Before the stars chose, Aeralith prepared.
For seven nights leading up to the Starfall Festival, the kingdom shed its ordinary skin. Banners were unrolled from windows. Streets were scrubbed clean until the stones shone pale beneath torchlight. Old arguments were set aside, debts temporarily forgotten, grief politely postponed. Even those who claimed not to believe in destiny still looked upward a little longer than usual.
Because the stars had never been wrong before.
Every generation, they chose someone. Not always a king, not always a hero—but always someone whose name would be remembered long after their bones returned to the earth. The chosen saved the kingdom, or the world, or sometimes only delayed its end. Songs were written. Statues raised. Children learned the stories before they learned their letters.
The stars gave meaning.
That belief was why the bells rang so loudly, why the prayers were spoken with such desperate care, why hope and fear braided themselves together in the hearts of the people below.
High above it all, Elara did her best not to listen.
The Royal Arcane Academy tower had been built for isolation. Thick stone walls muted the city's noise, and narrow windows discouraged distraction. It was a place for minds, not crowds—for careful hands and quiet thoughts.
Elara had chosen it deliberately.
She sat alone at her desk, back straight, shoulders tense, the steady scratch of her quill her only companion. She told herself she was working, that the festival was irrelevant, that fate did not care whether she acknowledged it.
Still, she paused every so often.
Not to look outside—never that—but to listen despite herself, to the distant swell of music and voices, to the way the night seemed to hold its breath.
She hated that feeling.
Elara had learned early that wanting nothing was safer than wanting too much. Heroes lost things. Chosen ones were buried young. Destiny always demanded payment, and it never accepted refusal.
She preferred certainty. Ink. Paper. A life small enough to survive.
When the palace bells rang again—closer now, louder—she flinched before she could stop herself, then scowled at her own reaction.
"Ridiculous," she muttered, dipping her quill.
That was when the Starfall Festival truly began.
The kingdom of Aeralith never slept on the night of the Starfall Festival.
Lanterns swayed above cobblestone streets, their light catching on ribbons of silver and blue. Music poured from every open doorway, blending flutes and drums into a pulse that seemed to beat in time with the city's heart. Children ran laughing through the crowds, crowned with woven starlight silk, while merchants shouted promises of miracles they did not possess. Above it all, the palace bells rang—clear, steady, inevitable.
Everyone celebrated.
Everyone except Elara.
High above the noise, tucked into the uppermost tower of the Royal Arcane Academy, she sat hunched over a wide oak desk scarred by decades of careful scholarship. Parchment lay stacked in uneven piles around her, weighed down by stones and half-burnt candles. Ink stained her fingers. A stubborn lock of auburn hair had escaped its braid and fallen into her eyes.
She brushed it away with an impatient sigh.
Elara liked order. She liked margins and catalog numbers and the quiet satisfaction of a correctly archived spell. The world made sense when it was written down. Destiny, on the other hand, had never seemed particularly sensible.
Outside her open balcony doors, the city roared louder as priests raised their voices to the sky. Ancient words echoed upward, begging the stars to choose someone worthy—someone brave, someone strong, someone magnificent.
Elara dipped her quill again.
> Historical Record: In the event of Starfall selection, the Chosen is expected to—
She paused, staring at the words.
Expected to save.
Expected to sacrifice.
Expected to die beautifully.
Her stomach tightened.
She had never wanted greatness. She wanted mornings that repeated themselves, shelves that stayed where she put them, and a future that did not hinge on prophecy. She liked knowing who she would be tomorrow.
A sudden gust of wind slammed through the balcony, scattering loose pages across the room.
"Elara cursed softly, lunging to catch them before they vanished into the night. As she reached the railing, the crowd below erupted into a scream—not fear, but awe.
Thunder cracked.
She froze.
The sky did not brighten.
It split.
Molten silver tore through the heavens, pouring downward like a celestial wound. The air vibrated with power so old it made the tower's stones hum. Bells shattered. Windows rattled. Magic screamed.
Elara stumbled back, heart pounding.
"No," she whispered. "Please, no."
The light condensed, focused—
—and hurtled straight toward her tower.
The impact was blinding.
Heat and cold crashed through her at once, lifting her from the floor as starlight wrapped around her body like liquid fire. She tried to scream, but sound ceased to exist.
Something entered her.
Deep. Permanent. Alive.
She fell.
As darkness closed in, her final thought was not heroic or grand.
It was small. Terrified. Human.
Please… I never asked for this.
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