Arche counted the stars through the small gap in the iron bars of his cell.
Lying on the cold, damp stone floor, he let his eyes drift across the few flickering lights above — tiny, distant flames too far to warm him. He had been counting for a while now. It helped him sleep. Or at least, it used to.
Not tonight.
Not that sleepless nights were anything new.
It had become a ritual: when hunger gnawed at his insides and dreams refused to come, he would count the stars and pretend they were watching over him. That they remembered him. That someone did.
He had eaten yesterday — a rare blessing. The guards fed him twice a week, though never on a schedule. Bread and watery soup. That was a feast here.
Because yesterday had been his execution day.
He chuckled dryly. No one heard. No one cared.
He was forgotten.
It had happened before — the old man in the next cell had also been scheduled to die. They forgot him for a week. He got two last meals before they remembered to kill him.
Arche had thought himself lucky when the same thing happened. Another day to breathe. Another scrap of bread.
But as the hours dragged on, a darker realization settled.
He wasn't lucky.
He had been betrayed.
He had been ready — ready to leave the cold behind, to escape the ache, the silence, the rot. But death slipped past him like mist, and what remained wasn't relief… but despair.
A despair deeper than anything he had ever known.
What kind of man feels betrayed by survival?
One whose body hasn't yet realized he's already dead.
The more he thought about it — not a betrayal by kings or guards, but by the executioner who simply forgot — his mind drifted to another life. A distant one.
A warm room. A soft bed.
A silver plate of roasted meats, thick sauces, golden bread torn between laughter.
He had once lived in a noble stronghold, surrounded by firelight and pride. He had worn clean clothes. Spoke boldly.
Now he was a ghost lying in filth, clinging to memories like they might keep him warm.
His eyes stung.
He blinked — not from dust, but from tears rising unbidden. Silent. Shameful. They welled slowly, then slipped down his cheeks without permission.
He lifted a trembling hand toward the stars, reaching through the tiny square gap in the iron bars.
He wanted to catch one. Just one.
To steal a piece of light for himself.
His fingers stretched toward the sky as his eyes began to close — not from sleep, but from the slow collapse of a soul with nothing left to burn.
And then… as the world began to fade…
A drop of something cold and glittering fell from the sky.
It landed on his hand.
In that instant, everything vanished — the cold, the cell, even the stars.
—
A moment ago, Arche had been in his prison cell.
Now he stood in a vast, endless space. Around him, only stars — distant and cold. Children's laughter floated in the dark, soft and gentle, like whispers carried on wind.
He listened.
Then the whispers became words:
"The First Star has shed tears. The Fallen is coming. Not even the gods can stop him now."
Arche frowned. A dream? He felt weightless, drifting, yet grounded.
Then ahead of him appeared a row of thrones beneath the stars — massive, empty, silent. One stood higher than the rest.
He stared.
Then a voice echoed behind him.
He turned.
A boy stood there — sixteen, maybe seventeen. Red hair. Bright blue eyes. Noble in bearing, almost royal. Without hesitation, the boy walked toward him, smiling.
He embraced Arche.
And whispered, "Tell my father I'm sorry."
Arche didn't know why, but he understood. The boy's name rang through his mind like a memory:
Ivar.
The stars above shimmered. The laughter grew louder — but now Arche realized it wasn't laughter.
It was the stars themselves.
The thrones weren't for them.
The boy stepped back. He looked into Arche's eyes. His lips didn't move, but his voice echoed in Arche's mind:
"Sorry for the sudden invitation. But you… you've been chosen by the First Star to carry the destiny of the Starborn.
Will you accept it?"
Arche laughed — not because it was funny, but because it felt impossible.
He meant to say no. But the word that came out was:
"Yes."
The boy smiled wider. Then turned toward the throne and raised a hand.
"Star of the First World... Star of the First Life... Star of the First God... Let his wish be fulfilled — even at the cost of my own."
Then he turned back.
"From this day forward, you are Ivar Starborn. Give it your best, and be happy, Arche… the Chosen of the First Light."
And with that, the boy began to dissolve — turning into starlight, until he vanished completely.
—
Arche jolted awake.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. His body trembled. His breath came in sharp gasps. Confusion swirled through his mind.
Then the pain hit.
A sharp ache split through his skull. He coughed — once, twice — until blood spilled from his mouth.
He didn't understand.
His vision blurred with light and shadow. But slowly, it began to clear.
He wasn't in the prison anymore.
No cold floor. No iron bars.
He lay in a grand bed wrapped in deep red sheets, beneath a vaulted ceiling carved from ancient stone. The room felt like a forgotten castle.
He stumbled out of bed, still coughing — but now there was no blood. Only breath.
The sheets behind him were stained deep crimson. His clothes, too, were soaked.
Heart pounding, he moved to a tall mirror across the room.
There — staring back at him — was the boy from his dream.
Red hair. Blue eyes.
The boy named Ivar.
He stood calm, straight, like he had been waiting.
But Arche knew something was different.
Because the boy in the mirror...
was also him.