Dawn bled into Higaru's perpetual fog, staining the cracks in Aki's shack walls a watery, sickly grey. Shiro adjusted the roughly carved plank depicting Polaris above her pallet, his fingers tracing grooves still raw and splintered. The air hung thick with the scent of damp earth, cheap medicine, and the lingering fear from Gin's last visit. Aki slept fitfully, her breath a fragile rasp against the silence. The quiet was shattered by a slow, deliberate creak.
The door swung inward, not with force, but with an unsettling inevitability. Framed against the fog shrouded slum, Priest Gin stood. His faded temple robes seemed to absorb the weak light, making him a gaunt silhouette. The star shaped pendant hanging from his neck pulsed with a sickly, dying ember light, casting shifting, jagged shadows that writhed unnaturally on the walls. An overwhelming stench preceded him, the cloying sweetness of temple incense layered over the foul rot of decaying lilies and the acrid bite of burnt hair. It thickened the air, making it hard to breathe.
Aki stirred, her eyes fluttering open, wide with terror as she recognized the intruder. A weak cough rattled her frail frame. "Shiro..." she rasped, a warning clawing its way out.
Gin's hollow eyes, devoid of warmth or pity, fixed not on the sick woman, but on Shiro's belt, where the edges of his star carvings peeked through his frayed tunic. The pendant's pulse seemed to quicken, its greenish light intensifying momentarily as Gin's gaze lingered. "The Academy hungers," Gin announced, his voice a dry rasp like parchment tearing. He didn't enter fully, maintaining his position as a menacing threshold guardian. "Not for your mind. For your hands. They've sensed… your light." He gestured vaguely towards Shiro's carvings, the implication hanging heavy and unexplained. "The carvings resonate. They pulse with a signature the Astral Seers detected during their last celestial alignment. A signature unseen in generations. They believe your hands can channel it, shape it... perhaps even weaponize it."
Aki pushed herself up with trembling arms, a desperate wheeze escaping her. "Don't... go..." she managed, her voice a threadbare whisper. "Trap... Shiro... it's a trap... They'll use you... break you..." Her eyes, clouded with pain and fear, pleaded with him.
Gin's thin lips stretched into a smile, sharp and predatory. The pendant's light dimmed abruptly, plunging the corner near the door into deeper shadow. "Refuse," he said, the word dropping like a stone, "and the Temple conveniently remembers the 'lost' silver you stole. The guards recall a slum rat found with suspicious silver. Proof can be... arranged." He paused, letting the threat sink in. "And her medicine?" He inclined his head slightly towards Aki. "Becomes… prohibitively expensive. Unattainable." The lie was smooth, delivered with chilling certainty. He offered no proof, only the suffocating weight of implied power. "The apothecary finds his supplies suddenly diverted. The herbalist forgets the recipe. Choices vanish. Like stars behind smoke."
Shiro felt the vial in his pocket, its cool glass suddenly slick with a cold sweat that wasn't just Aki's. His knuckles whitened around it. The purse. The guard's sneer. Gin watching in the market, at the guard post. The pieces clicked with horrifying clarity. This wasn't an offer; it was an elegantly sprung snare, woven with threads of extortion and the fragile thread of Aki's life. He looked at Aki, her sunken face etched with fear and illness, the violet shadows under her eyes deepening. The jagged shadows cast by his crude Polaris carving danced across her features, mocking his helplessness. The vial felt like a lead weight, the promise of relief now a chain tightening around his throat. Leaving her felt like tearing out a piece of his soul. But staying meant condemning her.
"Stars don't lie," Shiro whispered, the words escaping more for his own fractured resolve than for Aki or the priest. His voice was raw, scraping against the silence. "But people do." He met Gin's hollow gaze, the defiance in his amber eyes warring with the crushing reality, the bone deep fear for Aki. He tucked the vial deeper into his coat, a final, protective gesture against the chill settling in his bones. The decision tasted like ashes and blood. "I'll go."
The walk to the Celestial Academy was a blur of grit, frost, and rising dread. The familiar, oppressive grime of the Higaru alleys gradually gave way to wider streets paved with uneven cobblestones, then to avenues lined with buildings that strained towards the smoke choked sky, their facades adorned with fading frescoes depicting star maps Shiro only half recognized. The air grew marginally cleaner, colder, laced with the scent of expensive perfumes and polished stone instead of rot and forge smoke. Yet, it felt no less suffocating. Each step away from the slum, from Aki, was a physical ache.
