The Whispers Begin

The night sky above Seraphis was alive. Constellations shimmered with eerie intensity, their quiet hum vibrating through the heavens like a celestial choir trapped beneath a glass dome. It was a sight both breathtaking and unsettling, like an omen written in light, desperate to be understood.

Making home in the high spiraling heart of the Ivory Tower, nestled in the kingdom's grand observatory, Ophelia jolted awake.

Her breath hitched, her fingers gripping the crumpled, ink-streaked parchment strewn around her. The taste of sleep or lack of, almost metallic and distant, still fresh, clung to her tongue. However, her mind was tangled in the remnants of the vision.

The same one. Again and again.

Golden eyes, piercing through the dark. A figure, so near yet just beyond reach, cloaked in shadow. A voice, rumbled and low, almost unreadable, calling her name. And then, the worst part.

The sound of something vast and ancient dying. Something Ophelia can't quite understand yet.

A shudder rolled through her as she sat upright, brushing strands of midnight hair from her damp forehead. The candle beside her had burned down to a molten pool of wax, flickering weakly in protest. How long had she been asleep? Hours? Minutes?

She exhaled sharply, the cold air biting at her exposed skin.

The dream wasn't fading like normal ones did. It clung to her ribs, pulsing in time with her own heartbeat.

Something was different tonight. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, prickling like tiny needles as another shiver jolted through her spine

She pushed to her feet, her long nightgown sighing against the marble floor as she moved toward the window. Pressing a trembling palm against the glass, she gazed out over the sleeping kingdom. Seraphis lay stretched beneath her in golden splendor, its towering spires and moonlit bridges resembling a city carved from stardust. The river Elyssan ran through its veins, catching the glow of lanterns drifting lazily across its surface.

And above it all. Far above the rooftops, the gardens, the great halls where nobles slumbered in peace, was the sky twisted.

At first glance, it was still the same sea of endless dark, dusted with silver. But if she focused, really focused, she could see it: the constellations moving when they should not. A rupture in the fabric of the universe. The faintest flicker of light where no star should exist.

A warning.

Her throat tightened. The stars had always spoken to her, in whispers softer than the wind. A nudge in the back of her mind, a quiet pull toward something unseen. But lately, their voices had become frantic, rippling through her skull like an urgent tide.

Tonight, they weren't whispering anymore.

Tonight, they were screaming.

She spun, nearly tripping over discarded scrolls as she lunged for her telescope. The instrument was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Meticulously polished silver and gilded gears, delicate yet powerful. With practiced hands, she adjusted the lenses, angling it toward the heavens.

Her breath caught.

The constellation Vaelion, the Fallen One, was burning. Its five-star formation, usually a soft glow against the abyss, pulsed with unnatural brightness, each point connected by invisible threads of fire. Ancient scholars had written of such omens, when Vaelion shone like this, it meant one thing.

Something was breaking.

Panic tightened its grip around her chest. She flipped through old, crumbling texts piled on her desk, her eyes darting over passages she had read a thousand times before. Nothing. No answers.

A sudden flash of white-hot light cut across the sky, illuminating the darkness in a single breathless instant. A falling star. But no, this was not a star at all. It moved too fast, leaving behind a trail of smoldering silver, carving through the constellations like a blade through silk.

It was a sign.

Then, in the silence that followed, she heard it.

A voice.

Low. Unfamiliar. Familiar.

"Ophelia."

She staggered back, the telescope slipping from her grip and clattering against the marble. The whisper had not come from outside, nor from the wind, nor from the depths of her own mind. It had come from everywhere, a vibration in her very bones, an echo that did not belong to this world.

It had spoken her name.

Heart hammering, she turned to the great celestial map hanging against the stone wall, its parchment riddled with markings she had spent years translating. Her shaking fingers traced the newly drawn path of the fallen star, following its descent beyond the safe borders of Seraphis, past the veil of the Astral Divide, into dangerous, forbidden lands.

And there, written in delicate, glowing script completely etched in the very fabric of the stars was a name she had never seen before.

A name she should not know.

Zoriel.

Her breath left her in a trembling exhale.

The universe itself had written his name in its own light.