Astra toasted with his drink, the vendor snorted, shaking his head."Doom-proof lemonade, huh? Maybe I should! Double the price for the nobles, triple if they look paranoid."
A few nearby patrons laughed, easing the air. The vendor chuckled too, pouring another drink for a waiting customer. Yet even as his hands moved with practiced ease, his eyes flicked back toward Astra, wary, measuring.
"Still…" His voice dropped again, low and steady. "Whatever that was, it wasn't normal. I'd rather be selling drinks than finding out if we should be running."
He leaned in slightly, cloth twisting between his fingers. "The fortress of Dusk is restless. Rumors say the Holy Queen herself stirred, and when she moves, the whole city pays attention. After all—when Angels move, us mortals can only watch."
The words slid into Astra's chest like a blade. He swirled the lemonade in his glass, feigning mild curiosity, but his mind sharpened instantly.
The Holy Queen of Dusk… stirred?
A shiver ran beneath his skin, unseen but biting. An Angel, not just any—his sworn enemy. The one whose shadow loomed over his every step. The thought constricted his lungs for half a heartbeat before he forced it down, burying it beneath a polished smile.
Gods.
He let none of that touch his face. Instead, Astra flashed the vendor a bright, charming smile as he tipped back the last of his lemonade, savoring its fizz like a noble savoring wine. With a graceful flick of his wrist, he set the empty glass aside and raised two fingers in a casual wave.
"I'll be fine. Thank you for the lemonade, old man."
His tone was light, almost flippant, but the words carried an odd finality, like a man walking into the dark with no fear of what lurked inside.
With that, Astra turned and drifted back into the crowd, his pace easy, unhurried—yet every step was deliberate, coiled with intent. Around him, the festival still hummed, alive with laughter, lanterns, and the bright clamor of voices. But to Astra, it all blurred, muffled beneath the weight of revelation.
The vendor watched his back recede, brow furrowed. The boy's confidence was unsettling, his farewell stranger still.
"I'll be fine…" the vendor muttered, half to himself, shaking his head. He rubbed the cloth hard across the counter, as if to scrub away the unease Astra had left behind. "What a strange Scion."
And with that, he turned back to his work, though the unease lingered, curling in his chest like smoke.
Astra's new armor, the Nightshroud, clung to his form in its travel mode, its dark weave drinking in the lanternlight until he seemed more suggestion than man. The fabric moved as though it had learned his body—each step fluid, seamless, almost too natural. His presence blurred against the world, not vanishing but refusing to settle into the eye. The Regal Coin at his hip, obsidian and cold, gleamed faintly in the folds of his cloak like a hidden oath, its golden Ouroboros a reminder of the deception he carried. A banner of House Shadow to anyone who dared look too closely.
He passed a pair of Dusk Knights at the mouth of a side street. Their armor caught the glow of enchanted lanterns, casting pale, angular shadows onto the cobblestones. The knights gave him a glance—trained, quick, and disinterested—then turned away. That was the strength of the mask. The armor, the coin, the bearing of a scion: convincing enough to make the world look elsewhere. They would not risk offending the blood of House Shadow, not on festival night, not with tensions this high. Fear did more work than secrecy ever could.
Astra's lips curled faintly under his hood. Masks upon masks. I was born to survive like this.
"I need to find a high-ranking member of House Shadow," he muttered, his voice almost lost to the river of chatter flowing around him. "But with my godhoods now… I doubt even they can find me."
It wasn't paranoia. He felt it—again and again, like cold fingers scratching against the skin of his soul. Attempts. Not too many, not constant, but sharp when they came. Angels testing the air, diviners reaching through veils. Most pulled back; few dared. They knew better than to probe too deeply into the secrets of a pinnacle-tier angel. But there were exceptions—the Gods, and others drunk on power or hubris. Those did not care for the rules of restraint. His cloak shifted against him like a living thing, shadows inlaid with obscurity, breaking each searching gaze against its hidden laws.
Still, he could not relax. Not here.
Perhaps even the Church of Night… they would never find me there. Not through this Cloak.
