The stillness after waking was no longer emptiness. It was… routine. The pain of the past months had burned itself deep into him, yet he was no longer the same. What followed was the familiar sequence: deepening his magical abilities, the quiet dialogue with the runes — then the library or the endless corridors of Moonshire Castle. Aethyrael stood on the platform where he had stood countless times before — and yet no moment had ever been the same. The concentric lines in the floor no longer reacted to his mere presence. They had learned that.

  "Too early to play," he murmured and lowered his hand again.

  The resonance withdrew. Neither reproach nor correction — accord. That was how it was now, almost always. Since the day gravitation had nearly torn him apart, several cycles between the moons of Limbus and the rising sun had passed. Aethyrael had stopped counting. Time was nothing here but a rusted chain to torment lesser beings who eked out their existence in finitude.

  With a faint smile he watched the rising sun and let the thought go. The first light of day broke against the deep black towers of the castle. A single spark of luminescence sufficed, and the runes of the towers began to glimmer like distant stars — cold, precise, and contemptuous. He stood with closed eyes: a pleasant warmth enveloped him. The platform was still, in the face of the interplay of light and shadow. A morning like any other.

  Aethyrael tasted bitterness every time his gaze drifted into the distance. Far beyond the frozen peaks and coloured mists of the Limbic highlands. The scent of longing — for more than the lifeless grimaces of constructs, or the pain-ravaged faces of mortal souls who had made it as far as Moonshire. The only consolation of such moments was the hope in their eyes, just before it extinguished like a candle without air, when they understood that their desperate striving for redemption had been a lie. The quiet recognition of being one's own light in the darkness.

  His heartbeat quickened for the fraction of a second as the memory of what had occurred in the garden, and the cold voice of the aether, grazed his senses. Impressions and emotions, relived in an instant. Even in the depths of his dreams they sought him out — and gave no rest. Yet if that was all the ancients of the aether had to offer, it was not particularly much. Dreams came and went. As did the memory of the cold, greedy voice from the depths of his mind.

  Since the garden, Aelthyria had not let him out of her sight. Every rune, every breath, every movement however small was observed relentlessly — not with severity alone, but with a perfection that feigned protection and imposed trial as ordeal. Books, exercises, the study of gravitation — all of it unfolded beneath her benevolent eyes, which worked like invisible chains. For some it would have been a curse — for him it was connection through pain. Aethyrael knew that even her reproach concealed a lesson in suffering, that even her chosen resistance was a fragment of the freedom they called order. And yet he valued them.

  The bond between creator and star had grown stronger — not merely perceptible, but perceptibly deepening with every orbit between the moons of Limbus and its single sun, born on the horizon only to perish in torment by evening. The lessons could be nerve-fraying, hard as granite and precise as blades cutting deep into flesh — yet they taught him the exchange of energy, aether and magic, the merging of forces that only pain and its bitter taste fully permitted: a curse that knew no redemption. Light and shadow remained denied to him — and yet it did not trouble him, for gravitation was rare, useful, powerful, a tool of the void. His rune made possible things others were haunted by only in their nightmares.

  He had grown. Not visibly by the standards of lesser mortals — but perceptibly. His movements had grown quieter. More precise. When he walked, gravity no longer followed him tentatively but as a matter of course. The body was no less important — a vessel that had to break in order to hold. Aelthyria had trained him hard, relentlessly, as though she wished to drive him to the edge of destruction. And yet she never did. Sometimes he had the sense that she took pleasure in sharing the pain of her imposed torment with him. Yet it was never from malice or delight in suffering for its own sake — but her form of unconditional devotion.

  To grow beneath Origins could be gentle or storm — a deception that disguised ordeal as grace. He had learned that both could exist simultaneously: a lie of balance. And that pain, discipline and control shaped him — not merely into a star, but into the eternal companion of the creator, the echo of her merciless intent, the mark of a love that forged in chains.

  Aethyrael opened his eyes again and let the deceptive stillness of the morning wash over him one last time.

