The nights were loud now.
Not with sound, but with pressure—like the weight of the stars themselves pressed down on Orion's chest whenever he tried to sleep. Their light filtered through the cottage window in pale beams, brushing the wooden floor like searching fingers. Selene's mark pulsed faintly over his eye, sometimes steady, sometimes frantic, as if it felt something he did not.
He turned over in bed, restless.
Selene had grown quieter these past weeks. Or maybe he had stopped listening. He wasn't sure.
"You fear what you are becoming," she had said, once. "Not because it is wrong—but because you do not understand it."
He hadn't answered then. He didn't want to admit that sometimes, he didn't even want to understand.
---
In the mornings, he trained.
Sword in hand, breath steady, he moved in patterns meant to calm his mind. His feet traced arcs in the dirt. His blade followed the gentle curves of moonlight. But instead of clarity, doubt bled into every motion.
What if being chosen wasn't a blessing?
What if it was just another form of control?
The cult had wanted to carve Selene out of him. They saw stars as tools—brands to steal. But the Academy… would it be different? Or just more refined in its methods?
---
He sat by the river that afternoon, where silver light danced over the surface in broken threads. He used to find peace here. Now it only reflected things he didn't want to face.
Isol found him there.
She didn't speak right away. Just sat beside him, cross-legged, watching the water.
"You're quieter lately," she said eventually.
"I'm thinking."
"That's dangerous."
He gave her a look.
She shrugged. "Too much thought leads to hesitation. Hesitation gets you killed."
"I'm not fighting anyone," he muttered. "No. But something's fighting you."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he asked, "Why do they choose us?"
"The stars?"
"Yeah. Selene. All of them. Why do they get to choose who matters? Why do they mark some and not others? Why me?"
Isol hesitated.
"Maybe because you were strong enough to bear it."
"That's not a reason," Orion said quietly. "It's an excuse."
The silence that followed wasn't comfortable. But it was honest.
She didn't press further. She just stood after a while, brushing dirt from her leathers.
"There's more to this world than stars, Orion. Just don't forget that."
---
That night, the dreams came again.
But they weren't dreams. Not really.
He stood beneath a black sky where stars flickered like eyes. Some watched. Some judged. One—Selene—shone brighter than the rest, silver and soft, and yet distant now.
He reached for her.
But her light receded.
"You question what you do not yet understand."
Her voice echoed from all directions.
"Then help me understand!" he shouted.
No answer.
He woke cold, damp with sweat.
The stars had always watched him.
But lately, it felt like they were waiting.
In the dead hush between midnight and dawn, Orion sat on the rooftop, knees pulled close to his chest, breath fogging in the cold air. Below, Lithonia slept—its marble spires dusted with mist, its lanterns flickering like fireflies in glass jars. He should've been sleeping. But he couldn't.
"You are troubled."
Selene's voice shimmered through his thoughts like light on water.
Orion didn't respond.
"Your mind is loud tonight, child of moonlight."
He exhaled through his nose, watching the fog scatter.
"You always talk like you know everything."
"I only know what I've seen."
"Then you should've seen this coming," he said. "Me starting to question you."
A pause. Silence pulsed through their bond.
"You think your doubts weaken you."
"They should, right? Everyone else worships you. Prays to the stars. Bends over backwards to be chosen. I was just born like this. I didn't get a choice."
"Neither did I."
That silenced him.
He blinked. "What?"
"When I chose you, I did not know what it would mean. I felt your soul call to me across the veil. It was instinct. Not command."
"So… you didn't choose me on purpose?"
"Not the way you think. You were not selected like a soldier. You were met, as one meets a reflection. Something in you called out. And I answered."
Orion leaned back on his hands, staring upward.
"And now I'm stuck with a voice in my head and a glowing eye."
"And power."
"I didn't ask for power."
Another pause.
"Few who are meant for it do."
---
In the morning, Orion walked alone through Lithonia's eastern ward, where the shadows fell sharp between buildings and the sun could never quite burn away the morning chill. The people moved around him in quiet ripples, glancing once, twice, then away. Not with hate. But with wariness.
That boy with the eye.
The marked one.
He didn't like how they whispered. He didn't like how even his friends from the alley games had grown distant once his crescent mark started glowing brighter at night.
Even here, in this so-called sanctuary, he was a ghost of something people didn't understand.
He stopped by a bakery near the edge of the trade square. The old woman who ran it, Merla, gave him a warm roll without asking.
