Chapter 9

Breon's small hands, still soft with childhood, fumbled with the heavy brass telescope as he dragged it across the marble floor of his balcony. The night air was warm, thick with the distant hum of Nai City's glowing towers, but he paid no mind to the world below. His universe was above—in the stars.

Tonight, though, the stars were being difficult.

The telescope's lens was blurry, no matter how much he twisted the dials. He huffed, his round cheeks puffing in frustration. The electromagnetic lens worked better, but it made everything look strange—cold and sharp, like the black-and-white illustrations in his astronomy books. Breon didn't want outlines. He wanted color. He wanted to see the ruby glint of Aldebaran, the sapphire shimmer of Vega.

"Mmmmmh! I can't see it!" he whined, stomping his slippered foot.

He leaned back, glaring up at the sky with all the indignation a seven-year-old could muster. There—that one star, the bright one near the Serpent's tail, the one that always seemed to wink at him. He squinted, as if he could will it into focus.

Then—

A blink.

And the star moved.

Not a slow drift. Not a shimmer.

It fell.

Breon's breath caught. His heart leapt into his throat, and with a startled yelp, he stumbled backward, landing hard on his bottom. The telescope swayed precariously but stayed upright. For a second, he just sat there, frozen, his small hands pressed over his eyes like if he couldn't see it, it couldn't be real.

Slowly, he peeked through his fingers.

The star was gone.

Not falling. Not burning.

Gone.

A strange, hollow feeling settled in his chest. Stars weren't supposed to disappear. Stars were forever. That's what his tutors said. That's what the big, leather-bound books in his father's library promised.

He scrambled to his feet, pressing close to the telescope again, twisting the knobs wildly. Maybe it was hiding. Maybe the lens was broken. Maybe—

But the sky offered no answers. The other stars glittered on, indifferent. The empty spot where his star had been gaped back at him, silent and strange.

A gust of wind ruffled his nightshirt, suddenly too cold. The city's distant lights, usually so comforting, now felt like a thousand watching eyes.

Something was wrong.

Something was *very* wrong.

The mansion's kitchen was a cathedral of culinary precision, all gleaming steel and polished oak, where the scent of herbs and the metallic tang of fresh meat hung in the air like a sacred incense. Leonarda stood at its heart, an imposing yet graceful figure, her movements as measured as a metronome. Her apron—crisp white with delicate lace trim—clashed beautifully with the severity of her tailored suit, which clung just enough to hint at the powerful musculature beneath. The fabric strained slightly across her shoulders, a silent testament to the strength coiled within her frame.

Her face was a study in contrasts: the regal breadth of her cheekbones spoke of ancestral roots under golden savanna suns, while the sharp cut of her nose and the fullness of her lips carried the legacy of Mediterranean shores. Yet there was something unnerving in her stillness, something almost mechanical in the way her sharp, amber-flecked eyes remained fixed on her task.

And then there was the humming.

A lullaby, perhaps, or something older—a melody that curled through the kitchen like smoke, eerie and sweet. The notes reverberated off the vaulted ceilings, multiplying, until it seemed a ghostly choir murmured along in harmony. The sound wrapped around the stainless steel counters, the hanging copper pans, the glass-fronted cabinets displaying rows of knives sharper than a surgeon's scalpel.

Thunk.

The cleaver in her hand came down with surgical precision, splitting the slab of meat on the butcher's block. Blood, still startlingly fresh, sprayed in delicate arcs. Some droplets clung to her knuckles, others spattered her apron, and a few dripped onto the polished leather of her stiletto heels. The flesh parted cleanly, revealing marbled veins of pale yellow fat.

"Urgh, how do you still have this much blood?" she muttered, nostrils flaring in distaste.

A few feet away, a rumpled hoodie lay discarded on the floor—"Yes King" emblazoned across its chest in peeling letters. Pink fabric, now stained with grime and old blood, served as her makeshift mop. She dragged it toward her with the tip of her shoe, the motion effortless, before bending to wipe the crimson streaks from the tiles.

"Damn it, where's the mop?"

The hoodie, now thoroughly ruined, was unceremoniously tossed into the bin. She moved to the sink, where water hissed like a sigh as it sluiced over her hands, swirling pink down the drain. Then, back to work.

The meat, now neatly cubed, was transformed under her hands. A splash of wine, a scatter of herbs, the dripping of vinegar in a ceramic bowl—Leonarda prepared with the same lethal grace she did everything else. Soon, the rich aroma of carpaccio filled the air, the seasoned flesh glazed in a reduction that shimmered like liquid amber. A side of roasted vegetables, a glass of pomegranate juice clinking with ice, and the meal was complete.

She shed her apron, hanging it neatly on its hook, and arranged the dishes on a silver tray.

Breon's room was a cocoon of velvet and star charts, the walls papered in constellations that glowed faintly in the dark. The boy sat cross-legged on his bed, his small frame dwarfed by the silk duvet. His face, usually alight with childish curiosity, was unreadable—but his fingers twisted in the fabric of his pajamas, betraying the unease beneath.

The door creaked open.

"Breon dear, dinner's ready."

Leonarda's voice was warmth itself, honeyed and smooth, yet Breon stiffened for a fraction of a second before schooling his features. She paused in the doorway, her sharp eyes missing nothing. The way his breath hitched. The too-quick blink.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, sliding off the bed. He padded to the small dining nook in the corner, where a miniature mahogany table awaited.

She set the tray before him, watching as he picked up his fork with deliberate slowness. He took a bite, chewed mechanically. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.

Then—

"Leonarda?"

"Yes, Breon?"

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the window, where the night sky pressed against the glass like a living thing. "How fast do stars move from their positions?"

A beat. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. "Huh? What do you mean?"

"Uhm, okay…" He fidgeted, then blurted, "Is 0.1 seconds enough time for a star to move close enough to Earth that we can see it with the naked eye—and then go back just as fast?"

Leonarda stilled. The question hung between them, absurd and unsettling.

"While some stars move quite fast," she began carefully, "some reaching hundreds of thousands of kilometers per hour—for them to be visible like that would require speeds beyond natural celestial mechanics." She tilted her head, studying him. "Then again, we live in a world of elementals. Our goddess Amaterasu is the goddess of the sun—a star—and I'm sure she could make such a thing possible. So… maybe, Breon. Maybe." Her voice softened. "Did you see something?"

His throat worked. "Uhh, yeah. I saw a star move pretty fast. But I guess it was nothing."

She exhaled through her nose, then reached out, her manicured fingers carding through his thick 4C curls in a gesture that was almost maternal. "Oh, alright. Well, eat up."

And as Breon obediently took another bite, Leonarda's gaze drifted to the window, where the stars glittered—cold, distant, and utterly silent.