Three, perhaps 8%. At Rank Four, 15%. At Rank Five—25%, maybe more."
"Only at Rank Five," he said gravely, "can you truly begin to accommodate them. Only then can you prepare for the weight of Angelhood."
Astra was quiet for a long moment before he asked the question directly:
"Are you preparing to ascend to Angelhood?"
Satalus didn't answer right away.
Then he smiled—darkly.
"I have been prepared for years. But I did not dare attempt it."
"Are you making your own godhood or inheriting one?" Astra asked curious.
Satalus smiled. "The Authority of Mass, was destroyed in a material sense, meaning I can make and claim it as my own as I attempt Angel hood."
"I see" Astra smiled. So to simplify it, Godhoods are Authorities. People can either inherit one or make one depending on If a material version existed.To become an angel an authority is needed meaning one must take control of an authority or inherit one. So that must mean there are a limited number of godhoods out there representing their own authority, or law that exists from a dead god, also not every godhood is compatible with each other naturally. This is confusing, how many potential combinations exist? and what godhoods are compatible? Questions Questions.
Saint Satalus sighed as leaned back, the weariness of centuries pressing down on his shoulders.
"If one of us makes that attempt… we risk open war. Shadow supports us in name, yes—but if we grow too strong, if we draw too much light… will they protect us? Truly?"
His eyes narrowed.
"That is why I've waited. Waited and rotted in this silence. I was tired. I am tired."
Then his gaze locked with Astra's.
"Until you came, my prince."
His voice shifted—no longer the voice of a mere archbishop, but a man touched by prophecy.
"You are a sign. A herald of a new age. And I do not speak with blind zeal. You will change many things for us. It is your duty. And it is mine—to rise, to claim the rank of Angel, to take the mantle of Pontiff and become the Lord Protector of this Church."
He bowed low, deeply, reverently.
"You've awoken something in me I thought long dead. For that… I thank you. We the church of Night are under you. I shall notify the remaining Archbishops, They will comply."
Astra didn't move. He accepted the words with a nod.
But inwardly?
He was unmoved.
He didn't care for this church. The dead god they worshipped stirred nothing in him. Blind zeal wrapped in dogma was no guiding light. No—what Satalus truly desired wasn't revival. It was power. Astra offered him a key to it. House Shadows protection, and He had laid claim to the Kingdom of Stars, something Satalus surely did not expect.
He doesn't speak of faith. He speaks of ambition. Of position. Of divine ascent.
I see through you Satalus, Clearly this Demi-god was of noble bearing. Astra had a natural talent for a few things. Adapting to Scenarios, Social settings and cues, as well as drinking, He grew up in a harsh environment and had entangled with many peoples of all backgrounds. Each and Every time he had been able to glimpse at what they wanted.
Satalus had been stuck at rank five for gods know how long. He had been rotting and stagnating, he wanted power and most of all divinity. Astra was an asset that will allow him to reach that level.
perhaps that was the truest glimpse of all. These churches didn't want to raise their gods from slumber. They wanted to become gods themselves—by claiming what was left behind.
The rituals. The relics. The titles.
Perhaps, Astra thought, some truly do believe. Perhaps there are angels who kneel in honest reverence…
But he'd bet that most wear masks.
Astra's voice cut through the chamber. "What is the current state of the Church?"
Satalus responded "Stable… but declining. The city of Evernight holds fast and even grows in size, yet our strength bleeds away with each passing year."
Before he could inquire more Astra suddenly felt weak—illusory, as if the very thread of his being were unraveling.
Satalus stood up from his chair, his tone shifting to one of quiet finality.
"Let us end here, my prince," he said. "This Sacred realm is weak and can only be used for a limited time, it seems your being here has strained it a bit. The only reason your soul has lasted this long… is due to your godhoods and your vast mana reserves."
He lifted a hand, and between his fingers shimmered a regal coin, dark as the abyss and laced with faint celestial light. A Saint Coin—not one forged by mundane means, but a relic of deeper power. Tiny stars glimmered across its surface, forming constellations that shifted as if alive. Etched in the center were the words:
"Forged in Night. Crowned by Stars."
Without hesitation, Satalus sent a request forward. It shimmered, pulsing once, and connected directly with Astra's mage coin. for future contact.
Then, with a second gesture, Satalus revealed something far rarer. A tiny speck of light hovered between his fingers, no larger than a grain of rice, yet it burned with the quiet intensity of a sun.
"This," he said reverently, "is one of the Divine Artifact Emissaries."
