By the time the twin moons sank behind the mountains, the boy and the white-haired woman had reached the valley's edge. The air was colder here, heavy with mist that curled through the trees like spirits at rest. Beyond the fog, the first traces of dawn painted the horizon in pale amber, though the sun itself seemed hesitant to rise.
The boy leaned on his knees, gasping for breath. His feet were blistered and raw from the stones of the mountain path. He had no sense of how long they'd been walking; his body moved because the woman did, and stopping seemed unthinkable.
The woman—who had not once offered her name—stood silent beside a gnarled tree, her cloak fluttering faintly in the dawn wind. Her gaze was fixed on something beyond the mist.
"There," she murmured at last.
The fog thinned, and the boy's breath caught.
Below them, carved into the side of a massive cliff, was a city unlike anything he had imagined: a thousand terraces of white stone stacked upon one another, spiraling toward a gleaming spire that pierced the heavens. Bridges of crystal arced between towers, reflecting moonlight like rivers of silver. Waterfalls poured from the cliffs, feeding canals that glowed faintly with blue light.
At the city's heart, a cathedral of glass and marble caught the newborn sun, scattering it into shards of color across the valley.
"That," the woman said softly, "is Asterra. The last Sanctum of this age."
The boy stared in awe. "It's… beautiful."
"It was," she said. "Before the gods fell silent."
She began descending the narrow trail that wound toward the city. The boy followed, careful not to slip on the damp stone. As they approached the outer walls, he saw that beauty and decay walked hand in hand here. The crystal bridges were cracked; moss grew thick over carvings of winged figures. The gates, once polished gold, were tarnished and bent inward, as though something immense had struck them.
Two guards stood watch—a rare sight, given the emptiness of the ruins they had crossed before. Their armor gleamed faintly, runes etched into the steel. Each bore a spear tipped with crystal that hummed quietly, alive with restrained energy.
The guards crossed their weapons as the travelers approached. "State your intent," one said, voice muffled behind his helm.
The woman stepped forward. "I am called Seraya. I seek entry under the authority of the Night Oath."
The guards exchanged a look. "That Oath hasn't been invoked since the last eclipse."
"Then it's time it was," she replied. Her tone left no room for argument.
The guards hesitated, then lowered their spears. "Very well. But the High Custodian will want to see you immediately."
Seraya nodded and gestured for the boy to follow.
They passed through the gate and entered the city proper. The air inside felt charged—alive. Floating motes of light drifted through the streets, drawn from glowing crystals embedded in the buildings. The people who walked there moved quietly, their expressions subdued, as if afraid to disturb the fragile calm.
The boy caught fragments of whispers as they passed.
"Is that… an Eclipser?"
"Impossible. The last one perished with the northern flame."
"Then the Cycle truly begins again…"
He glanced down, realizing the runes on his hand were glowing faintly through his bandages. Seraya saw it too. "Hide that," she said quietly. "They will fear what they don't understand."
He wrapped his cloak tighter around his hand as they climbed a long staircase leading to the cathedral. Up close, the structure seemed impossibly vast—the spire alone disappearing into the mist above. Symbols of the twin moons were carved into every arch, their patterns too intricate to follow.
At the entrance stood a single figure in white robes, his face shadowed by a silver hood. When he spoke, his voice was calm but carried the weight of authority.
"Seraya of the Night Oath," he said. "I had hoped never to see you again."
"Fate rarely grants what we hope for," Seraya replied. "You've grown older, High Custodian."
"As have your debts." His gaze shifted to the boy. "And who is this child?"
"He bears the mark."
The Custodian's expression darkened. "Then the rumors were true."
He motioned for them to enter. Inside, the air smelled faintly of incense and candle smoke. Rows of statues lined the hall—gods with wings, horns, and eyes of gemstone. Most had been defaced, their features erased by time or willful hands.
At the far end, a pool of silver light shimmered at the base of a massive altar. The water reflected the cracked moon above, even though no window stood open to the sky.