  It would not be long before the first constructs went about their daily work in their customary puppet-like manner. Tormented beings, nothing more than the soulless in human form with strange markings on their brows. For that was what they were. No names, no character. Nothing to say, nothing to ask. Mindless things disguised as something living. Once he had asked his mother whether she had created constructs simply to avoid feeling alone at the edge of cosmic dissolution for all eternity. The question had unsettled her completely. A brief flicker of vulnerability, vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. Her gaze had been gentle. Her eyes however — cold. Her answer unmistakable. An embrace, tender and possessive. The lesson that followed, a narrow line.

  The sudden scent of the aether — a sensory current between rune-bearers — finally pulled Aethyrael from his thoughts. A familiar taste, sweet as honey, brushed his lips. The announcement came without warning — as announcements from creators seldom did. Aelthyria appeared on the platform as she always did: a shadow that had decided to be seen. The morning light caught the delicate runes along her collar and throat, tracing them in gold for a moment before they settled back into their customary precision.

  Azure cold. Sunlight warm.

  Silence.

  Aethyrael did not turn immediately. That much he had learned — painfully — since his arrival in Moonshire. Reactions were currency. Emotions were promissory notes. He spent both with care. Calculated and sparse. Reaction the means to an end. Emotion the last resort.

  "You are leaving," he said.

  No question.

  "Temporarily," she answered. The word landed with the same weight Vaelthrys had once given it. He had long since noticed — how the two of them shared certain words like blades, honed sharp and ready for use.

  He turned and attempted to arrange his features into something childlike. Her expression held undivided attention within it. He knew that penetrating gaze — the one that was an unsolvable riddle for most. One whose solution demanded a price. He had paid it. Again and again. For the most part, at least.

  She stepped closer. Two fingers against his forehead — the familiar connection, the anchor that was also a reminder.

  "The stars do not wander," she said quietly. "They only appear to."

  Aethyrael held her gaze. Earnest. Present. The very image of a child who fully understood what was being said to him and intended to honour it completely. She studied him a breath longer than necessary. He did not flinch. The corner of her mouth moved — not a smile. Something older than a smile.

  "And?" she asked, pressing.

  "Without their sun, they are lost."

  "Good," she said and nodded, satisfied.

  She drew him to her — possessive, without hesitation. A deep breath, as though she wished to taste him. Then she was gone. No transition, no step, no shadow. Only the taste of her absolute claim and the faint trace of calming herbs in the air.

  The platform was still.

  Aethyrael lowered his gaze to the concentric lines beneath his feet. They glimmered faintly — half a second of uncertainty, then steadied. As though waiting to see what he would do next. For now however, he did nothing.

  He exhaled slowly.

  The castle breathed differently without Aelthyria. Not emptier — that was not the right word. More like a held breath, carefully released. The runes along the towers hummed a fraction quieter. The corridors beyond the eastern arch seemed to expand, as though offering more distance between one point and the next. Moonshire did not rebel in her absence. It simply remembered that it could exist without being watched.

  Aethyrael had noticed it before. In small moments — one of her relentless lessons that stretched too long, a night when Aelthyria's attention had been elsewhere. The castle did not change. But the weight of its order redistributed itself, found a new equilibrium. A fragile equilibrium, for anyone who wished to slip free of the castle's hold. The insurmountable wall of her iron order had developed a crack — and he was firmly resolved to use it. Too long had he subordinated himself in silence. Too often had he gazed with longing into the vast expanse of this merciless world. A world that gifted him a smile every morning as he stood on the platform watching the sunrise. Silent. Still. Savouring it.

  And he smiled back. Every time.

  Unbroken. Unbowed. And yet, at heart, still a child.

  The stars do not wander. Yet where there is no sun, there is no orbit. He turned the thought over. Perhaps this star would dare it after all — to court the wrath of the sun despite every adversity, just to step once from the shadow of its radiance. To see the world with his own eyes. No pain was enough. No consequence too great. A thought born from the seed of necessity. That seed drove forth corrupted blossoms. The longing to see. The desire to silence it.

  "Well, well — lowly mortal supplicants." The voice rang out from the depths of the courtyard, contemptuous and unhurried. "Have you come to offer up your worthless souls, or have you simply lost your way?"