He placed it in Astra's palm. The star pulsed, and instantly, it recognized him.
"It will accompany you," Satalus continued. "It serves as both messenger. Should you ever find yourself in danger beyond measure, send a summons through it. I will arrive. Instantly. It is also hidden and cannot be discovered by being below the angelic level. "
The star flickered once, then nestled itself into Astra's shadow—bound.
But Astra could no longer respond. His form grew even more translucent, the edges of his soul warping like heat haze. He couldn't speak. Could barely think. His consciousness was slipping—
"With that said," Satalus whispered, his violet eyes gleaming with quiet conviction,"I shall reach out again soon, my prince. May the stars guide your path..."
He bowed low, regal and composed—even as Astra faded.
—
With a sudden pull, Astra's senses snapped back.
The world reformed around him in a rush of warmth, of breath, of gravity pressing into his skin like a reminder he hadn't slipped into some dream. His chest rose unevenly, lungs catching as if his body itself doubted he had truly returned.
He sat up slowly, each motion deliberate, as though the wrong twitch of a muscle might shatter the fragile thread tethering him to reality.
The Church. The Saints. The Houses of Shadow and Night. The inheritance of godhoods. The Kingdom of Stars. The question of who—or what—was moving the threads from above.
Each name lingered like a whisper at the edge of his ear, crawling back into his skull. He felt them press against him, heavy, choking, and yet unreal.
Astra stared into the quiet darkness of the inn, the candlelight guttering low, its frail glow struggling to touch the corners of the room. The silence pressed in close, the shadows clinging like watchful witnesses.
There was much to think about. Too much.
His body sat on the edge of the bed, but his mind was already unraveling into a thousand directions. He rubbed at his temples, as if he could massage order out of chaos, but it only seemed to scatter further.
His fingers brushed against the coin tucked beneath his sleeve. The weight of it—far heavier than gold—reminded him that this wasn't some hallucination brought on by hunger or exhaustion. It was all real. The coin. The godhoods. The saints. The violet-eyed zealot. Satalus.
It was all real.
"How the hell am I supposed to navigate this?" he muttered, pressing a hand against his temple, the words falling flat in the hollow room. "Fake it 'til I make it?"
He let out a sharp scoff, the sound bouncing back at him from the wood and stone. Bitter. Ugly.
The Saint—that towering zealot cloaked in sanctity, eyes like molten amethyst—had looked at him as if he were something more than human. A prophet. A prophecy incarnate. A prince. A herald of some new age.
But Astra? He couldn't even see himself clearly in the mirror of his own mind. The thought made his lips twist, humorless, cruel.
"I'm no prophet," he whispered to the shadows clinging to the rafters. "I'm not a messiah. I don't even know what I am."
Yesterday, he had been a starving fugitive in an alley. Hunted like vermin. Alone. No friends. No home. A stain of a life clinging to existence by sheer spite.
And now?
"Now I'm a prince with godhoods, a Castellan of a sacred realm? Further more I am now a Caliph of a Holy Church?" He barked out a laugh, the sound hollow, manic, as though mocking himself. "Cloak of Secrecy? Crown of Stars? Kingdom of Stars? Church of Night? Come on. This is madness."
His laughter died quickly, swallowed by the room's silence. It left something heavy behind, something that settled in his chest like stone.
"They don't want me," he muttered, voice breaking quieter. "They want what I represent. The bloodline. The godhoods. The myth."
His eyes closed, but the weight of that truth still pressed down.
"But then again," he exhaled, lips curling into something bitter, "I am a myth now. Who would believe such madness?"
He leaned back against the creaking wall of the inn, staring up at the ceiling beams as though the wood might crack open and whisper him an answer. The stillness no longer felt neutral—it was hostile, heavy with unseen eyes, with the gravity of choices he hadn't asked for.
His mind began to turn, slowly at first, then sharper, quicker. To think. To plan.
Option One.
Hide. Disappear into the undercity. Let Duskfall's shadows swallow him whole. He could vanish the way vermin vanish, gnawing out a space in forgotten corners, living half-alive. But he knew what awaited—angels and saints scouring the night, assassins with blades sharper than silence, inquisitors who would peel his soul apart to see what secrets it held. Captured. Used. Or just killed, discarded like refuse.
"Not a real option," Astra muttered, lips curling faintly. "My old life's gone. And honestly… good riddance."
Option Two.