"You've been out early again," she said, her eyes crinkling with soft lines. "Training?"
He shrugged. "Thinking."
"Thinking burns more than swordplay, trust me." She winked, and he almost smiled.
As he turned to leave, she added, "The stars chose you for a reason, boy. Maybe it's not your job to understand it—just to live it."
He didn't answer.
Because that's what everyone said.
Maybe you're meant for something greater. Maybe there's a reason. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
He was sick of maybes.
---
That evening, he returned to the rooftop again. The stars were already awake.
He closed his eyes.
"Selene," he whispered. "If I ran—if I left the city and hid in the forest forever… would you follow me?"
"Always."
"What if I told you I didn't want this life?"
"Then I would mourn. But I would not leave."
Silence.
"Why me?"
This time, her voice was soft. Almost sorrowful.
"Because even now, when you question me… you're still listening."
The rooftop had become his refuge. Cold stone beneath him, open sky above. Up here, he could breathe without the stares. The city of Lithonia glittered beneath moonlight, domed rooftops and towering statues draped in silver-blue glow.
Orion sat with knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them. The wind tugged at his white shirt, curling under the collar like a whisper.
He stared up at the stars.
And for once, they didn't feel like his.
"You are troubled."
Selene's voice shimmered through his thoughts—calm, poised, endlessly patient. It wasn't in his head. It was inside his chest, behind his ribs, like a second heartbeat.
"You always start with that," he muttered.
"Because it is always true."
He scowled at the sky. "You don't understand."
"Try me."
"Fine." His voice rose, sharper now. "I didn't choose this. You bound yourself to me. You lit up my eye and made everyone look at me like I'm some damn prophecy. I don't even know you."
"Yet you speak to me more than anyone else."
He bit the inside of his cheek. "I didn't ask for a voice in my head. I didn't ask to be part of your war—or whatever the hell this is. I just wanted to be normal."
The wind carried silence.
Then Selene spoke.
"I did not choose this for you, Orion. I chose you because your soul called to me. As mine called back. I do not control what grows between us."
"And what even are you?" he asked, desperate now. "Some goddess? Some ghost made of light? Do you care about me? Or am I just a vessel?"
A long pause.
"I care. That is why I answer when you shout at the sky."
He blinked fast. That… hurt more than it should have.
"Then why won't you ever tell me the truth?" he asked. "Why was I born in that temple? What you really are. What you want from me."
Selene's voice, when it came, was faint.
"Because you are not ready to hear it."
He stood abruptly, fists clenched. "Then maybe I'm not ready for you either."
That night, sleep dragged him under like a riptide.
He stood in a field of mirrors, each one catching moonlight. No ground beneath his feet—just stars, stars, endless stars.
In the mirrors, he saw versions of himself—his face twisted in rage, in sorrow, in cold indifference. His eye glowed bright in some, dark in others. In one, he was on fire, crowned in solar light. In another, shadow dripped from his mouth like ink.
And above it all:
A crescent moon.
And a burning sun.
And something darker between them, pulsing, watching, waiting.
He stepped toward a mirror, hand raised. But his reflection didn't mimic him. It reached through the glass and grabbed him.
"You are ours," it whispered.
Orion gasped awake, heart pounding. Selene's voice whispered in the dark:
"Not all stars bring light."
The next morning, Orion stood in the clearing behind their house. A wooden sword in his hands. Sweat on his brow.
Isol moved like a phantom—feet light, breath steady, striking fast and vanishing between blows. Orion swung, deflected, spun—and missed.
Crack.
Her staff caught him behind the knee. He stumbled, growling in frustration.
"You think too loud," Isol said, circling him. "Your mind is a storm. I can feel it from here."
"Then maybe stop reading it."
She raised a brow. "You think your enemies won't?"
He lunged again, aiming low. She dodged, twisted, knocked him down. His staff clattered across the dirt.
He sat there, panting. "What's the point of all this? Fighting? Dodging? If the stars already have our lives written out?"
Isol looked down at him. For a moment, she didn't answer. Then she crouched, resting her arms on her knees.
"You think they hold the pen," she said. "But maybe they're just reading the story with us."
He narrowed his eyes. "You don't believe that."
"I believe that we write some of it. And we fight for the rest."
She stood, offering a hand. He hesitated—then took it.
That evening, the letter arrived.
The sun had dipped beneath the rooftops, leaving behind streaks of lavender and dying gold. Inside the house, a single lamp burned—its warm glow casting shadows across the wooden floor.