The thought slithered in, half-truth and half-danger. He tucked it away. For later.
His mind tightened around the more immediate truth: he needed someone who could guide him through this mess. Connections. Shelter. Not allies of circumstance, not borrowed daggers from strangers—but figures anchored in the world's power structure, people who could provide cover, legitimacy, a fortress of influence while he grew. Without it, his strength would remain raw, and raw strength was meat for wolves.
If I'm going to grow stronger, I need more than just mana. More than just the star burning inside me and the shadows waiting at my call. Training. Shelter. Direction.
The words uncoiled like vows, but another voice cut through—the survivor's voice. Or I leave. I could disappear. Adventure, drift, live between realms. He pictured it for a heartbeat: roads untraveled, nameless lands, freedom from banners and eyes. But then reality's cold weight dropped into his chest. Naive. They'll find me. I'm wanted by divinity itself. They always find you. The gods always find you.
He paused mid-step, gaze lifting toward the distant fortress.
The silhouette of the Castle of Dusk cut against the violet sky like a blade, a mountain of obsidian stone and silver banners that had haunted him since boyhood. To him, it had always been more prison than palace, its spires not monuments but spears poised downward, ready to pierce anyone who strayed too far from obedience. Tonight, though, the air made it worse. He could feel the fortress watching. Looming. And for once, it was not imagination. His godhoods, his transgressions of simply existing, had made the city's greatest predator stir.
A flicker of determination burned across his face as his stride lengthened. He could not wander lost through thoughts forever. His path was clearer, if not easier. Shadow first, then Night. Safety before power. A sanctuary before conquest.
He wove through the festival crowd, mind distant, body alert. Lanterns bloomed overhead like constellations caught in glass, their warmth spilling over the streets. Music drifted from street performers—flutes, drums, laughter weaving with the shuffle of feet and the clinking of coins. The scent of roasting meats tangled with sugar and citrus, pulling his mind back to half-remembered nights when festivals had meant something simple, something human. He tasted bitterness behind his teeth. Those days had died with his childhood.
The streets of Duskfall glowed with banners of midnight blue and gold, cloth snapping in the breeze. Children darted between legs, their giggles cutting through the subdued tension like sparks against iron. Merchants shouted over each other, selling sweets, trinkets, silks, blades dulled for festival combat. All of it a facade, and Astra saw it for what it was: a city dressed in borrowed joy, hiding the tension rotting beneath.
He adjusted the Nightshroud, letting its folds whisper with the crowd's movements. No one looked too long at him. No one saw more than a shadow passing through.
Stay small. Stay unremarkable. Avoid the eyes, avoid the nets. Don't give them reason to notice. A single spark is enough to burn the mask away.
And yet—even as he buried himself in the river of strangers—he could feel the weight of divinity hunting from above, a reminder that no mask, no cloak, no festival crowd would keep him safe forever.
Astra had enough on his plate without inviting more eyes to follow him. Drawing attention in a place like this was dangerous—especially when the streets swelled with nobles, hardened warriors, and magi whose names carried weight in entire provinces. One wrong step, one misplaced glance, and he could find himself caught in a web spun by families that would crush him without hesitation.
I am still only Rank One, he reminded himself, a low growl in his chest as he shifted through the crowd. All this posturing, all these gods-damned lights, and I am one clean strike away from death. A blade in the ribs, a spell to the heart—that's all it would take.
His eyes wandered anyway, restless and searching. Lanterns painted the streets in rippling shades of amber and crimson. Banners streamed overhead, advertisements plastered on enchanted cloth: troupes promising miracle performances, merchants displaying alchemical wares, street conjurers offering tiny sparks of magic for coin. The air stank of roasted meats and spiced wines, undercut by the faint ozone of mana leaking from talismans on sale.
None of it interested him—until a sudden flare of gold pulled his gaze upward.
A massive crystal-screen hovered over the plaza, impossible to ignore. Its surface shimmered, a radiant emblem of crossed swords blazing beneath a starburst, as a bold script proclaimed:
"Springtime Advent Tournament—Open to All! May Mana Bless the Bold!"