Seek out House Shadow. Accept their asylum. Bow his head and let them parade him like a relic, a political artifact dragged from myth. He would be a weapon on display, a pawn in games he barely understood. He saw it clearly in his mind's eye—endless feasts where whispers cut sharper than daggers, wars sparked in his name, his bloodline inked into treaties like a noose around his neck.
"I'd probably die…" he said, a shrug rolling off his shoulders as if that didn't matter. A dry grin pulled at his lips, twisted. "But at least I'd die as a prince."
Option Three.
Join Shadow, but on his own terms. Let them shelter him, but sink his claws in deeper than they imagined. Ingratiate himself with the Church of Night, bleed its secrets dry, and wield his bloodline like a blade. He could climb—slow, dangerous, inevitable. Scheme. Devour every ounce of power offered until it was no longer charity but conquest. He could turn the game back on its masters, make the players his pawns. Rise. And perhaps… just perhaps… become something more.
"My very own deity," he whispered, tasting the words like a forbidden fruit. His lips split into something crooked. "Why not? After all, I was offered that quest."
The thought lingered, hot, alive, dangerous. He knew how naive it sounded, how arrogant, but arrogance had kept him alive this long. And besides—did he really have a choice?
Two godhoods burned in his soul. A sacred realm lay tethered to him. These weren't gifts one could throw away. They were chains—and crowns. He couldn't even dream of a normal life now. He could only aim higher. Higher than the saints. Higher than the angels. Higher than anyone. Isn't this exactly what I had dreamed of? fantasied about?
He told himself he knew the dangers. He told himself he understood the risk. But the truth? He was still just a boy on the edge of manhood, planning to rob power from houses as ancient as kingdoms, thinking he could bite into the marrow of the divine and not choke.
Still, the thought thrilled him. Go big or go home. Except…
"I have no home," Astra laughed, shaking his head.
It was do or die. And he smiled brightly, as if the madness itself was a balm. His life had always been do or die. From his first love to his first touch of mana, nothing had ever been simple. Nothing had ever been normal. Everything had always been warped. More.
So why should this be any different?
His gaze fell on the miniature star still pulsing softly in the corner of the room. A piece of divinity, just sitting there like a loyal dog waiting for its master. He dismissed it back. It seems I can summon this anywhere and access the Kingdom of Stars
"Failure means death," Astra said, staring it down. "But death chasing a dream… that's something else entirely."
He exhaled slowly. His heart beat calmer now—not because he was at peace, but because he had direction.Not certainty.But clarity.
He had already died once in the streets of Duskfall.This… whatever this was…This was his rebirth.
And he would rise like a star wreathed in shadows. Or not at all.
Astra leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the flickering miniature star. It pulsed gently in the gloom of the inn room, like some divine heartbeat echoing in time with his own.
"This is it…" he said aloud, like a confession to the dark.
"The plan. My plan. My ambition."
He took a slow breath, counting the steps off in his mind like scripture.
One – Rise. Not just in strength, but in power. Political. Military. Divine. Become someone the realms would whisper about, not chase like a stray dog.
Two – Live a life worth living. Not the hollow survival he'd known for so long, but real excitement. Adventure. Discovery. Mystery. The kind of life that felt like a story—his story.
Three – Women… and alcohol. He let out a tired laugh.
"Yeah… that's staying on the list."
He wasn't ashamed of it. Not really. Astra had never cared for hidden vaults of long-lost treasure or tyrannical empires built on bones and fire. That was someone else's dream.
No, he preferred the elegance of the long game. Subtle manipulation. Quiet leverage. Making things happen without ever lifting a blade.
Even with women, it was the same. He'd never been the type to throw himself at them—never had the luxury, really. He liked it better when they came to him anyway. That was the trick. Let them think it was their idea. Let them want him. He also knew very well he was like this because he an orphan with major attachment and abandonment issues. Astra rolled his eyes as he mocked inwardly. Gods forbid a man is self aware.
He leaned back into the creaking inn chair, shadows pooling around his boots like ink. His thoughts drifted somewhere else—someone else.
A name he didn't want to say aloud. A face he hadn't forgotten .A young noblewoman with clever eyes and a tongue like a blade sheathed in honey.
His second friend.
Cielle Luna. Of the great House Luna—stewards of the Northeast peaks of the Realm, guardians of those frozen deserts and their artifact snowbound citadels where the air thins and the stars burn closer.
She was older, silver-haired and silver-eyed, her skin the color of fallen snow. Beautiful beyond words—beautiful in a way that felt carved from winter itself.
She was Astra's first love, and his second friend.
