The Betrothal of Stars

Chapter 4

The sky bled gold and violet.

Above the Midnight Citadel, the heavens rippled like a vast, wounded canvas — threads of starlight twisting and writhing at the edges of the horizon. The Celestials had called it a divine omen, a sign that order was returning to the cosmic weave. But to Mirelha, it felt like the sky itself was suffocating.

The courtyard was a sea of silver and ivory. Celestial dignitaries draped in flowing robes, their auras shimmering like liquid constellations, moved with practiced elegance. Their faces were serene, but their eyes burned with the quiet intensity of gods who believed they were the architects of fate. The air hummed with quiet anticipation, a fragile sort of calm before the storm. Crystal arches curved high above the platform, their filigree designs reflecting the endless expanse of the universe — a cruel reminder of the threads she and Dacre had dared to defy.

She stood at the heart of it all.

A crown of obsidian and stardust rested lightly atop her dark hair, the weight of it far heavier than it seemed. Her gown — spun from the threads of dying stars — clung to her like a second skin, glowing faintly with an ethereal silver hue. Every thread seemed a mocking echo of her own fate. The threads she could never sever. The ones that bound her to Dacre.

But Dacre wasn't here.

He wasn't meant to be.

This was her betrothal ceremony — a public declaration to the universe that Mirelha, the Angel of Death, would bind herself to another. A suitor chosen by the Celestials, someone deemed worthy enough to restore balance to the fractured cosmic threads.

His name was Vaelen.

Tall, sharp-featured, and cold as the void between stars, Vaelen was a Celestial of Order — a being forged from the very concept of control and harmony. His presence was an unyielding force, his gaze calculating and calm. He stood beside her now, his hand hovering just close enough to remind her that they would soon be bound, though never touching.

He was everything the Celestials wanted for her.

And nothing she wanted for herself.

The Grand Oracle stepped forward, her voice like the distant chime of forgotten worlds. "Tonight, beneath the threads of the heavens, we weave a new fate. The Angel of Death and the Keeper of Order shall unite, and the threads shall be mended."

Mirelha's heart twisted.

Not from fear.

Not even from anger.

But from the unbearable absence of the one who wasn't beside her.

She could feel Dacre — not physically, but through the echo of their severed bond. Somewhere beyond the Citadel's walls, he was watching. Hidden. Silent. Suffering.

He wouldn't dare come closer.

He couldn't.

The Celestials would strike him down if he did.

Yet, even with all the distance between them, his presence was a storm at the edge of her soul — a shadow, a whisper, a scream muffled by the weight of duty.

I love you.

The words were never spoken aloud. They didn't need to be. The threads between them still quivered, faint but unbroken.

The ceremony pressed on, each word from the Oracle a blade to Mirelha's heart. The Celestials called this balance — a way to tame the rebellion she and Dacre had sparked — but the Loomkeepers…

Oh, the Loomkeepers watched from the shadows.

Invisible yet ever-present, they were the silent architects of this moment. They had nudged the Celestials toward this solution, feeding their fear of disorder, whispering the lie that love was a threat to the cosmic weave.

And now, the threads strained. Not from love, but from manipulation.

As the Oracle raised her hand, a silver thread unraveled from the sky above. It floated downward like a droplet of liquid light — the thread that would bind Mirelha and Vaelen, sealing their union in the eyes of the universe.

The crowd held its breath.

Mirelha's lips parted, but no words came.

She couldn't breathe.

She wasn't afraid of Vaelen. She wasn't afraid of the Celestials.

She was afraid of what this thread would mean — of how much further it would push Dacre away.

And then, in the silence…

A wind.

Not a celestial wind, not a mere shift in the cosmos — but something deeper. A ripple in the fabric of reality. A whisper that seemed to stroke the very threads of existence.

For a fleeting moment, the sky darkened — not from clouds, but from something unseen.

And Mirelha knew.

The Loomkeepers were watching.

Not with eyes, but with a presence that slithered between the stars.

They want this, she thought bitterly. They want me to break.

The Oracle's voice sliced through the tension. "Mirelha, Angel of Death, do you accept this bond? Will you weave your fate with Vaelen's and restore the balance of the threads?"

Her heart thudded against her ribs.

Every pulse was a silent scream: Dacre, Dacre, Dacre.

Her gaze flickered to the edge of the crowd. And there — almost lost among the sea of silver and light — was a shadow.

Dacre.

His dark hair was windswept, his jaw clenched tight enough to shatter bone. His presence was a storm barely contained, his fury a quiet tremor beneath his skin. But his eyes — gods, his eyes — were an entire universe of sorrow.

He didn't move. He didn't speak.

He just watched.

Mirelha's throat closed.

The thread of light hovered before her, waiting for her touch.

If I accept this… if I let this thread bind me…

I will lose him.

Her hand trembled, caught between duty and love, between the Celestials' will and the aching pulse of her heart.

And then, a single tear escaped down her cheek — a drop of stardust against skin.

The crowd didn't notice.

But Dacre did.

And somewhere, far beyond the sight of Celestials and lovers alike, the Loomkeepers smiled — unseen, unknowable, and patient.

For they knew this was only the beginning.