A Message In the Sky

Ophelia's pulse thundered in her ears as she lunged for her telescope, fingers trembling as they adjusted the delicate brass lenses. The weight of the polished silver felt steady beneath her grip, but her insides churned with unease. She knew these instruments better than the back of her own hand. With each gear, each adjustment, there was a familiar ritual. Yet tonight, her hands faltered. Tonight, the stars were different.

Through the finely polished glass, the heavens came into sharp relief. And there it was.

Vaelion, the Fallen One.

Its five-star formation, once a quiet, unassuming constellation, now burned with unnatural brilliance. The fiery glow pulsed in uneven waves, flickering like a dying breath, casting ghostly glows across the velvet-black sky. It was as though the heavens themselves were holding their breath, waiting.

Ophelia swallowed, her fingers tightening on the telescope's frame.

Ancient texts spoke of Vaelion's awakening only in times of great tragedy. It had been written in the old tomes, passed down by the scholars of Seraphis, small whispers of war, of fate unraveling, of something vast and terrible stirring beyond the veil of the known world.

She pulled away from the telescope, her heartbeat erratic. A cold sweat dampened the nape of her neck.

This wasn't just a warning.

It was a summoning.

Her gaze darted toward the desk, where old scrolls lay piled in chaotic stacks, their delicate parchment edges curling with age. She fumbled through them, scattering ink-stained notes as she searched for the prophecy she had read as a child—the one that spoke of the Starborn and the Lost King. But before her hands could grasp it, a sudden flash split the sky.

She froze.

A streak of white-hot light tore through the heavens, its burning tail carving a luminous scar in the darkness. The very air seemed to tremble with its passage, an eerie stillness falling over the night as if the world itself was holding its breath.

But Ophelia knew better.

This was no ordinary falling star.

It burned too brightly, moved too deliberately, as though it had purpose. As though it was looking for something.

For someone.

Her breath shuddered out of her as she stepped back, her pulse hammering in her ears. And then,

A sound.

No.

A voice.

Low. Unfamiliar. Yet strangely, impossibly familiar. It slipped through the silence like silk, brushing against the edges of her mind.

"Ophelia."

She gasped, lurching backward. Her spine collided with the wooden frame of her desk, her hands splaying over scattered parchments as her vision blurred with shock. The word, that name still echoed in the marrow of her bones, vibrating beneath her skin.

It had spoken.

Not in the way the stars usually did, their murmurs soft and indistinct. This was different. This was clear.

And it had called for her.

The room felt suddenly too small, the air too thick, as though the walls themselves had drawn closer to listen.

With frantic movements, Ophelia whirled toward the great celestial map draped across the eastern wall of her chamber. Its vast parchment canvas was riddled with constellations, inked in careful strokes, each name meticulously etched in the ancient language of the Starborn. Her hands, unsteady, traced the falling star's path across the chart.

Where did it land?

Her finger halted.

The trajectory led far beyond the gilded towers of Seraphis. Past the tranquil rivers and emerald valleys. Past the borders of the known world, where the veil of the Astral Divide shimmered like a barrier between realms.

It led to Vordane.

A sharp intake of breath.

No.

She knew the name well. Everyone did.

Vordane, the forsaken kingdom, its lands steeped in blood and ruin. A place where shadows walked in the guise of men, where kings fell and empires crumbled beneath the weight of unbroken curses. No one crossed into Vordane and returned unscathed.

And yet…

Her gaze drifted lower, where a new marking had appeared on the map.

No ink had touched the parchment. No scholar's hand had drawn it. Yet there it was, written in the soft glow of celestial script.

A name.

One she had never seen before. One that should not have been there.

Zoriel.

The moment her eyes landed on it, something deep within her shifted, as though an unseen thread had pulled taut, a tether binding her to something beyond her understanding. A wave of dizziness washed over her, her legs threatening to give way.

Zoriel.

She whispered it aloud, the syllables foreign yet strangely right on her tongue. The name carried weight. It meant something.

And it was the stars. They were the ones who had written it.

She stumbled back, her pulse erratic, hands pressed to her chest as if she could will her heart to slow.

Who was he?

Why had the stars called him by name?

And why did she feel, with the absolute certainty of the heavens themselves, that her fate had just been sealed?