A year ago, she had been stationed in Duskfall under some political pretense, a mission wrapped in diplomacy and veiled bargains. Astra hadn't cared. Their meeting had been chance, accidental even, but it had split the monotony of his nights.
She used to whisper truths into his ear between tangled sheets and stolen nights:
One — "Always know your place."Not in the sense of submission—no, she meant it like a chess player knows the board. Know where you stand, what you are… and what you're not. Astra learned that fast.
Two — "Don't let greed consume you.""Not for love, not for power, not for gold."Greed made people sloppy, desperate, and loud. And Astra? He prided himself on being quiet, precise, and detached.
Three — "Always smile."She used to say it like it was gospel."There hasn't been a room I couldn't survive just by smiling," She told him once, brushing her hair aside like it was the easiest thing in the world.
That lesson stuck the hardest. There hadn't been a day since he couldn't lie and smile his way out of something. I pray that there isn't a day. Astra spoke out loud.
Even now—divine gifts, ancient bloodlines, saints and angels—he smiled through it all.
But the memory wasn't all sweet. She'd played him in the end. Tossed him aside once he'd served his use, like a coin spent on a meaningless bet. He never saw it coming until it was already done.
Astra sighed and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.
"That's life," he muttered. "You either play or get played."
And he was done being played.
He wasn't that naïve boy anymore. He had a Crown of Stars illuminating his brow now. A Cloak of Secrets masking his every move. A church calling him Prince and Caliph. Titles of great status, Lord of Shadows, Prince of the Stars, Castellan to the Kingdom of Stars.
In all honesty he wasn't even fully mad at her, he couldn't be, she came from a great house while he was a mere vagrant who just happened to be attractive, but thats life. He was a petty man but an understanding man at that. When he rises she would see it and perhaps feel regret. Perhaps Cielle wouldn't. He had stopped caring.
He stood up, smile already forming.
"Always smile," Astra said to himself, bitter and amused."Even when the world is on fire and chasing after you."
The game was on again. And this time, he wasn't playing to survive.
He was playing to win.
It was all the same game, whether it was war or seduction: influence, not force.
He stood up, brushing the dust from his coat. He could feel his mana swirling quietly under his skin now, like a second heartbeat. The Cloak of Secrecy wrapped around his soul hiding him from the entire world, the Crown whispering from beyond the veil.
He grinned.
"Let the others chase temples and titles," Astra said to the empty room."Perhaps I'll take a divine throne… one plot at a time."
He looked at the time and turned to his wardrobe. Inside hung the newly tailored noble attire—dark, elegant, and made to command attention.
It's time Astra sighed, for him to actually begin his plans.
He slipped into a black high-collared tunic, its fabric soft yet structured, trimmed with subtle streaks of gray that caught the low light. A belt of polished obsidian leather cinched at his waist, lined with thin gold inlays—just enough extravagance to remind people he was of high standing, but not enough to scream arrogance. Over it, he draped a dark noble's coat, its long tails embroidered with House Shadow's signature motifs—ethereal wisps and trailing dusk.
His boots, sleek and well-fitted, clicked softly against the polished wooden floor as he adjusted his cuffs. He paused before the mirror.
The reflection staring back was not the boy who had once scavenged scraps in Duskfall's alleys. His untamed curls had been coaxed into a deliberate, effortless style, and the sharp lines of his face—hidden for years beneath grime, hunger, and exhaustion—now carried a cold refinement. He looked less like a street-born shadow, more like a son of power, a lord wrapped in evening finery.
Astra tilted his head, studying himself. The corners of his lips curved in a humorless chuckle. So this is what a prince looks like. Strange. It still feels like a mask.
He fastened the Regal Coin to his belt, the weight of it pressing like a reminder of everything he now carried, then pushed open the door and stepped into Duskfall's night-lit streets.
The deeper he traveled into the Inner City, the more the world around him shifted. The familiar chaos of the bazaar—the cries of merchants, the tang of spice and smoke, the press of desperate hands—faded behind him like a memory he was already outgrowing. Here, wide marble streets stretched clean beneath enchanted lamps that spilled golden light onto the stones. Carriages drawn by exotic mana beasts glided soundlessly, their polished wheels whispering across the ground.
The air itself smelled different—perfumed oils, sweet wines, expensive silks warmed by firelight. Laughter drifted from private lounges, music curled through open windows, and every passing noble spoke in tones that balanced flattery with daggers.