  A voice like fingernails on metal. He narrowed his eyes and directed his gaze into the half-shadows of the inner courtyard. A crackling in the air, then a brief green shimmer. The portal of the lesser stood open. Then again — a faint pulse, like the hopeful flicker of a candle.

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  No question about it, thought Aethyrael. Fate or coincidence — that the lost mortals should choose today of all days to come with their petitions?

  He descended the spiral staircase into the dim courtyard at a measured pace. Step by step. Not one step too few, not one breath too many. He listened intently to the silence, interrupted only by the unwelcome appearance of the lesser.

  Aethyrael caught voices. Stammering — aimless scraps of words from a race that had long since given up on itself.

  "Pah," the voice mocked again. "Forgiveness — the herd always wants nothing but forgiveness. What about pain and pleasure instead?"

  Then a scream. Raw with pain. Tormented. Shrill.

  Then laughter. Self-satisfied. Sadistic. Happy.

  Then all was still.

  Aethyrael lingered in the shadow. The last remnant of the human stock long since reduced to a heap of ash. The flicker of the unworthy soul already extinguished, smothered before it could take hold. Neither regret nor pity grazed his senses. Aversion was what remained. Longing was what lay ahead. He concentrated the aether into his rune — not aggressively, but listening. Probing. One breath. Two. No taste of honey and herbs in the air. No earthy scent of time. Only Thalyra's lingering satisfaction and the silence of pleasure left behind.

  No one here.

  Lucky I have no need of magic, he thought with a crooked grin.

  The two elders would not see him coming — and see him leave even less. His gaze fixed forward again. The portal lay in the half-shadow of the gatehouse arch, where even the light of Limbus hesitated. Intricate lines ran through the stone — runes without lustre, but full of memory. No place of farewell. A place of decision. The portal's pulse was growing weaker — and Aethyrael restless with it. Now or never. To feel longing or to taste it. The choice was clear.

  He needed no second thought. Gravitation responded before he called it — as though it had been waiting. No effort. No tearing. Only an impulse, like a stone that knows its way to the ground. A familiar taste filled his senses. He flowed with the wave. To others it might have looked like sorcery. To him it was the most natural thing in the world. The seductive pulse of his rune was the last confirmation he needed. No looking back. Neither fear nor regret. The consequence would follow — that was not in question. And Aethyrael would savour it, that much he knew. Like a dessert one does not share. Though who else was there to share the undivided devotion of his creator — and her wrath?

  So be it. The aether left no room for doubt. One step. A violet radiance that set the courtyard trembling. The green-shimmering portal pulsed — not evenly, but like a heartbeat waiting for another rhythm. The ornate runes in the gatehouse arch responded to his approach. No lustre. Only memory, realigning itself.

  For the fraction of a heartbeat he felt the azure cold at the nape of his neck — the cold that promised warmth. He set it aside. The star would wander and smile. The sun would find him. Cold. Tender. Cause and effect, bound together inseparably. But that had never stopped him. It never had.

  Aethyrael stepped closer in the cloak of gravitation.

  The air changed. Heavier. Denser. As though the space between him and the portal was diminishing — not because he moved, but because the portal drew him. Gravitation speaking a different language. For a moment he looked through. Not longing. Not desire. Only — elsewhere. Then he stepped through, and the portal fell silent in quiet submission. As though it knew to yield.

  Violet on shimmering green.

  And Moonshire — breathed on. As though nothing had happened. Silence is golden was no mere saying for the castle. It was principle. And for the first time, Aethyrael was grateful for it.

  He blinked. Moonshire was gone. Even the first light of day had reversed itself. The Limbic moons stood high on the horizon, as though greeting him. A familiar sight. The old scent of the castle had dissolved. The aroma of bitterness and longing — a distant dream. He could almost taste the wilderness, feel the soft grass beneath his soles. Motionless he stood beneath the moons, as their light dissolved into the dancing shadows of the Limbic world.

  He lowered his gaze — and found something. Something that until now had been nothing more than the shadow of an image in the depths of his imagination.

