He wasn't that naïve boy anymore. He had a Crown of Stars illuminating his brow now. A Cloak of Secrets masking his every move. A church calling him Prince and Caliph. Titles of great status, Lord of Shadows, Prince of the Stars, Castellan to the Kingdom of Stars.
In all honesty he wasn't even fully mad at her, he couldn't be, she came from a great house while he was a mere vagrant who just happened to be attractive, but thats life. He was a petty man but an understanding man at that. When he rises she would see it and perhaps feel regret. Perhaps Cielle wouldn't. He had stopped caring.
He stood up, smile already forming.
"Always smile," Astra said to himself, bitter and amused."Even when the world is on fire and chasing after you."
The game was on again. And this time, he wasn't playing to survive.
He was playing to win.
It was all the same game, whether it was war or seduction: influence, not force.
He stood up, brushing the dust from his coat. He could feel his mana swirling quietly under his skin now, like a second heartbeat. The Cloak of Secrecy wrapped around his soul hiding him from the entire world, the Crown whispering from beyond the veil.
He grinned.
"Let the others chase temples and titles," Astra said to the empty room."Perhaps I'll take a divine throne… one plot at a time."
He looked at the time and turned to his wardrobe. Inside hung the newly tailored noble attire—dark, elegant, and made to command attention.
It's time Astra sighed, for him to actually begin his plans.
He slipped into a black high-collared tunic, its fabric soft yet structured, trimmed with subtle streaks of gray that caught the low light. A belt of polished obsidian leather cinched at his waist, lined with thin gold inlays—just enough extravagance to remind people he was of high standing, but not enough to scream arrogance. Over it, he draped a dark noble's coat, its long tails embroidered with House Shadow's signature motifs—ethereal wisps and trailing dusk.
His boots, sleek and well-fitted, clicked softly against the polished wooden floor as he adjusted his cuffs. He paused before the mirror.
The reflection staring back was not the boy who had once scavenged scraps in Duskfall's alleys. His untamed curls had been coaxed into a deliberate, effortless style, and the sharp lines of his face—hidden for years beneath grime, hunger, and exhaustion—now carried a cold refinement. He looked less like a street-born shadow, more like a son of power, a lord wrapped in evening finery.
Astra tilted his head, studying himself. The corners of his lips curved in a humorless chuckle. So this is what a prince looks like. Strange. It still feels like a mask.
He fastened the Regal Coin to his belt, the weight of it pressing like a reminder of everything he now carried, then pushed open the door and stepped into Duskfall's night-lit streets.
The deeper he traveled into the Inner City, the more the world around him shifted. The familiar chaos of the bazaar—the cries of merchants, the tang of spice and smoke, the press of desperate hands—faded behind him like a memory he was already outgrowing. Here, wide marble streets stretched clean beneath enchanted lamps that spilled golden light onto the stones. Carriages drawn by exotic mana beasts glided soundlessly, their polished wheels whispering across the ground.
The air itself smelled different—perfumed oils, sweet wines, expensive silks warmed by firelight. Laughter drifted from private lounges, music curled through open windows, and every passing noble spoke in tones that balanced flattery with daggers.
Wealth didn't just show here—it clung to the atmosphere, heavy and suffocating, as if the Inner City itself rejected anyone unworthy of it. Astra slowed his pace deliberately, letting his posture fall into the same leisurely grace as the young lords who strolled past. To their eyes, he was simply one of them—a noble heir on his way to yet another night of indulgence.
If only they knew. A week ago, I would've stolen their coin purses and vanished into the alleys. The thought amused him, though his smile was thin.
At last, he reached House Dune's estate. His steps faltered, not from hesitation, but from sheer awe.
The mansion was no mansion at all. It was a fortress of influence.
Its walls rose like a carved mirage out of the heart of the city, a blend of marble and sandstone that gleamed with veins of desert gold. Even under the twilight sky, the stone seemed to catch and bend the light, radiating a quiet, terrible majesty. House Dune's banners hung in the evening air—cloth of deep gold, marked with the emblem of a crimson sun looming over a lone desert dune. Simple. Powerful. A brand that did not beg for respect, but demanded it.
The estate's towers speared upward, their rounded crowns tipped with gleaming spires that reminded Astra of desert cacti stretching toward the burning sky. Between them, a network of open archways and courtyards created the impression of a labyrinth—half palace, half citadel. Wind chimes whispered faintly in the night air, their delicate song carried on the desert-scented breeze. Even here, in the heart of Duskfall, Astra swore he could smell sun-warmed sand.
The grounds spread wide with an oasis beauty that stole his breath. Pools of crystalline water reflected torchlight like fractured stars. Palms leaned in the wind, their shadows swaying like dancers across the marble. Rare desert flowers bloomed in vivid colors, their fragrance so rich it almost seemed to numb the senses.
For a long moment, Astra stood still, drinking in the sight.
So this is power made manifest, he thought. Not just wealth, but history, dominion, the weight of generations. How grand.
Despite its central location, the estate seemed like a world apart—an ecosystem cultivated to perfection, walled off from the chaos of Duskfall. Desert trees stretched their branches in elegant arcs, vibrant cacti glistened faintly with dew gathered by enchantments, and clusters of hardy succulents bloomed with rare, jewel-like flowers. Their fragrances—sweet and earthy, sharp and resinous—wove together into a scent that was almost intoxicating.
