Polaris City awoke bathed in the hues of dawn—soft gold melting into deep crimson, with the twin moons still lingering faintly against the brightening sky like pale guardians reluctant to leave. The air was alive with the hum of excitement, for today was no ordinary day. It was the Astraflare Festival, a sacred celebration of the crossing moons, when the blessings of the gods were said to rain upon the people of the North.
The streets were a vibrant tapestry of color and sound. Merchants bellowed over one another, their stalls overflowing with jewel-bright fruits, polished trinkets, and steaming delicacies. Children darted between the crowds with ribbons braided into their hair, their laughter mingling with the trill of flutes and the deep heartbeat of drums. The scents of roasted venison, honey-glazed bread, and spiced wine drifted through the city, intoxicating even the weariest traveler.
Overhead, banners of every hue stretched from rooftop to rooftop, snapping and fluttering in the northern wind like the wings of a thousand birds. Street performers claimed every corner—dancers swirling in silks that shimmered like sunlight on water, jugglers tossing flaming brands into the sky, and fire-breathers whose scorching plumes drew cheers from the gathered crowd.
For Caelen, it was a world of wonder. His young eyes drank in every detail—the dwarves' towering brass wyvern that clanked and hissed as its wings spread in a mock flight, the children chasing enchanted lights that bobbed and weaved through the air, the giant crystal harp in the plaza played by a blind elf whose fingers moved like whispers over the strings.
Through the celebration moved the Duke's entourage, their pace slow but steady as the crowd parted to let them through. People bowed their heads or placed hands over their hearts in respect. At the Duke's side strode Braten, clad once more in the steel and crest of the North. His reinstatement as Commander had been declared that very morning, and already the streets carried whispers of his deeds, spoken with reverence and pride.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the festival reached its crescendo. In the city's central plaza, a great silver brazier was lit, its flames blooming into an otherworldly blaze of blue and white that painted the faces of the crowd in pale light. A palace priest, robed in flowing white, stood before the multitude and raised his staff high, his voice booming like a call to the heavens.
But while the people celebrated, the Duke's thoughts wandered to darker matters. Midnight would bring the moment of the Astraflare—the exact crossing of the moons. And with it, the sealing. It would mark Caelen's fate.
Leaning close to the Duke, Braten's voice was low, heavy with doubt.
"Are you certain this is the only way?"
The Duke did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the boy, standing amid the crowd, unaware of the shadows gathering around his life.
"If we do not hide his power," the Duke murmured, "every hand in this realm will seek him before the week's end. And we cannot fight them all."
Braten's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more.
The festival roared on—laughter, song, and the thunder of distant fireworks bursting like flowers in the northern night. But beneath the surface joy, three hearts carried the same burden: the Duke, the Commander, and the priest all knew this was no night of mere celebration.
When the time came, they ascended the temple tower—the highest point in Polaris City, its marble steps winding toward the heavens. At the summit, a great circular chamber stood open to the night sky. The roof was drawn back so the mana, if it turned unstable, could be released harmlessly into the air.
In the center of the room, the priest had inscribed a vast ritual circle, its lines glowing faintly with runes of sealing. Caelen's mother carried him forward with a tenderness that trembled in her arms, setting him down at the heart of the circle. Sixty or more robed disciples of the temple formed a ring around them, their voices joining in low, resonant chants as the high priest began the rite.
At first, the air shimmered with calm power. But then the heavens themselves seemed to revolt. Clouds gathered in a heartbeat, swallowing the moons and stars. A sickly wind howled, and an ill will—a corrupted mana—stirred across the world. The ground shuddered faintly beneath them, and a primal fear swept through the city below.
In that moment, Caelen's eyes opened—shining with a golden brilliance so pure it seemed to burn the darkness itself. From him surged a wave of energy, a blinding radiance that swept outward and shattered the corruption in the air. The sky cleared as if the storm had never been, and the chanting resumed.
The priest's voice rose above all others, completing the final seals. The last rune blazed into life—and then, from the heavens, a star fell. It streaked across the night in a trail of silver fire before descending into the open chamber.
From the light stepped a figure—humanoid in shape but touched by the divine. Small wings adorned both his back and the sides of his head, their feathers shining like dawn. Whispers rippled through the disciples; even the Duke and Braten froze, for they knew the old legends. This was no mere angel—this was a High Seraph, the right hand of the Supreme God.
The angel walked forward, every step echoing with quiet authority, and knelt before the boy. It seemed to speak without words, a silent blessing passing between them. Then, just as suddenly, the angel rose, spread its wings, and dissolved into light.
When the glow faded, Caelen lay sleeping in the circle as though nothing had happened. But the faces around him told another story—every man, woman, and priest in the room was struck silent. Shock and awe hung in the air like the lingering chords of a hymn that would never be forgotten.