  It lay in silence. A city spread across a wide valley, like an open basin of stone, light and shadow. A flaw of beauty in the heart of nature. Terraces of white and golden stone descended the slopes, densely built, layered upon one another like the scales of a vast creature. Towers rose from the weave, slender and self-assured, while domes and bridges threaded through the cityscape like veins.

  A river cut through the den of sin like a slow, lurking serpent — dark, heavy, unstoppable. Its surface mirrored the city's light, distorted and fractured, as though even the water took more than it gave back. Further out the valley opened, and the river emptied into the endless grey of the Sog — that cold northern sea marking the edge of the continent.

  Helios. City of a thousand sins, he thought, and smiled to himself.

  In the next moment he was already making his way toward the moloch that lay at his feet. A corrupted stain upon a beautiful horizon. The feeble attempt of mortal ambition to give suffering a new face. Hope for what the lesser called a good life. A naive delusion — but then, they had always been this way. Impure hearts. Weak souls. Wishes that would never be fulfilled, cast in desolate stone. With every step he drew closer, Aethyrael tasted the poisoned air. Spices. Burnt oil. Metal. Beneath it — sweat, perfume, damp stone. The smells of people living pressed against one another, desiring one another still more. Animals in a cage they could neither see nor feel. Pitiable creatures.

  A whistling crack split the yawning stillness of the night. Leather on flesh. Followed by a child's scream — so heartrending that Aethyrael flinched. Instinctively he pulled the hood of his cloak deep over his young face. Then he saw the mortal creature. A girl, no older than himself. Bound to a post. His gaze found her tired eyes. Within them lay a pain he recognised, and a wish he could not put into words. But he could feel it. In the depths of a darkness that lesser mortals would call a heart.

  Then another crack. No scream followed. Instead — a final tremor through the frail body. The exhaustion in her eyes slowly dissolved, until nothing remained but emptiness — and no peace.

  Silence.

  "Damn it, the girl's gone," growled a smoky voice. "How many times do I have to tell you to keep your godforsaken urges at home, you fool."

  A broad-shouldered hulk positioned itself beside the post. Aethyrael had not noticed him at first — but from the shadow stepped a pudgy boy, whip in hand. Flecks of blood on his face and hands. With a self-satisfied smile the lesser creature stood there as though nothing had happened.

  "Pfft — just one of many slaves in my father's service," he said, clicking his tongue. "This one was worthless anyway. She wouldn't have lasted much longer."

  He struck again. And again — but the hulk seized the whip from his hand in a fury. A glint lay in his eyes. Aethyrael knew he would have loved nothing more than to let the little rat taste his own medicine. To his regret, however, he held back.

  What a shame, he thought. Perhaps I ought to help things along. I found myself rather taken with the spoilt little wretch.

  "The girl is dead, you witless waste," the hulk snarled. "Strike a hundred times more — she cannot scream. So let us go."

  "Perhaps you are right, Ragnar," said the boy, satisfied. "At the estate I have toys enough. No scream too few. No stroke of the whip too many. Is that not so?"

  The hulk said nothing and cast a look of undisguised revulsion at the well-fed child in fine clothing.

  "Look at my shoes. Filthy slave blood," he thundered on. "Am I to buy new ones every week because you cannot keep your whip in check?"

  Then he seized him by the arm and dragged him into an alley behind him. What remained was the lifeless body of the girl. Aethyrael waited a moment — but nothing happened. Every mortal passed the child by as though it were the most natural thing in the world. No mercy. No regret. Only repression. Those who linger die. Those who grieve break. And so Aethyrael moved on as well, keeping himself hidden in the shadows of the den of sin. His eyes grew wider with every alley, the taste of sin and blood deeper and deeper. An ornately carved stone sign caught his attention: "Inn of Bliss," it read. A dry laugh rose in his throat - and he swallowed it when he looked away — and saw an elderly mortal collapse lifelessly before the inn. The ragged body simply lay there, no one giving it a second thought. Still less the carriage of a nobleman that came from behind, dragging the heap of flesh through the city until nothing remained. What was left: the blood in the filth of the streets and a bitter taste.