Astra slowed, boots grinding against the cobblestone. The screen came alive, scenes of chaos and triumph playing in sequence: champions locked in duels beneath roaring skies, explosions of spellfire illuminating coliseum sands, crowds howling with ecstasy as names were immortalized in wreaths of light.
He tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Ah. I'd nearly forgotten. The memory crept in slow. The true reason Duskfall swells in spring. Not the markets. Not the saints' sermons. This tournament—the spectacle that lures scions and beggars alike to gamble blood for glory.
Every three years at the very end of the festival, when summer is near and the days are longest the coliseums of Duskfall open to all, it is a time of great games and battle!
He could almost imagine it: the gates creaking open, the ground trembling beneath the roar of a thousand voices chanting his name. His figure stepping out into that burning light, the arena swallowing him whole as he carved a path toward legend.
For one sharp moment, Astra wanted it. He had always wanted to compete! Last time the tournament came around he had broken his elbows and leg the day of the tournament falling down from great heights. He was forced to miss his bouts and therefore disqualified. The feeling of loss still haunted him!.
The screen shifted, showing a swordswoman in burnished steel, her greatsword cleaving through summoned beasts as if they were parchment. The audience lost its mind, drowning the image in thunderous applause. Then came the laurels—golden, glowing, placed upon her brow by a high-born dignitary whose smile dripped with approval.
Astra's mouth twisted into a scoff. He turned, continuing his walk.
"As if I could even compete," he muttered under his breath. "Half the realm is sniffing after me, and I'd waltz into an arena for all of them to see? Imagine it—the angels themselves, blind in their search, only to find me trending across the mana networks as the fool swinging a blade in the spotlight." He laughed once, sharp and humorless.
It wasn't disdain for the tournament that soured his tone. Quite the opposite—there was something alluring in its brazenness, its celebration of those willing to gamble their lives for recognition. An equalizer of sorts: nobles with centuries of training, vagabonds with nothing but raw talent—both cast into the same pit, forced to prove themselves. Best of all, the rewards! every competitor had the opportunity to earn gear, inheritance's of experts, spell guides or standards. For many this was extremely alluring, as there had been countless of stories and legends of competitors impressing some Demi gods, saints or even in rare encounters angels, as such those beings had taken them as students and passed down knowledge and their paths. Many guilds also recruited talents as well. Everyone competes for a chance at glory loot and a better future!
But for Astra? Not this year.
"Not the season for parading," he said, softer this time, almost lost beneath the crowd's din.
He knew the prizes could change lives: fortunes in coin, enchanted relics, even the attention of houses that could propel one into greatness. Temptations dangled like bait on a hook. But Astra was no fool. That kind of light burned, and once burned, there was no going back into shadow.
No—his time was for sharpening unseen. To temper the strange alloy of star and shadow within him until it was no longer unstable magic, but a weapon. To hone his swordplay not merely to survive but to ascend—each strike a line of poetry written in steel.
The banner above flapped in the wind, its letters blazing like a dare. He let his eyes linger, the faintest curl of a smirk touching his lips.
"It's a fine show," he admitted. "Perhaps I'll watch a match or two."
Then he adjusted the weight on his shoulder, pushed through the laughter and music, and let the noise of Duskfall fade behind him as he drifted toward its quieter, darker veins.
There were inns to find, spells to refine, and strength yet to master.
The first night of the festival in Duskfall was beginning to close its curtains. The revelry that had drenched the air only hours before—laughter, drunken songs, the thunder of drums—was thinning out now, fading into a softer rhythm. Crowds bled back into their homes and inns, leaving behind lanterns still swaying from poles and the faint tang of spiced wine on the breeze.
Astra slipped into the quieter arteries of the city, where noise carried like a distant echo. The lantern light pooled against the cobbles, stretching shadows into long, distorted shapes that reached for his boots as he walked. His steps were steady, but his thoughts weighed heavy in his chest, layered with both fatigue and a strange clarity.