Finally, it loomed: the Academy gates. Towering monstrosities of black iron, intricately forged into the shape of the constellation Orion. But this Orion wasn't a guide; its central star, Rigel, was elongated into a cruel, fluorescent white sword tip, positioned directly at the height of a man's throat as he approached. It wasn't decoration; it was a threat, a warning etched in cold light. Enter at your peril. Shiro squared his shoulders, clutching his meagre belongings, a rolled blanket, his carving knife, and the precious, mud stained star charts Kuro had given him.
Beyond the gates lay the courtyard. Any illusion Gin might have spun of hallowed halls of learning evaporated instantly. It was a mausoleum to faded power and present arrogance. Statues of star gazing kings, once resplendent in marble and gilt, now stood crumbling at their bases. Moss crept up their legs like a green plague, devouring the details of their robes and gnawing at the tarnished crowns upon their stony heads. Weeds sprouted defiantly between the cracked flagstones. Vines strangled forgotten plinths. The grandeur was undeniable, but it was the grandeur of decay, of pride rotting from the inside out. It wasn't just neglect; it was a visual echo of Gin's words, the Temple's 'lies' being stamped out, the Academy itself crumbling under the weight of the King's bargain.
Nobles in silk robes, their hems slightly frayed but still ostentatiously rich, drifted across the courtyard like brightly coloured moths. They whispered behind delicate hands as Shiro passed, their eyes raking over his patched tunic and worn boots with undisguised contempt. Their laughter, high and brittle, echoed off the stone walls like the sound of cracked bells, sharp and mocking. Students in crisp uniforms of deep blue and silver paused their conversations, their expressions shifting from indifference to open disdain as they took in the slum rat invading their sanctuary.
"Look at him. Doesn't look like he belongs here. Smells like the docks."
"Just another slum rat. Disgusting. How did he even get past the gates?"
"Whispers say Priest Gin sponsored him. Patronage for some filthy favour, no doubt. No way someone like that earns a place here on merit."
"Look at that hair! Like a ghost crawled out of a grave."
The mutters followed him, sharp little daggers pricking at his back. Shiro kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, trying to mimic Kuro's detached arrogance but only managing a brittle stiffness. He focused on the worn stones beneath his feet, the cold bite of the air, anything but the hostile eyes. Stars don't lie. Stars don't lie. He repeated it like a mantra, a fragile shield against the onslaught.
Suddenly, a sharp shoulder slammed into him, sending the rolled charts flying from his grasp. They landed with a wet slap in a patch of muddy slush near a moss eaten plinth.
"Watch it, rat," sneered a boy with jade green buttons gleaming on his pristine uniform jacket. He didn't break stride, flanked by two sniggering companions. "Try not to contaminate the paving. We walk here."
Shiro stumbled, biting back a retort that would only make things worse. Humiliation burned hot in his chest. He knelt, scrambling to gather the precious papers before they were ruined. The mud was cold and slick under his fingers. As he reached for the last chart, a pair of polished black boots stepped into his line of sight, stopping just short of the parchment. Shiro froze, looking up slowly.
Kuro stood there. His storm grey eyes swept over Shiro, kneeling in the mud, then flicked dismissively to the jade buttoned boy walking away. There was no flicker of recognition, no hint of the intense, almost conspiratorial connection from the slums. His expression was one of bored disdain, as if Shiro were an inconvenient insect he'd almost stepped on. He didn't glance down at the charts. He simply stepped over them, his stride unhurried, aristocratic, and utterly cold.
"Out of my way, slum rat," Kuro stated, his voice smooth, polished marble devoid of any warmth. He didn't shout; the quiet command was worse. "You dare to block thy path?" The archaic formality was a deliberate barb, emphasizing the chasm between them, a performance for the watching nobles.
Shiro flinched, the humiliation intensifying, scalding his cheeks. He scrambled backwards, clutching the muddy charts to his chest like a shield. "No, I... I'm sorry," he stammered, the words ash in his mouth. He hated the submissive tremor in his voice, hated the way his heart hammered against his ribs, hated Kuro for this transformation. The sheer, icy weight of Kuro's presence, so different from the alley, froze him, robbed him of the defiance he'd shown.