  Aethyrael let what he had just witnessed pass like the hope of mortals in Moonshire — and turned his attention back to the inn. Inviting. Welcoming and still. He stepped inside. The door of the inn fell shut behind him like a final word. Within it smelled of stale beer, old wood, and something sweet he could not place. Candles at irregular intervals. Shadows that concealed more than they revealed. Laughter from a back room. The muffled strumming of a lute. Outside: blood that seemed to wind through the streets like a trickle, and lifeless bodies in their filth.

  Aethyrael did not lower his hood. He waited. Observed and said nothing. Silence is golden — above all when one swims with the shadows.

  "You look lost, little one."

  The voice came from the left. A woman. Not young — but groomed in a way that cost effort. Ruby lips. Eyes that calculated while they smiled. She leaned against the counter as though she had been waiting for him. As though she had been waiting for everyone who walked through that door. Like a promise that did not need to be spoken aloud to be heard.

  "I am not lost," he said flatly.

  "Of course not." Her smile widened. "The lost always say that."

  She poured him a glass without asking. Slid it across the counter. He studied it. The liquid was amber. Warm in the candlelight.

  "What do you want, lesser?" he asked at once, fixing her with his gaze.

  "Me?" She laughed — brief, melodic, practised. "I want nothing at all. I only offer." She leaned closer against the counter. "Food. Drink. A bed. And for special guests —" a pause "— special things."

  Aethyrael said nothing. His instinct stirred — not as a warning. As interest. Something about her was different. Not like the lost mortal souls on the street. Not like the constructs in Moonshire. Something that calculated. That wanted. That harboured a deep desire.

  He did not fully understand it. But he found it — interesting enough to lend her his ear.

  "What manner of special things," he asked, playful now.

  Her smile deepened. The eyes that calculated — steadied. As though he had asked the right question.

  "For a child like you?" She studied him. The hood. The witch-marks emerging from his sleeves. The way he stood — too still for his age. Too precise. Her eyes lingered on his runes a heartbeat too long. "I know someone. A woman. Clever. Influential." Another pause. "She pays well for — interesting acquaintances."

  "Pays," he repeated.

  "Or gives." She waved it aside. "Depending on what one needs. And you —" she regarded him with the eye of a woman who appraised prices "— surely need something. Everyone who arrives here needs something."

  Aethyrael considered for a moment. His instinct — the same that had sensed gravitation before he called it — whispered. Not loudly. Only — attentively. He knew Aelthyria. He knew Vaelthrys. He knew Thalyra and Silvara. He knew beings that forged in chains and called it devotion. Beings that disguised ordeal as grace. This woman was none of those things. She was — smaller. More legible. A tool that believed itself a player.

  And yet he followed her game. Not because he failed to see through it. But because he was curious where it would end. And with whom.

  "Who is this woman," he asked at last.

  She smiled. For the first time without calculation. Or — with a calculation so deeply buried it looked like sincerity.

  "A shadow," she said. "A shadow of order."

  He needed to hear nothing more. He wished to hear nothing more. But it was too late. The lesser mortal led him with purpose through a narrow corridor. Past closed doors behind which voices murmured. Laughter. Weeping. Screams in pain. Moaning in pleasure. Both at once. Helios in concentrated form.

  Then — a door. Plain. No sign. No ornament.

  The woman knocked twice. Did not wait for an answer. Opened.

  "Ceryne. I've brought you something."

  And was gone.

  She sat at a table. Small. Slight. Jet-black hair falling in gentle waves — neither combed nor uncombed. Simply — so. As though it had always been this way. Before her lay papers. Coins. A glass she had not touched.

  She did not look up immediately.

  "If you have debts, sit down. If you have sins, sit down as well. Both come at a cost —"

  Then she looked up. Neither glad nor wrathful. Only — stunned.

  Aethyrael smiled at her, satisfied. As he always did when he set his mind to defying the loving chains of his sun. A star on its wandering. Armed with the unquenchable thirst of his longing. And the compulsion to silence it at any price.