Wealth didn't just show here—it clung to the atmosphere, heavy and suffocating, as if the Inner City itself rejected anyone unworthy of it. Astra slowed his pace deliberately, letting his posture fall into the same leisurely grace as the young lords who strolled past. To their eyes, he was simply one of them—a noble heir on his way to yet another night of indulgence.
If only they knew. A week ago, I would've stolen their coin purses and vanished into the alleys. The thought amused him, though his smile was thin.
At last, he reached House Dune's estate. His steps faltered, not from hesitation, but from sheer awe.
The mansion was no mansion at all. It was a fortress of influence.
Its walls rose like a carved mirage out of the heart of the city, a blend of marble and sandstone that gleamed with veins of desert gold. Even under the twilight sky, the stone seemed to catch and bend the light, radiating a quiet, terrible majesty. House Dune's banners hung in the evening air—cloth of deep gold, marked with the emblem of a crimson sun looming over a lone desert dune. Simple. Powerful. A brand that did not beg for respect, but demanded it.
The estate's towers speared upward, their rounded crowns tipped with gleaming spires that reminded Astra of desert cacti stretching toward the burning sky. Between them, a network of open archways and courtyards created the impression of a labyrinth—half palace, half citadel. Wind chimes whispered faintly in the night air, their delicate song carried on the desert-scented breeze. Even here, in the heart of Duskfall, Astra swore he could smell sun-warmed sand.
The grounds spread wide with an oasis beauty that stole his breath. Pools of crystalline water reflected torchlight like fractured stars. Palms leaned in the wind, their shadows swaying like dancers across the marble. Rare desert flowers bloomed in vivid colors, their fragrance so rich it almost seemed to numb the senses.
For a long moment, Astra stood still, drinking in the sight.
So this is power made manifest, he thought. Not just wealth, but history, dominion, the weight of generations. How grand.
Despite its central location, the estate seemed like a world apart—an ecosystem cultivated to perfection, walled off from the chaos of Duskfall. Desert trees stretched their branches in elegant arcs, vibrant cacti glistened faintly with dew gathered by enchantments, and clusters of hardy succulents bloomed with rare, jewel-like flowers. Their fragrances—sweet and earthy, sharp and resinous—wove together into a scent that was almost intoxicating.
Smooth stone paths wound through the gardens, splitting at intervals toward secluded alcoves shaded by ancient desert trees. Perfect little nests for secrets, Astra thought, imagining whispers of alliances and betrayals traded in the privacy of those hidden corners.
In the distance, water features shimmered with a quiet dignity, the rippling surfaces carved to mimic desert dunes swaying under eternal winds. Ivory statues stood sentinel, etched with motifs of sand and sun, a reminder of Sahara's dominion carried into the heart of Duskfall. The whole garden felt like a mirage—an oasis conjured not to soothe the weary, but to display the sheer arrogance of those who could bend nature into art.
It was no surprise. House Dune's reach had never been confined to Duskfall, nor even this realm. Royal Stewards of Sahara—the title was not symbolic. Their wealth stretched across planes, their word carried weight in kingdoms far older than most living bloodlines.
This estate wasn't simply a residence. It was a fortress dressed in elegance, a stronghold wrapped in velvet. Every stone, every blossom whispered of power so established it didn't need to shout.
As Astra approached the gates, the truth settled in him like lead: this was not a place built to dazzle. It was built to command.
And command it did.
The moment he crossed into the grand entrance, the scale of the gathering struck him like a physical force. Seraphine had called it a minor ball—but the press of bodies, the gleam of wealth, the sheer volume of nobility and influence crowded into the estate made that sound like a cruel joke.
Politicians, merchants, nobles with retinues of servants and guards—clusters of power swirled through the marble hall, laughter and negotiation wrapped into a single constant hum.
Perfume hung heavy in the air, floral and spiced, blending into a haze that clung to the senses. The murmur of conversation carried, rising and falling like the tide, punctuated by the crystalline chime of glasses.
The sight was overwhelming: gowns of silk and velvet spilled in cascades of color, shimmering with embroidered constellations, desert motifs, and phoenix feathers. Men wore finely tailored suits of black, silver, and gold, their cloaks trailing like banners of dynasties long entrenched. Jewelry glittered at throats and wrists, family crests gleamed from breastplates polished to a mirror's sheen. Some faces were hidden behind elaborate masks, adding layers of intrigue to an already suffocating spectacle.
But it wasn't the extravagance that made Astra's chest tighten. It was the stares.
Everywhere he turned, eyes lingered on him—measuring, curious, calculating. Whispers seemed to trail in his wake like smoke. He told himself he didn't care, but his jaw tensed all the same.