The Custodian approached it slowly. "You brought an Eclipser to the Sanctum. Do you understand what that means?"
Seraya's eyes were sharp. "I understand that the Cycle is stirring. The signs are already upon us."
"The signs are always upon us," the Custodian snapped. "That does not mean we invite the curse into our midst."
The boy stepped forward. "I didn't ask to be here. I just… want to understand what I am."
The Custodian turned to him. "Do you even know what it means to bear that mark?"
He shook his head.
"Then hear this, child. Every Cycle, when the moons fall out of harmony, the gods choose one soul to carry their sin. That soul—the Eclipser—walks through death and rebirth until the world remembers balance. But each time, the burden grows heavier. Each time, the Eclipser loses more of what made them human."
The boy's stomach twisted. "You mean… I'm not human?"
The Custodian's gaze softened, but only slightly. "You were. Once. Perhaps you will be again—if the Cycle ends with you."
Seraya stepped between them. "Enough riddles. He needs guidance, not fear."
The Custodian sighed. "Guidance? The last Eclipser burned half the world trying to break the gods' chains. Guidance only delays the inevitable."
He turned away, robes trailing like mist. "Still… the Sanctum cannot deny you shelter. Not yet. There is an empty chamber in the western cloister. Rest there tonight. Tomorrow, we will consult the Moondial and see if your coming truly marks the Cycle's return."
Seraya bowed her head slightly. "Thank you, old friend."
"I am not your friend," the Custodian said, and left them standing in silence.
—————
The western cloister was quieter, filled with the soft sound of running water. Candles floated along narrow canals, their flames dancing like tiny souls. The boy sat on the edge of his cot, staring at his bandaged hand. The light beneath the cloth pulsed faintly, keeping time with his heartbeat.
Seraya leaned against the doorway. "You handled yourself well, considering."
He looked up. "He called me a curse."
"He's not wrong," she said. "But he's not right, either. The Eclipser's curse is also its gift."
He frowned. "How can a curse be a gift?"
Seraya stepped closer, kneeling so her eyes met his. "Because it forces you to remember what others forget. Every Cycle, the world is remade, and history becomes myth. But your soul remembers the truth. That's what frightens them."
"The truth about what?"
She hesitated. "About why the gods broke the world."
The boy's eyes widened. "You know?"
"I know fragments. No one living remembers the full story." She stood, gazing out the window toward the moonlit city. "But I've seen the ruins of the old age. I've read the inscriptions left by those who came before. And they all speak of a war—not between gods and men, but between gods themselves."
A chill ran through him. "And we're caught in the middle of it."
She nodded. "Every Cycle, they try again. Every Cycle, a mortal carries their guilt. That's what the mark is—a fragment of divine sin carved into your soul."
He didn't know what to say. The words felt too heavy, too vast to hold. He looked down at his glowing hand and whispered, "Then maybe I don't want it."
Seraya's voice softened. "No one ever does."
The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls like restless spirits. Outside, distant bells began to ring—a low, trembling sound that seemed to shiver through the stone itself.
Seraya stiffened. "That's the warning bell."
The boy stood. "What's happening?"
She moved to the window. The streets below were alive with motion—guards rushing toward the outer walls, people gathering torches, eyes turned toward the mountains.
In the distance, thunder rolled—not from the sky, but from the earth.
Seraya's hand went to her sword. "Something's awakened in the valley."
"The shades?"
She shook her head. "No. Something far older."
Then, from beyond the city walls, a beam of light erupted into the sky—silver, cold, and unending. It pulsed once, twice, and the sound that followed was not thunder but a scream—a voice vast enough to shake the heavens.
The boy staggered back as his mark flared, searing hot beneath his skin. Visions flooded his mind: wings of fire, a chained moon, a blade that cut through time itself.
He heard Seraya shouting his name—though he didn't remember having one—and then the world split open in light.