The fire was hot.
Too hot.
I stumbled back, clawing at my face. My skin burned, though no flame touched it. My eyes felt like they were melting. I couldn't stop—couldn't breathe.
The voice crawled through me, whispering, scraping, burrowing deep. It wasn't sound. It was invasion.
This pain. This pain. This pain—it hurts—it hurts—it hurts.
Tears welled up, but they never fell. They hissed into steam before they reached my cheeks.
Through the blinding pain, I felt Qahir's hand on my shoulder, heavy and trembling.
"Son! What's wrong? Cassian, talk to me!"
His voice reached me through the static of my own screaming mind. I wanted to answer, but all I could feel was the voice—sharper now, angrier, ripping through my chest like glass.
And then—
Nothing.
The fire vanished. The air went silent. My vision fell away into black, but I could still hear.
My muscles quaked; I couldn't move, couldn't even blink.
"Kentaurus…" Al-Shams's voice broke the silence, shaking. "Kentaurus has denied him."
A pause, heavy as a verdict.
"I've never seen this… not once in all the Tahmees."
Qahir's voice followed, strained, forced calm over panic. "Lord Al-Shams, I'll take him. He needs rest."
But I could feel it through his words—his dread.
He knew.
He knew exactly what Kentaurus had seen.
Qahir picked me up, slinging me over his shoulder with surprising ease.
"I'll take my leave, Al-Shams," he said, voice low but steady.
"Yes… yes, Qahir," Al-Shams replied, his tone unsteady, his breath uneven. "We will meet again—under better circumstances, I hope."
Qahir didn't answer. I only felt a faint nod from beneath me before everything began to fade.
Then… nothing.
But I could still feel.
The weight of my body vanished, yet I could still see it—drifting below me like a shell. The world around me dissolved into silence and dark. I floated there, alone, in what felt like the depths of space.
Then—on the horizon—light.
At first small, distant, trembling. Then growing. Crawling upward until it filled everything.
A sun.
Massive. Blinding. Alive.
It swallowed my vision whole.
But it didn't burn.
Inside the fire, something moved—something watching.
And then, a voice.
Soft. Feminine.
Human.
"Cassian… please… free me."
Her tone trembled, like she hadn't spoken in eons. I didn't understand.
Who was she?
Why was the sun speaking to me?
Before I could even think, the light collapsed inward—folding in on itself, pulling me down. I was falling through a tunnel of fire and shadow, my body stretching into infinity. There was no pain. No fear. Only the feeling of being seen.
"Cassian, are you alright?"
The world reassembled in fragments—stone, air, candlelight. My eyes blinked open, heavy and slow.
Qahir stood over me, his hand pressed to my chest, his face lined with worry.
"Yes," I muttered, my voice raw. "I think so…"
He exhaled, relief and fear tangled together.
But I could tell from his eyes—
He knew I hadn't just fainted.
"I'm glad to hear that," he said, a small smile forming.
He patted my head like I was a dog. "Well, I have duties to attend to, so rest up. You looked like you were in pain."
"I was… and I'm sorry for ever bringing you into my mess, sir."
"It's alright, Cassian. You're still my squire."
He left without another word.
There was something strange about him—gentle, almost fatherly. Knowing what happened to his family nearly brought tears to my eyes. Maybe he carried pain too, always hiding it behind that armor.
I stretched, my limbs stiff and sore, craving fresh air. Outside, the camp moved like a living thing—soldiers sharpening blades, cooks stirring thin soup that smelled more like metal than meat.
Then I saw it.
The chest from before.
It sat half-buried in a storage tent, the same one I had dragged across the manor's courtyard under barked orders. Its dark wood gleamed faintly under the torchlight, as if calling to me.
I stood there for a while, trying to smother the pull of curiosity—but it gnawed at me. Finally, I gave in.
I glanced left, then right. No one was watching. I crept toward the tent and knelt before the chest, brushing the dust from its lid. My fingers hesitated on the latch before lifting it open.
At first, nothing seemed unusual—letters, maps, and sealed scrolls. But then I saw it.
The name burned into the leather straps of a satchel inside:
Al-Zuharim Al-Saif.
My chest tightened. The belongings of a Lumarch. A Starborne.
No wonder Qahir hadn't wanted anyone near it.
I shifted aside a few documents until one caught my eye. A small journal, its cover cracked, the edges charred as if it had survived a fire. The title was scrawled in uneven ink:
The Fall of Solaris.
I hesitated, then opened it.
From the personal account of Al-Zuharim al-Saif — Lumarch of the Sword, Member of the Starborne.
The light over the horizon bled crimson as dawn broke. Even the sun seemed to cry for them. From my post on the hill, the goddess of Sol looked small and trapped—a burning dot pinned to the sky…