They can smell it, Astra thought grimly. That I don't belong. Or maybe they see something else. Something I don't yet understand.
His outfit was regal enough—a dark ensemble with clean lines, his Nightshroud draped with an austere elegance. But against the explosion of colors and gilded ornaments around him, it looked almost spartan. His lack of ostentation wasn't an oversight, though. It was a statement.
It was also a reminder.
House Shadow had never flaunted wealth the way desert lords did. Their dignity was in darkness, and in quality, Dark colors with simple gold inlaid. It was commanding simple and extremely palatable. His appearance may have marked him as different, even austere—but that, too, was a kind of power. House Shadow was not a simple house after all but a great house at the height of its power, and if Astras guesses were right, they were bound to gain more.
Astra lifted his chin slightly, letting the murmurs roll past him like waves. Yes. Stare. Wonder. Measure me against your silk and gold. A shadow does not glitter—but it swallows the light.
Even the guards gave him an extra look as he approached—searching his face as if to confirm whether he truly belonged here. Their gold-plated armor gleamed under the lamplight, too pristine, too ceremonial, and yet it reminded him of chains. With a nod, they let him through the grand gates.
The banquet hall swallowed him whole. Opulence pressed down like a weight—tapestries draping the walls, a ceiling so tall it felt like the sky itself had been stolen and caged here. Chandeliers shed warm light over pillars carved with desert suns and dunes, every detail declaring wealth.
Do they build halls like this just to remind men where they stand? Or to crush those who don't belong beneath their splendor?
His boots struck polished stone, glimmering faintly like starlight underfoot. The long tables stretched with gilded dishes, jeweled goblets, and delicacies that carried scents too rich for the stomach of someone who'd once gone hungry.
Everyone here belonged. They talked easily, laughed softly, moved with purpose. He stood among them in darker, more reserved attire, an ink blot on a golden canvas. I might as well be wearing my shadow like a cloak. The tension in the room hummed beneath the chatter, a silent reminder that this was not a feast but a stage where alliances were bartered and futures gambled.
Then he saw her. Seraphine—every gesture smooth, every glance commanding, her presence cutting through the crowd like sunlight spilling through glass. For an instant he felt like a spectator to her world, not a player.
Whispers flickered as eyes turned toward him. Do they see through me? Can they tell I don't belong? His skin prickled with the unease of wearing another man's mask. But when Seraphine's gaze caught his, holding him steady across the sea of silk and gold, the weight eased, if only for a heartbeat.
He walked further into the hall, the sensation of being under a microscope never fading. The eyes of the powerful clung to him as he made his way deeper into the gathering.
The music was delicate, intricate—like spider-silk strung over blades.
Astra stepped into the ballroom beneath House Dune's golden desert banner. The hall pulsed with low laughter and clinking glasses, a sea of fine robes, jeweled turbans, sun-metal veils. Noblemen and high-born mages from across the great houses mingled, trading secrets behind practiced smiles.
And yet, as Astra's gaze swept the hall—
There were no signs of Shadow.
He must have arrived early.
It was… odd. He had received no word from Shadow. No signal, no message. Not even a whisper. Granted, they didn't need to tell him anything—but it was still eerie. A great house, on par with the royals, unable to reach its own target? Not by spell, code, or thought?
His first instinct was paranoia.
They had found him. And decided he wasn't worth the details of they're schemes. Perhaps they were done with him. But that couldn't be right—what if he hadn't found Seraphine? What if he hadn't been invited at all? Then Shadow would have remained unaware. That ruled out deliberate exclusion.
Which led to the second—far more troubling—possibility.
They were wary of him. Perhaps he was a trap set by foes.
Especially now that he wore the Cloak of Secrecy—his divine authority, the godhood etched into his soul. It repelled divination. Masked his presence. Erased trails. It made the powerful feel... uneasy. Perhaps they couldn't find him. Or worse—they could, but dared not act blindly.
And then there was the third, most chilling option.
That they could reach him. That they had access. And chose not to.
After all, many had heard of the disturbance in the divine realms. Whispers of an Heir of Night. And who had always stood closest to Night?
Shadow.
Deities of all powers alike would be watching Shadow's movements now. If they arrived with someone bearing Astra's presence, violet eyes and curls and pale skin, key signature marks of House Nights lineage. It would be a declaration to the world: he belongs to us. A move that could unravel countless schemes. Or weave countless more.