Kuro paused, looking down his nose at Shiro for a long, excruciating moment. A faint, cruel smirk touched his lips. "Good," he said, the single word laden with contempt. "Now, try not to embarrass our prestigious academy further. Slum rat." He emphasized the nickname, turning it into a brand. Then he strode past, joining a stern looking man with jet black hair and eyes like chips of flint, unmistakably his father. Neither looked back.
Shiro remained kneeling in the mud, the cold seeping through his trousers, the nobles whispers and Kuro's dismissal echoing in his ears, louder than any slum argument. The feeling of being watched intensified, but now it wasn't just disdain; it was open hostility. He was an unwelcome spectre in their gilded cage. He finally pushed himself up, the star charts clutched like a lifeline to a world that felt increasingly distant, and followed the signs towards Class P1 – Polaris.
The classroom was a cavern of cold marble and high, narrow windows that let in grudging light. Shiro took a seat in the farthest corner, the only empty desk, acutely aware of every eye following him. The whispers started again, barely concealed this time. Ghost. Slum rat. Gin's pet. Mud tracker. He kept his gaze fixed on the scarred surface of the desk, tracing a knot in the wood, trying to shrink into himself, to become invisible. The air smelled of chalk dust, expensive paper, and a faint, cloying cologne that reminded him unpleasantly of the nobles in the courtyard.
Professor Harken entered, a skeletal man whose spine seemed permanently bent from peering through telescopes. He leaned heavily on a cane shaped like a miniature brass scope. His eyes, magnified behind thick spectacles, scanned the room and landed on Shiro with undisguised contempt. He didn't consult a list.
"We have a new… acquisition," Harken announced, his voice a dry rasp that grated on the nerves. He pointed his telescope cane directly at Shiro. "You. The pale wraith in the corner. Stand."
Shiro stood, his legs feeling weak, unsteady. The eyes of the entire class burned into him.
"Your name, boy?" Harken demanded, though Shiro knew he had the roster.
"Shiro, sir."
A ripple of mocking laughter ran through the class. Harken didn't suppress it; a thin, unpleasant smile played on his lips. "Shiro?" He drawled the name, letting it hang in the air. "How… unremarkable. Bland. You look more like a spectre dragged from the Higaru mud. 'Ghost' suits you far better, wouldn't you agree, class?" The laughter grew louder, more confident, filling the cold room. "Sit down, Ghost. Try not to haunt the lessons too intrusively."
Shiro sank back into his seat, humiliation a hot, choking coal in his chest. He focused on the grain of the desk, the sting behind his eyes threatening to spill over. Stars don't lie. Stars don't lie. But here, under the weight of this scorn, the stars felt impossibly far away, their truths irrelevant. People lied, people mocked, people carved you up just for existing, just for breathing their rarefied air.
Class 1 was Celestial Navigation. Harken prowled the aisles, his cane tapping a rhythm of judgment on the stone floor. He stopped abruptly beside Shiro's desk, rapping the wood sharply right beside Shiro's hand, making him jump. "Recite Polaris's declination, Ghost," Harken commanded, his breath smelling faintly of stale tea and malice.
Shiro's mind went blank for a terrifying second, wiped clean by the public scrutiny and the echo of 'Ghost'. Then, the lines from Kuro's stolen charts flashed before him, precise, angular notations burned into his memory. "Sixty one degrees north, sir," he answered, his voice thankfully steady, though his hands trembled under the desk.
"Correct," Harken sneered, the word dripping with condescension. He didn't move. "But crude memorization is the trick of parrots and street performers. Application," he swept his gaze across the class, lingering on the nobles, "is what separates the noble mind from the… rat's instinct." He turned his magnified eyes back onto Shiro for a final, searing moment before moving on. "Can you use that number, Ghost? Or is it just noise in your hollow skull?"
Shiro risked a glance across the room. Kuro sat near the front, leaning back in his chair with an air of bored superiority. He wasn't looking at Harken or the lesson. Instead, he was idly carving into the surface of his own expensive desk with a sharp stylus. Not a star, Shiro noted. A crude, misaligned mockery of one, a deliberate desecration. As Harken droned on about spherical trigonometry, Kuro's silver streak caught the light from a high window, flaring like a cold blade. He muttered something under his breath, just loud enough for Shiro, with his slum sharpened hearing, to catch: "Even Higaru dogs know stars rot."