The festival's residue still clung to him, humming faintly beneath his skin, but rest called louder. He needed the silence of a room, the cool air of privacy, a place where he could put down the many masks he had worn since the morning.
The inn he found stood modest yet dignified, tucked between two looming stone buildings like a jewel caught in iron claws. Its wooden sign creaked softly as it swung in the breeze, painted with curling script that gleamed faintly in the lantern glow. Inside, the air was warmer, the revelry reduced to a murmur—the shuffle of travelers, the low negotiations of merchants too tired to haggle. Due to the sheer number of people at the city, it was normal for most inns to have quarters suitable for Nobles, so it wasn't too suspicious for Astra to be there.
He stepped to the front desk and, with practiced ease, placed a gold standard across the counter. Pain flickered through him at the expense—it was too much coin for one night's rest—but the act was necessary. His regal coin of House Shadow lay hidden beneath his cloak, another safeguard to keep the illusion intact. If he faltered in his role, if he looked like anything less than a scion of nobility, his disguise would unravel. Astra prided himself on being paranoid.
The attendant bowed low as if he were something more than he was, then gestured him toward a staircase winding into the upper floors. Astra climbed, each step dulling the noise of the common room until it was no more than a faint whisper behind him.
When the door closed with a muted click, he exhaled. Finally—walls that held no eyes. The weight of House Shadow's coin, of the Nightshroud,—all of it came off piece by piece, clattering and falling into silence. The noble scion's disguise crumbled in the privacy of the chamber. Here, he was only Astra—no one else.
The shower beckoned. He stripped and stepped into the steam, letting the warm water roll down his body. It washed away dust, sweat, and the faint traces of smoke clinging to his hair from the festival streets. Beneath the cascade, he felt himself unwind. His curls, unruly and wild by nature, softened beneath the flow, falling into smooth, deliberate shapes. Each strand seemed tamed, transformed—shaping him into something refined, almost ethereal.
Minutes stretched. He did not rush. For once, he allowed himself the small indulgence of simply being—water on skin, heat loosening muscles wound tight from vigilance.
When at last he stepped free, Astra stood before the mirror. His wet hair spilled down in gleaming waves, framing a face that looked less like the scrappy survivor of Duskfall's alleys and more like the heir of a forgotten throne. His reflection was uncanny—alien, even. A noble, beautiful figure stared back at him, as if some other self had been unearthed beneath grime and disguise.
Gods, I actually haven't showered in months, Astra grimaced, he only washed himself with water that he could summon so he was clean but the luxury of soap and a proper shower was just so comforting, it beat the hell out of washing in some back alley with summoned water and no soaps. Gods hen was the last time? Astra wondered. A small smile found its way on his face. he sighed. Right it was before I was with....with that mature noble who was cheating on her husband. Astra laughed.
His smile grew faintly at the sight, though there was no arrogance in it. Only acceptance. Two truths bound in one body: the broken boy carved by Duskfall's cruelty, and the figure who could command a room of lords with a glance. Both were real, both his. The weight of his new found position was intoxicating.
He crossed to the window, parting the heavy curtains. The sky spilled open before him—violet veils deepening into black, stars pricking the heavens in their quiet vigil. Yet even they were fading, paling beneath the horizon's slow turn.
He lingered, staring upward. The stars seemed to whisper, faint but insistent, their pull threading through his chest. They reminded him of what he had glimpsed tonight: that his path was no longer just survival. Something greater loomed.
I can't falter, he thought, closing his eyes against their glow. Not now. Not when everything is only beginning.
The window sighed shut. He turned back into the stillness of the room. The bed welcomed him like a trap of softness, his body surrendering to its weight as though it had been waiting all day for this collapse. His limbs sank, his thoughts grew hushed, the sharp edges of vigilance dulled by exhaustion.
As sleep pulled him under, he caught the last shimmer of starlight through the curtains—fading, dimming, as the night surrendered to dawn. It was the final thing he remembered before dreams claimed him: that quiet, distant glow, promising that tomorrow would demand more.