Astra sighed and moved through the crowd like smoke in sunlight, the heat of too many gazes bearing down on him. Lords of House Dawn, with hair like molten gold and eyes glowing like bottled sunfire, stood flanked by House Duskcourtiers—cold-eyed, pale-skinned figures cloaked in moonlight silks. They all noticed him.
None approached.
Their stares were not curious. They were hostile.
It made sense. Shadow had no love for Dawn or Dusk. Dawn and Dusk had no love for Shadow. Infact Shadow and Dawn had always had a major rivalry of sorts, especially after the fall of night. Dawn aimed to eradicate and subject them, and Shadow would simply not falter. It is a feud of endless bloodshed. If only Shadow had helped Night during the War. But for some reason they did not. This was a reminder to Astra to never fully rely on them.
Astra turned his head—then saw her.
Princess Seraphine of House Dune.
She stood at the center of the storm, unmoving in a swirl of color and heat. Layers of golden-threaded silk shimmered like starlight on sand, her dark hair crowned with desert sapphires that shimmered like a mirage. She didn't walk—she glided, as if the floor bent to her will. She looked...
Breathtaking.
"Astra," she greeted, voice low and velvety. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your way in the dark."
He offered a shallow bow, formal and unflinching.
"I was told this would be a minor gathering. Judging by the number of knives behind the smiles, I might've misheard."
She laughed, soft and dangerous.
"You're not entirely wrong. But really, can one ever trust a royal invitation to be small?"
"Apparently not," he murmured, his eyes scanning the hall again.
Hers didn't leave him. Eyes like dark sapphires—deep, polished, unreadable.
"I'm surprised," she said. "I expected more... presence from House Shadow. A retinue, at least. But you arrive alone. No markings. No agents. No trace. How curious."
He kept his expression casual.
"I came earlier than expected. I haven't been exactly with my House for... various reasons. They should arrive soon." He let the word linger.
"Ah," she said with faint amusement. "So they sent you as their envoy?"
A flicker of silence stretched too long.
"Something like that," he sighed.
She stepped closer, tone turning coy.
"Interesting. Shadow breaking custom. It would also explain why you're living in a cheap inn." She sighed, as if the very idea offended her sensibilities.
"Does that interest you so much?" he asked, tilting his head, unsurprised she knew his location. He had attracted the attention of a princess—and not just any princess. Her shadow was deeper than it should be. Rank Two? Hardly.
"Very much," she said, lips curling. "Someone with your looks? You'd have been noticed earlier, even in Shadow. Yet you appeared out of thin air. In fact... I ran a background check." She sipped her wine, eyes daring him to respond.
Shit. She's thorough. And terrifying. And gods, she knows how to control a conversation. Too bad Im good with my words.
"And what did you find?" he asked, adopting a playful tone to mask the holes in his disguise.
Seraphine sighed wistfully. "Nothing—officially. You're in their records now. Astra of Shadow."He smiled inwardly. Yes. Shadow covered for me. She doesn't know.
But she continued.
"Which is strange. Because there's another Astra. From Duskfall. Jet-black curls. Violet eyes. Wanted for fifty gold standards, Something related to prostitution and theft of a Noble lady?"She dropped it like a dagger.
Astra paled. As he coughed.
"Heh. Is there, That is so embarrassing?" he muttered. "Well... House Shadow works in mysterious ways." He decided to lean into the mystique. Secret agent. Operative. Whatever worked.
Seraphine laughed. "Relax, Astra of Shadow. Even Dune doesn't pry into Shadow's operatives. Not anymore. But the timing? Now that is funny."
She leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
"You know how divine disturbances stir saints and demigods to action, How gods divine gazes began to wander? How an Heir of Night emerges, disrupting Duskfall? And then... you appear. Out of thin air." Her smile widened. "Funny how that worked out."
She leaned back, raised her glass.
"Oh, and Shadow's envoy should be here soon. You can thank me later, Astra of Shadow."
She clinked her glass against his.
He accepted it with grace, though he stared at her in disbelief.
Noblewomen are terrifying.
Dawn and Dusk didn't know about him—he was sure of that. But Dune?
They had a file. Already. How?
Think.
The noble circles mirrored the political chessboard. Dawn and Dusk were allies. Dune, however, played neutral. Always hosting. Always balancing.
The only way they'd learn so quickly was through cooperation with Shadow.
Dune must have known that Shadow was planning something delicate here—something major. So they dug. And Seraphine found him.
In a day.
And yet... she wasn't outing him.
How strange.
