The throne room was quiet, yet the air shimmered faintly — as if invisible stars hung suspended above the marble floor.
Every breath felt heavier. Every sound carried a subtle echo.
Aster sat on the throne — though sat wasn't quite the right word.
The seat itself had begun to transform; veins of silver light spread through the obsidian surface like living roots, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Lyra stood a few steps away, her expression unreadable. She had watched him fight gods and return from death — but this, this silent stillness, felt even more dangerous.
"Your pulse isn't human anymore," she said finally.
"I know," Aster answered, eyes half-closed. The faint starlight that radiated from his skin dimmed and flared with each exhale. "Every time I breathe, I feel the world moving through me. The ley lines, the sky currents... it's too much."
He pressed his hand against his chest — the place where the crystal pulsed.
It beat in rhythm with something vast, ancient, and sentient.
Lyra stepped forward, voice firm. "Then you'll learn to control it. You're not a god. You're Aster Caelum — the one who broke fate itself. Don't let it break you."
He opened his eyes and looked at her — truly looked.
For a moment, the glow receded, and the man beneath the starlight surfaced again.
"…Thank you," he said quietly. "If I lose myself, remind me of who I was."
Lyra smiled faintly. "I'll remind you — even if I have to hit you again."
Aster chuckled, and for a heartbeat, the oppressive atmosphere softened.
Outside the palace walls, strange phenomena spread through the empire.
In the desert province of Solane, children were born with faintly glowing marks on their palms.
In the icy north, auroras danced even during daylight — whispering in voices that spoke of the Emperor's awakening.
And in the shadowed forests, the beasts that once hunted men now kneeled, their eyes filled with silver reflection.
The world itself was changing — reshaping to match the Emperor's light.
But not everyone saw it as salvation.
Deep beneath the old catacombs of the capital, where the sun never reached, a council of masked figures gathered around a black altar. The air smelled of burnt incense and old blood.
"The Star Emperor breathes," one of them hissed. "The Veil bends toward him. If he learns to wield the full light, even the old gods will bow."
A woman's voice, cold and sharp as glass, answered.
"Then we'll make sure he never reaches that point."
Her hand rose, and the candlelight flickered, revealing a sigil branded into her wrist — a sun eclipsed by shadow.
"The Order of Solarius has slept long enough," she said. "Let the eclipse begin."
In the palace observatory, Aster stood once more before the stars.
He sensed something — a faint tremor rippling through the light threads of the cosmos.
"Lyra," he murmured, eyes narrowing. "Do you feel it? The stars are dimming — just at the edges."
Lyra approached, brow furrowed. "What does it mean?"
"It means," Aster said, his voice low and calm but laced with something dangerous, "someone has begun pulling light from the Veil. Someone dares to unmake what I've rebuilt."
He turned toward the massive window, the constellations glinting like distant watchers.
"Then we'll have to remind them," he whispered, raising his hand. The light flared, forming a faint circle of celestial runes behind him — a crown made of shifting constellations.
"That the stars… already have an emperor."
And somewhere beyond the mortal sky, the heavens trembled in answer.