The ink-stained office smelled of dust, sweat, and tired ambition. Papers rustled like restless leaves as clerks rushed from desk to desk, quills scratching frantically under the dim glow of enchanted lamps. Outside, the city still buzzed with rumors of the new king's coronation, but inside these walls, life was unchanged. Mortals like Lux kept grinding, feeding numbers into ledgers that no king would ever glance at.
Lux sat quietly at his desk, suit neatly buttoned, though the fabric was beginning to fray around the cuffs. He worked with the kind of precision that made him reliable, but not remarkable. His coworkers sometimes joked he was born to be an accountant—too plain, too steady, too ordinary.
"Why in a hurry, Lux?" his superior called over, carrying a stack of files. The man's fingers sparked faintly, a small flame dancing as he lit his own cigarette. He did it without thought, like breathing.
Lux looked away, jaw tightening.
"Trying to finish early," he replied curtly.
The superior laughed, smoke curling above his head. "What for? Going to meet a girl?"
Lux didn't answer. The truth was stranger than that. For a week now, the letter has been burning a hole in his pocket.
He had arrived before dawn, finishing half his workload before the others even woke, all so he could leave in time to meet this, Mister Dux. His excuse to himself was simple: curiosity. Mister Dux, a name whispered with both respect and unease, had asked to see him. At first, Lux ignored it. He had lost interest in his useless father's affairs, but as time passed, his curiosity rose deep inside, and that had been enough to keep him awake each night since.
Lux had done prior research on this, Mister Dux. It took him days to even get a slight bit of information, but even now, all he knew was that he had some relations with Count Avidite of Pecunia. He was not a simple character at all; being friends with one of the richest men on the continent was a hard feat to achieve.
By the time the office lamps dimmed and his reports were stacked neatly on the counter, Lux's hands trembled from exhaustion. Still, his legs carried him out the door, across the streets, into a part of the city he had no business walking through.
The divide was immediate.
One block was chipped stone roads, broken gutters, and the smell of boiled grain. The next was marble-paved, glowing softly from embedded star crystals, the air perfumed with lavender and roasted coffee. Here, men and women in tailored suits and star-embroidered cloaks strolled, their jewelry humming faintly with stored power.
Lux felt every pair of eyes turn toward him. His office suit, pressed and clean, still looked like a servant's uniform besides the silks and enchanted fabrics. He adjusted his collar, pretending not to notice the whispers.
The meeting place stood out even among luxury: a tall glass-front café, light spilling golden warmth onto the street. Velvet curtains swayed inside, laughter mingled with the soft notes of a piano. The smell of roasted beans and spiced tobacco made his stomach clench with both hunger and unease.
He paused on the curb, adjusting the cuffs and smoothing the front of his jacket as best he could. The fabric was thin, fraying slightly at the edges, threads worn from constant washing. Not much could be done to make it look wealthy, but he straightened his posture and squared his shoulders, hoping the effort lent him at least a fraction of dignity.
As soon as Lux stepped in, the weight of the room shifted. Conversations dimmed. A worker in a crisp uniform marched toward him, irritation clear.
"Sorry, sir, this establishment is reserved. I think you may—"
Before the insult could finish, a man at the front counter noticed something. His gaze dropped to Lux's hand. The simple silver ring gleamed faintly in the café's lamplight.
The worker froze.
"My apologies," the counter man said quickly, bowing. His tone changed as if he were speaking to someone entirely different. "This way, sir. Mister Dux has been expecting you."
Lux glanced at the silver ring. His mother had always insisted he wear it as it was his father's last keepsake, though it had no crest, no gem, nothing of value. Just silver. Just weight. Yet when the café worker saw it, his whole manner changed.
Lux blinked, uneasy. He said nothing as he was led past chandeliers, up a carpeted staircase, into a silence far heavier than the one below.
The second floor was nothing like the bright, bustling lounge. Darkness clung to every corner, broken only by the faint glow of burning cigar ash.