He kept his smile sharp.
"It is funny how that worked out, Seraphine. With such attention placed on me by Her Royal Highness, one might get the wrong idea."
She didn't miss a beat.
"You mean the right idea," she purred. "Flattery tastes better laced with poison. In my case... not so subtle."
He chuckled slightly. She's funny.
As Astra's eyes flicked across the banquet hall, he felt the weight of countless presences pressing down on him—subtle, but undeniable.
Even as he tried to center himself, his senses strained beneath the intensity of the gathered nobles—most of them Rank Two or Three: the upper echelons of society. Warriors, politicians, diplomats, and high-ranking officials moved like currents in a golden sea of conversation and soft orchestral music.
In the distance, his gaze locked onto a smaller, quieter cluster. He recognized the unmistakable aura of Rank Fours, Bishops—their mana rich, stable, authoritative. They conversed in low tones, voices drowned beneath the ambient hum of the room. These were bishops. Demi-gods. Men and women who had served their houses for decades perhaps centuries, their power forged into polished precision, their words as refined as their will.
Their very presence demanded attention. Looking at them was like gazing at mountain ranges—not just for their strength, but for the primal awe they evoked. This was what demi-gods felt like up close.
Astra turned away. He had met with a Saint and Angel, Felt the gazes of deities, The subtle auras around him were felt sure. But they didn't affect him as much, unless of course the demigods wanted him to be affected.
He forced his breath steady, tried to blend back into the crowd, to remember how to stand without trembling, how to walk without shrinking. Mostly due to his anxiety and nervousness.
But the awareness lingered—he wasn't safe. Not truly, He was a rogue prince, a fallen amir, who was wanted by three royal houses and multiple churches for simply existing, and to make matters worse, he had two godhoods and was now constantly being divined about by gods knows who. He pursed his lips.
Then a voice pulled him gently back to the moment.
"You have a staring problem," Seraphine teased.
Astra blinked, surprised. He hadn't even realized how long he'd been drifting.
"I can't help myself," he replied with a small smile. "You're mesmerizing."
She laughed, soft and golden. "You really are smooth."
But the atmosphere shifted again—just slightly, like the change in air pressure before a storm.
A new presence entered the ballroom. A ripple moved through the hall, subtle yet undeniable. The mana was refined, weighty. Rank Four.
The shadows around Astra deepened with joy. Not alarm. Recognition.
He stiffened.
A man strode in—tall, lean, raven-haired, dressed in black with accents of grey and gold. His pale skin gleamed beneath the chandeliers. His steps were confident—no, arrogant. The way he moved told the truth before his aura did: I am the strongest in this room, and I know it.
A bishop. House Shadow. Powerful.
But it was the one beside him that truly unsettled Astra.
A young man.
Just as tall, his beauty almost unnatural—long black hair, sculpted features, eyes dark and deep with the faintest red sheen glowing beneath. Rank One, clearly. But the shadows reacted to him, not the bishop.
Astra's instincts sharpened. Ever since forming his second core and inheriting not one but two godhoods—Star and Shadow—his perception had changed. He could discern details, information as he had connections to literal personifications of those magics. He could discount strength. Potential, it was slightly weird, like information he had always known but never learned.
Just like with the Staff of Stars, a divine relic that far surpassed mortal expectations, he could slightly glimpse behind the veil of suppression of such high level artifacts. So what he saw just now slightly terrified him.
This boy's connection to the shadows was deeper than the bishop's.
Far deeper.
The bishop's eyes flicked toward Astra.
It was not just a glance—it was an assessment. A silent interrogation. Recognition? Uncertainty? He couldn't tell. But Astra held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than he should have.
Then, something unexpected.
The young man—the one cloaked in the adoration of shadows—turned away and approached a group of nobles from House Dawn and Dusk.
The mood soured instantly.
Astra could practically feel the hatred radiating from the nobles as the young man drew near. Their expressions tightened. It was clear: they despised him.
He heard the young man speak out loud. "My oh my hey guys, long time no see! how are my two favorite royals doing?"
Astra chuckled to himself. What a crazy guy.
Next to him, Seraphine spoke, her voice soft and knowing.
"So... it seems they've arrived. How fitting."
She looked him up and down one last time. "Go enjoy yourself," she said, already turning. "Oh—and find me later."
Astra inclined his head.
As he turned, his intuition sparked again—cold and precise. A deep shadow curled around him like a familiar shroud, and a voice rang in his ears, low and absolute:
"Prince of Night. We have found you."