The ruins were quiet.
Too quiet.
Erian moved through the shattered hall, each step echoing against the broken marble. Moonlight streamed through the torn roof, touching the debris like threads of mourning silk.
He stopped where the throne once stood. Only ashes and fragments of crystal remained — and the single black feather that had refused to turn to dust.
It lay on the ground, pulsing faintly, as if still breathing.
Erian knelt and picked it up. The texture was strange — neither soft nor warm, but heavy, almost alive. The pulse inside it matched his own heartbeat.
"Aster," he whispered, his voice raw. "You're still here, aren't you?"
The feather glowed weakly in response, but then dimmed again, fragile as fading starlight.
Erian closed his eyes, clutching it tightly. His magic flared — bright, desperate, burning.
But no matter how much energy he poured into it, the feather refused to awaken.
It wasn't power it needed.
It was connection.
Outside, the city was in chaos. The fall of the Black Sun had cracked the empire's barrier; fragments of divine energy rained upon the capital like stormfire. Temples crumbled. Rivers glowed faintly with silver.
Lyra stood at the balcony of the western wing, her eyes hollow.
Behind her, the scholars of Solarius gathered, their faces pale with exhaustion.
"We can't stay here," one of them said shakily. "The capital is collapsing."
Lyra didn't turn. "If the capital falls, then so be it. There's something worse than collapse coming."
The old priest beside her frowned. "You mean the echo?"
She nodded slowly. "The connection between the twin heirs was severed by force. The heavens can't balance that kind of fracture."
"Meaning?"
Lyra turned toward him, her expression grim. "Meaning the stars are rewriting destiny to fill the void. If Erian doesn't find Aster soon, the world will choose a replacement."
The priest's face drained of color. "Another heir?"
"No," she said softly. "Another god."
In the ruins, Erian sat in silence, the feather resting on his palm.
The memory of Aster's voice still lingered — soft, sharp, and stubbornly alive.
If my blood is the bridge between creation and destruction, then I'll decide where it leads.
Erian stared at the faint glow. "Then let me walk that bridge with you."
He pressed the feather to his heart. The air shimmered — faint ripples spreading outward. His pulse quickened as a whisper brushed his mind.
You shouldn't have followed me here.
Erian froze.
"Aster?" His voice trembled.
The whisper came again, softer this time. Why do you never listen?
Tears blurred his vision. "Because you never say goodbye."
The ruins around him began to shift — stars blooming from the broken stones, each one glowing with faint light.
The feather floated upward, hovering in front of him. A single droplet of silver blood formed at its tip, falling into his open palm.
When it touched his skin, his vision shattered.
He stood once again in the Veil — the realm between life and death, stars and shadow. But it was different this time. The constellations were cracked, their light flickering like dying candles.
And in the distance, he saw Aster.
Floating within a sphere of broken light, his body half-consumed by shadow, his expression peaceful — too peaceful.
Erian took a step forward, then another. "Aster! Can you hear me?"
No response. Only the faint hum of power swirling around him.
He reached the edge of the sphere and raised his hand, pressing it against the barrier. The surface rippled beneath his touch, and the energy pushed back — rejecting him.
But he didn't pull away.
He closed his eyes and whispered, "You said once that stars remember those who loved them. So remember me."
The barrier flared — golden veins spreading across it. Aster's eyes fluttered open slightly, the faintest trace of awareness returning. His lips moved.
"Erian…"
The sound was weak, but real.
Encouraged, Erian pressed his forehead to the barrier. "I'm here. You're not alone anymore."
Aster's gaze met his through the wall of light. "You shouldn't be here."
"Then you shouldn't have left."
For a moment, silence hung between them — and then, the light broke.
The sphere shattered into fragments that scattered like glass, and Aster fell forward into Erian's arms.
He was cold. Too cold. But he was breathing.
Erian clutched him tightly, his heart racing. "You came back."
Aster's voice was barely a whisper. "Not yet… the light hasn't chosen."
"What do you mean?"
Aster's eyes fluttered open, faint starlight flickering within them. "The stars… will take one of us. To mend the balance."
Erian froze. "No. There has to be another way."
But Aster only smiled weakly. "There never is."
Before Erian could speak again, the Veil trembled. The constellations above began to move, forming a massive symbol — the Crown of Unity, an ancient omen of sacrifice.
Aster gripped his hand. "If I disappear… promise me something."
Erian shook his head violently. "Don't—"
"Promise me," Aster said firmly, his voice steady despite the light fading from his eyes. "If the stars choose me… live."
Erian's voice broke. "I can't."
"You will," Aster whispered. "Because that's what love does."
The Veil cracked. Aster's body began to dissolve into starlight once more.
Erian screamed his name, but the sound vanished into the light.
When he opened his eyes again, he was alone in the ruins.
Only the black feather remained — now glowing faint silver at the tip.
And above the empire, the stars began to move again.