Smooth stone paths wound through the gardens, splitting at intervals toward secluded alcoves shaded by ancient desert trees. Perfect little nests for secrets, Astra thought, imagining whispers of alliances and betrayals traded in the privacy of those hidden corners.
In the distance, water features shimmered with a quiet dignity, the rippling surfaces carved to mimic desert dunes swaying under eternal winds. Ivory statues stood sentinel, etched with motifs of sand and sun, a reminder of Sahara's dominion carried into the heart of Duskfall. The whole garden felt like a mirage—an oasis conjured not to soothe the weary, but to display the sheer arrogance of those who could bend nature into art.
It was no surprise. House Dune's reach had never been confined to Duskfall, nor even this realm. Royal Stewards of Sahara—the title was not symbolic. Their wealth stretched across planes, their word carried weight in kingdoms far older than most living bloodlines.
This estate wasn't simply a residence. It was a fortress dressed in elegance, a stronghold wrapped in velvet. Every stone, every blossom whispered of power so established it didn't need to shout.
As Astra approached the gates, the truth settled in him like lead: this was not a place built to dazzle. It was built to command.
And command it did.
The moment he crossed into the grand entrance, the scale of the gathering struck him like a physical force. Seraphine had called it a minor ball—but the press of bodies, the gleam of wealth, the sheer volume of nobility and influence crowded into the estate made that sound like a cruel joke.
Politicians, merchants, nobles with retinues of servants and guards—clusters of power swirled through the marble hall, laughter and negotiation wrapped into a single constant hum.
Perfume hung heavy in the air, floral and spiced, blending into a haze that clung to the senses. The murmur of conversation carried, rising and falling like the tide, punctuated by the crystalline chime of glasses.
The sight was overwhelming: gowns of silk and velvet spilled in cascades of color, shimmering with embroidered constellations, desert motifs, and phoenix feathers. Men wore finely tailored suits of black, silver, and gold, their cloaks trailing like banners of dynasties long entrenched. Jewelry glittered at throats and wrists, family crests gleamed from breastplates polished to a mirror's sheen. Some faces were hidden behind elaborate masks, adding layers of intrigue to an already suffocating spectacle.
But it wasn't the extravagance that made Astra's chest tighten. It was the stares.
Everywhere he turned, eyes lingered on him—measuring, curious, calculating. Whispers seemed to trail in his wake like smoke. He told himself he didn't care, but his jaw tensed all the same.
They can smell it, Astra thought grimly. That I don't belong. Or maybe they see something else. Something I don't yet understand.
His outfit was regal enough—a dark ensemble with clean lines, his Nightshroud draped with an austere elegance. But against the explosion of colors and gilded ornaments around him, it looked almost spartan. His lack of ostentation wasn't an oversight, though. It was a statement.
It was also a reminder.
House Shadow had never flaunted wealth the way desert lords did. Their dignity was in darkness, and in quality, Dark colors with simple gold inlaid. It was commanding simple and extremely palatable. His appearance may have marked him as different, even austere—but that, too, was a kind of power. House Shadow was not a simple house after all but a great house at the height of its power, and if Astras guesses were right, they were bound to gain more.
Astra lifted his chin slightly, letting the murmurs roll past him like waves. Yes. Stare. Wonder. Measure me against your silk and gold. A shadow does not glitter—but it swallows the light.
Even the guards gave him an extra look as he approached—searching his face as if to confirm whether he truly belonged here. Their gold-plated armor gleamed under the lamplight, too pristine, too ceremonial, and yet it reminded him of chains. With a nod, they let him through the grand gates.
The banquet hall swallowed him whole. Opulence pressed down like a weight—tapestries draping the walls, a ceiling so tall it felt like the sky itself had been stolen and caged here. Chandeliers shed warm light over pillars carved with desert suns and dunes, every detail declaring wealth.
Do they build halls like this just to remind men where they stand? Or to crush those who don't belong beneath their splendor?
His boots struck polished stone, glimmering faintly like starlight underfoot. The long tables stretched with gilded dishes, jeweled goblets, and delicacies that carried scents too rich for the stomach of someone who'd once gone hungry.
Everyone here belonged. They talked easily, laughed softly, moved with purpose. He stood among them in darker, more reserved attire, an ink blot on a golden canvas. I might as well be wearing my shadow like a cloak. The tension in the room hummed beneath the chatter, a silent reminder that this was not a feast but a stage where alliances were bartered and futures gambled.
Then he saw her. Seraphine—every gesture smooth, every glance commanding, her presence cutting through the crowd like sunlight spilling through glass. For an instant he felt like a spectator to her world, not a player.
Whispers flickered as eyes turned toward him. Do they see through me? Can they tell I don't belong? His skin prickled with the unease of wearing another man's mask. But when Seraphine's gaze caught his, holding him steady across the sea of silk and gold, the weight eased, if only for a heartbeat.
He walked further into the hall, the sensation of being under a microscope never fading. The eyes of the powerful clung to him as he made his way deeper into the gathering.
The music was delicate, intricate—like spider-silk strung over blades.
Astra stepped into the ballroom beneath House Dune's golden desert banner. The hall pulsed with low laughter and clinking glasses, a sea of fine robes, jeweled turbans, sun-metal veils. Noblemen and high-born mages from across the great houses mingled, trading secrets behind practiced smiles.
And yet, as Astra's gaze swept the hall
There were no signs of Shadow.
He must have arrived early.