A man sat at the center of the room in a leather chair, coat draped loosely around his shoulders. Smoke curled from his lips with every breath, glowing like tiny embers in the void. The scent was sharp, expensive—Lux knew enough to realize that one cigar could feed a mortal family for a month.
"Mister Dux? I am Luxaster. It is a pleasure to meet you," Lux asked carefully.
The man did not answer. He studied Lux in silence, sharp eyes gleaming through the haze. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep, smooth, and unsettling.
"So, You are Luxaster Occasus."
Lux's fists tightened at his side. I just said my name. The deliberate repetition felt like mockery. Still, he held his tongue.
"Why did you call me here?" Lux asked.
Dux leaned back, exhaling another slow stream of smoke. "A promise. To your father."
Lux's expression flickered. His father had been many things—an astronomer, a dreamer, a man obsessed with the sky. To most, he was remembered as a lunatic. To Lux, he was a ghost he tried not to follow.
Lux sat stiffly in the chair across from him, the smell of the expensive cigar thick in the air. The silence stretched long, broken only when Dux's deep voice finally rumbled.
"Tell me, boy… do you know why some are born with power, while others scrape through life powerless?"
Lux frowned, unsure what kind of trick this question was. "…Luck," he muttered. "The heavens smile on some and spit on others. That's all."
Dux's lips curled in the faintest of smirks. "Luck? No. Not luck. Fate." He leaned forward, the dim light catching his sharp features. "Every mortal… every breathing soul… is born with a star."
Lux stiffened at the word. "A star?"
"Yes," Dux said, exhaling smoke like a priest releasing incense. "A star tethered to their soul from the moment they enter this world. It is not seen with the eyes… but it burns nonetheless. That star is what grants power. Flame, shadow, wind, stone—it is all but the reflection of the star's nature."
Lux's brows knit together. He thought of the men on the streets who lit their cigarettes with a spark of flame, or the woman at the market who chilled her water with a touch of frost. He did not believe him, yet his mouth spoke on its own, "And what of the ones without powers?".
Dux's smirk faded into something colder. "Those are the ones born with dead stars. Empty husks in the heavens, giving nothing. A cruel fate. They walk among the living, but the cosmos denies them its gift."
"Dead stars, boy," Dux murmured, his cigar ember flaring. "Not unlucky. Not cursed. Dead. Do you understand the difference? One can hope for luck to change. But a corpse? A corpse stays cold."
Lux's jaw clenched. His chest tightened; he knew none of this was true, yet his mind kept thinking that it was. What was wrong with him? Since when did he start believing in delusional fantasies like his father?
"That's absurd," Lux said flatly, standing from his chair. "You sound just like my father. Raving about stars as if they whisper secrets only to you. I've heard enough of that madness already."
Dux inwardly chuckled, whispering to himself, "Well, he is his father's son after all".
Before Luxaster could turn toward the door, Dux's voice stopped him. It was soft, but heavy, as though the air itself bent around it.
"Your father did not spend his life counting constellations like a fool with a telescope," Dux went on, his eyes glinting with something sharper than amusement. "He searched. He sought to understand why some stars burn bright and others lie in darkness. Why the heavens marked men as kings, and others as beggars. He sought to change it."
Lux's stomach turned. This was the same nonsense that had consumed his father's life. He started walking faster.
"This was a waste of time."
He turned and opened the door—
—only to step into utter darkness.
The hallway was gone. The café was gone. The streets, the office, the city—gone. The world was swallowed by shadow.
Something moved. A low growl echoed, followed by the scrape of claws. Shapes too jagged to belong in reality slithered out of the dark. Fangs glinted. Eyes glowed.
Lux staggered back, heart pounding.
Behind him, Dux's voice drifted like smoke: calm, cold, and inescapable.
"Do you think your father was mad, boy? Or is it you who are blind?"
The creature lunged.
The fangs sank deep. His chest split with fire, his heartbeat stuttered, stopped. The world dimmed—until the ring on his finger pulsed once. Twice. Then it ignited, drowning the void in green light.