Orion sat alone at the table when the knock came. He didn't move at first. Something in him already knew.
Amelia opened the door. A man in a deep blue cloak stood there, embroidered with a silver starburst over the heart. He said nothing—just bowed and handed her a scroll sealed with silver wax. The crest of the Star Academy gleamed beneath the flickering light.
She closed the door softly.
"Orion," she said.
He looked up. She didn't need to say more.
He took the scroll with a steady hand, but when his thumb brushed the seal, his fingers tightened. It cracked open like ice.
The parchment unfurled.
To Orion of Lithonia,
Your soul bears the mark of the heavens. You are hereby summoned to the Trials of Ascension at the Star Academy of Korvain. Present yourself at the gates on the night of the Full Moon.
The rest blurred.
He read it again.
And again.
But it didn't feel like it was meant for him.
It felt like it was meant for someone else.
Someone braver. Someone who believed.
Amelia knelt beside him, her hands resting gently over his. "You don't have to go."
He didn't answer.
"You don't owe the stars anything," she said, her voice softer now. "Not after what they took. You owe yourself the choice."
He looked at her—really looked. There were more lines near her eyes now, tired ones. Her hair, once copper bright, was pulled back tighter than usual. She looked older. Not weak. Worn.
"I don't know what I want," he whispered.
"That's not weakness," she said. "That's honesty."
He lowered the scroll, eyes falling to the floor. "If I go, I'm letting them decide what I become. If I stay, I'm… nothing."
"Orion." It was Isol this time. She stepped from the doorway, arms crossed, but her voice held no judgment. "You were never nothing. Not in that temple. Not here. Not ever."
He didn't look up. "What if I'm not like them? What if I don't belong?"
Isol walked forward slowly and placed something on the table in front of him—a simple wooden medallion. A carved crescent on one side, a flame on the other.
"We shape ourselves by stepping into fire," she said. "You're afraid. Good. Fear makes your blade honest. But you don't have to be certain. Just willing."
Silence hung thick in the room.
Orion swallowed. His chest felt too tight. His fingers curled around the invitation, and for the first time, he noticed that his hand was shaking.
And then—
A voice. Barely a whisper. Not from behind him. Not beside him.
From within.
"Come and see."
Selene's voice. Soft. Not commanding. Not expectant. Almost… afraid.
He breathed in sharply.
"Do you hear her?" he asked aloud, voice cracking.
Amelia gave him a look—a mother's look, full of worry, full of faith. "No."
Isol nodded once. "But you do."
That night, Orion lay in bed, the invitation rolled tightly on the desk across the room. He couldn't sleep.
The moonlight painted silver lines across the ceiling. Outside, the city murmured in hushed breaths. But in Orion's chest, a storm brewed—quiet but restless.
Eventually, sleep took him.
He stood in a pale, endless field.
The grass shimmered like liquid glass underfoot. Above him, the stars spun slower than usual—as if time itself was watching.
And at the far end of the field, she stood waiting.
Selene.
Her form was cloaked in moonlight, her face obscured by its glow, but her presence was unmistakable. Like standing before a mountain and a mother all at once.
"You came," she said.
"I didn't know if I would," he admitted.
"Nor did I," Selene replied, voice quiet and full of something almost like sadness. "Doubt has grown in you."
Orion looked down at his hands. "I don't know if I trust you," he whispered. "Or any of them. The stars… they choose. They brand us. They watch. But they never bleed. We're the ones who bleed."
She stepped forward. Not too close.
"I did not mark you to own you," she said. "I answered something in you. A cry so small, so fierce, I could not ignore it. That night in the Temple, it was not fate. It was will. Yours. Mine."
He raised his eyes to her. "Then why do I still feel like a weapon?"
She reached out—not to touch him, but to show something in her palm.
A petal.
Black and silver, shimmering with light that wasn't hers.
"What is that?" he asked.
"Your future," she said. "Not written. Not destined. Growing. Even now, shaped by every fear and choice. I cannot control what you become. But I can walk beside you, if you let me."
Orion's throat tightened.
"Do you regret choosing me?" he asked.
She knelt before him, her light dimming just enough for her features to show. Sad, strong, full of something eternal.
"No," she said.
He blinked—and the field vanished.
Orion awoke just before dawn.
He sat upright in bed, heart steady.
The scroll still sat on the desk, unopened now. But he didn't need to read it again.
He already knew his answer.