The words hit Shiro like a physical blow, stealing his breath. Was this Kuro's game? Public humiliation to distance himself? Or was the boy in the alley, the one who spoke of betrayal in the sky, truly gone, replaced by this cruel prince playing a part for his father's court? The contradiction was a fresh wound.
The humiliation didn't end with class. Navigating the Academy became an endless gauntlet. As Shiro hurried towards the dining hall, consulting his crumpled timetable, a foot shot out from behind a marble column draped with dusty velvet. He tripped hard, sprawling onto the cold floor, his precious star charts scattering across the polished stone like fallen leaves.
The boy with the jade buttons stood over him, flanked by his cronies. "Ghosts belong in graves, not dining halls," he hissed, stepping deliberately on one of the charts, grinding the muddy parchment under his polished heel before walking away, laughter trailing behind him like a foul scent.
Shiro pushed himself up, ignoring the sharp ache in his elbow, the sting of scraped palms. He knelt, gathering the torn, mud smeared papers, his fingers trembling with suppressed rage and a deep, gnawing shame. This is the price. For Aki. The thought was cold comfort. As he picked up the last chart, his fingers brushed against something unexpected tucked beneath it, a single crow's feather, its tip stained a deep, unnatural violet with berry dye. He stared at it, a chill unrelated to the floor seeping into him. The crow from the market? He quickly tucked it into his pocket with the charts, a secret amidst the public wreckage.
The dining hall was a vast, echoing space filled with the clatter of fine china and the murmur of conversation that died the moment Shiro entered. A sea of hostile faces turned towards him. He kept his head down, a hot flush creeping up his neck, and collected a meagre bowl of thin, greyish soup from a server who barely glanced at him. Finding an empty spot at the far end of a long table felt like crossing a minefield blindfolded. He sat, the weight of stares heavy on his back, the spoon feeling clumsy in his hand.
He'd barely lifted the first mouthful when a shadow fell across his bowl. Kuro stood beside him, holding a tray laden with food that smelled rich and complex. He didn't look at Shiro. His movement seemed casual, almost accidental, as his elbow caught the edge of Shiro's bowl. The cheap bowl tipped with agonizing slowness, sending a flood of scalding soup cascading directly into Shiro's lap.
Shiro gasped, jerking back as the hot liquid soaked through his thin trousers, burning his skin. He bit back a cry, clenching his fists under the table, his eyes watering from the pain and the renewed humiliation. The soup spread, a dark, wet stain on the worn fabric.
Kuro looked down, his expression one of mild, detached surprise, perfectly rehearsed. "Apologies," he said, his voice smooth and utterly devoid of sincerity. He held up his hands, still encased in pristine white silk gloves. They gleamed, spotless, like fragments of a comet untouched by the grime below. "Your… stench," he added, his storm grey eyes finally meeting Shiro's, cold and devoid of any trace of the alley's intensity, "was ruining my appetite." He turned without another word and walked away to join a group of nobles at the head of the hall, leaving Shiro sitting in a puddle of cooling soup, the pain in his legs matched by the icy fury solidifying in his gut. The nobles laughter, sharp and cruel, followed him as he fled the hall.
Why? The question screamed in Shiro's mind as he stumbled towards the dormitory wing, the soup cooling unpleasantly against his skin. Why this cruelty? Why the stark contrast? Was Kuro truly this person? Or was the alley a lie? The confusion was a torment worse than the burn.
Later that night, in the cold, cramped dormitory alcove assigned to him, little more than a storage space smelling of dust and old linen, Shiro peeled off the damp trousers, wincing. He found a folded piece of parchment slipped under his thin pillow. Unfolding it with trembling fingers, he recognized the precise lines of a star chart. Cassiopeia. But this one was annotated in the margin in familiar, sharp handwriting: "Cassiopeia's throne tilted 22.5° corrected." Kuro's hand. Yet the ink was smudged, blurred… as if hastily erased or written with a trembling hand. The correction mirrored the exact angle Shiro had struggled with on the sundial weeks ago. The contradiction was maddening. The cruelty in the hall, the correction under the pillow, which was real? He stared at the smudged ink, the violet feather heavy in his pocket, feeling more lost than ever under the Academy's cold, watchful stones.