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The Falling Star

The sky was burning again.

Kael leaned against the crumbling wall of the market square, his fingers numb from the night chill. Around him, Elyndra's lower quarter buzzed like a dying insect — torch smoke, haggling voices, the clatter of coins that would never find his pocket. Above the mist, the higher tiers of the city glimmered like another world entirely, one built of marble and gold instead of dust and hunger.

He pulled his threadbare cloak tighter. The priests said the heavens wept fire whenever the gods mourned a fallen soul. To Kael, that was just another lie to make people look up instead of forward.

Then — the sky tore open.

A streak of silver light cut through the clouds, brighter than any torch, faster than any arrow. For a breath, the world went silent — even the bells of the upper sanctums paused — as the burning light screamed across the heavens and plunged toward the streets below.

Kael didn't think. He ran.

The comet fell behind the old cathedral, where even the priests rarely went — a ruin swallowed by vines and dust. When he reached the gates, heat rolled out in waves, thick and heavy, like a living breath. Stones glowed faintly, molten cracks spreading like veins of light.

At the crater's heart was not a stone at all, but something that pulsed — like a heart made of flame and crystal.

Kael stared, chest heaving. The air hummed with whispers — not sound, but meaning, sinking straight into his bones.

"Chosen."

The word wasn't spoken. It was felt. And before Kael could move, the light surged toward him.

Pain exploded through his body. He tried to scream, but his throat burned white-hot — and in that instant, he saw visions: stars collapsing, gods kneeling, cities shattering beneath wings of fire.

When the light faded, Kael was on his knees in the dust, clutching his chest.

And through the tear in his shirt, his skin glowed — a faint, steady light pulsing from his heart.

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