They said the city felt warmer when Prince Caelum walked its streets.
It was a foolish thing—cities did not warm for anyone—but people believed it all the same. Vendors smiled wider when he passed. Guards straightened, not from fear, but pride. Even the neon-lit skyline beyond the palace windows seemed gentler when his reflection appeared in the glass.
Caelum Nocthyr was fifteen years old and already legendary for all the wrong reasons.
Too beautiful to be dangerous.
He sat on the palace balcony now, legs folded neatly beneath him, long platinum-white hair cascading over his shoulders like spilled moonlight. The breeze toyed with it, lifting strands into the air as if reluctant to let them go. His eyes—vast, spiraling galaxies caught behind porcelain lashes—were fixed on the city below.
Black suns turned slowly within them.
Unseen.
Unacknowledged.
Contained.
Below, the capital roared with life: traffic streams like glowing veins, skyscrapers crowned with sigils, mage-lights humming in disciplined lines. This was a modern city, proud and ruthless, where magic wore tailored suits and crowns hid behind corporate boards.
And yet—none of it interested him.
"Your Highness," a voice said softly.
Caelum turned, smiling.
That smile had disarmed men who had survived wars.
"Yes, Mira?"
Mira bowed, hand over heart. One of the senior attendants. She had known him since he was small. Like all of them, she adored him.
"The performers you requested have arrived."
"How punctual of them," Caelum said pleasantly. "Please bring them to the eastern hall. I dislike echoes."
"Of course."
She hesitated, just a fraction.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
"No—no, Your Highness. It's just…" She smiled apologetically. "You're always so kind. I hope they don't disappoint you."
Caelum laughed softly, a sound light enough to forgive sins.
"I'm sure they'll be perfect."
She left reassured.
She always did.
The eastern hall had once been a throne room before the capital modernized. Now it was a performance space: polished black floors, high ceilings threaded with dormant runes, walls that drank sound.
Seven performers stood in a neat line.
Different races. Different origins. Different kinds of hunger in their eyes.
They bowed deeply when he entered.
Caelum inclined his head in return. Equal courtesy. Always.
"Please," he said, gesturing. "Relax. I asked for artists, not statues."
Nervous laughter rippled through them.
One by one, they performed.
Dance shaped by gravity-defying magic.
Music woven from breath and light.
Illusions so delicate they dissolved into memory rather than air.
Caelum watched closely.
Not with desire.
With precision.
He saw the flaws they hid. The ambitions they buried. The fractures in their souls where something more could grow.
When the last note faded, he clapped softly.
"Thank you," he said. "You were… sincere."
They beamed.
"You may leave," he continued. "All except you."
A young woman froze.
Dusky skin. Silver eyes. Fear masked behind professionalism.
She stepped forward.
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"You hesitate before the final movement," Caelum said gently. "Why?"
She swallowed. "I—I was afraid."
"Of failing?"
"Of being seen."
His galaxy eyes deepened.
"I see," he said.
He raised one hand.
The runes in the hall flickered.
The temperature dropped—not cold, just emptied.
Caelum spoke.
Not in any language she knew.
The Old Tongue slid from his lips like a forgotten law being remembered. His fingers twisted into symbols that should not have been possible, joints aligning into meanings rather than shapes.
Behind him—
Black suns bloomed.
Silent.
Beautiful.
Hungry.
The girl did not scream.
She knelt.
When the magic withdrew, the hall was unchanged.
Except for her.
"You will serve me," Caelum said kindly. "If you wish."
Tears streamed down her face.
"Yes," she whispered. "Gladly."
High above, behind reinforced glass and warded steel, the King watched.
His hands shook.
Not with anger.
With memory.
He had seen this before—when Caelum was smaller, when the suns had been fewer but no less absolute.
"Still gathering stars," the King murmured.
An advisor laughed nervously beside him. "He's just a child, Your Majesty."
The King did not laugh.
He turned away.
"Tell the princes and princesses to be kind to their brother," he said quietly.
"Always," the advisor replied.
"And remind them," the King added, voice thin as glass,
"that nothing good comes from angering him."
In the eastern hall, Caelum smiled at his first servant.
The city continued to love him.
It had no idea what it was orbiting.