The world looked quieter after the storm.
From the balcony of the observatory, Erian could still see faint ripples of light drifting across the horizon — remnants of the astral disturbance that had nearly torn the ruins apart. The air carried a metallic taste, and the scent of burnt ozone lingered like a ghost that refused to leave.
He hadn't slept since it happened. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of what he couldn't explain: stars collapsing inward, a chain of silver across Aster's chest, and that whisper echoing again — the one that called him by a name he did not remember.
Now, as dawn spilled pale light across the marble floors, he finally let out a long breath. The academy below was silent, almost eerily so. Most students were still under observation after the sudden surge of astral energy, and the Council had locked the northern quadrant for investigation.
Erian's body still ached. His hands trembled when he lifted the mug of tea to his lips. The warmth helped, but only a little.
A knock sounded at the door.
He didn't need to look up. The steady, composed rhythm of that knock was familiar.
"Come in," Erian said softly.
Aster entered without a word. He was wearing the standard academy uniform again, but the collar hid little of the faint glow still tracing his neck. His hair was slightly damp, and his eyes — though calm — still carried that strange, silvery depth.
"You should rest," Aster said, closing the door behind him.
"I tried," Erian replied, looking out toward the sky. "But every time I close my eyes, I feel like I'm standing in that storm again."
Aster walked closer, his steps measured and quiet. "You stabilized it. The resonance between us kept it from consuming both halves of the seal. But that also means you're linked to the Heart now, whether you like it or not."
Erian frowned slightly. "Then tell me what it is. What's really inside you?"
Aster leaned against the edge of the balcony railing, his gaze distant. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he exhaled slowly, as if deciding something.
"The Heart of the Starbound King," he began, voice low. "It isn't just power. It's memory — fragments of a being that once ruled beyond this plane. When the heavens fractured, the Heart shattered too, and its pieces scattered through time. My family… was built around guarding one of them."
"Guarding?" Erian asked.
Aster nodded. "Each generation bore a fragment within their bloodline, passing it on through ritual. But when I was chosen, something went wrong. The seal inside me weakened, and the fragment began to awaken on its own."
Erian looked down at his hand — the faint sigil still visible beneath his skin, pulsing faintly. "And now it's connected to me."
"Yes," Aster said quietly. "You linked your essence with mine when you reached into the storm. It was instinctive, but the resonance accepted you."
Erian gave a half smile. "So, I accidentally bound myself to a cosmic curse. Great."
The prince's lips curved faintly, the ghost of amusement softening his usual cold composure. "You make it sound worse than it is."
Erian turned toward him, eyes narrowing. "Is it not?"
Aster didn't answer. Instead, he looked out at the sky, where faint streams of silver still drifted above the towers. "Balance demands consequence. For now, the Heart sleeps again, but not for long. When it stirs, we'll both feel it."
Silence settled between them — not uncomfortable, but heavy, as if both were holding back thoughts they didn't know how to speak aloud.
Erian finally broke it. "When I touched you… I saw something. A vision, maybe. Two figures under a broken sky. One of them looked like you, but older. The other—" he hesitated. "The other felt like me."
Aster's gaze flickered toward him. "The Starforge keeps echoes of those who came before. What you saw might be memory residue."
"Or a warning," Erian said quietly.
Aster studied him for a moment. "You're afraid."
"I'd be stupid not to be," Erian replied. "But fear isn't the problem. It's… knowing that somehow, this isn't the first time I've met you."
That made Aster pause. His expression shifted — a faint trace of surprise, quickly masked by his usual calm. "You shouldn't say things like that carelessly."
"Why not?"
"Because if you're right," Aster said softly, "then the stars might remember too."
The air around them grew colder. For a heartbeat, Erian thought he saw the faint shimmer of that same ancient sigil flicker across Aster's iris. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
He decided to let it go. For now.
Aster turned away first. "The council will summon us soon. They'll want to know how much you remember from the storm."
Erian nodded absently, his mind elsewhere.
Before Aster could leave, Erian spoke again, more gently this time. "Aster."
The prince stopped at the door.
"I don't regret what I did," Erian said. "Even if it bound me to something I can't control."
Aster's eyes softened, the cold mask fading just enough for sincerity to slip through. "You should. You have no idea what you've tied yourself to."
"Then teach me," Erian replied. "If this bond can't be undone, I'd rather understand it than fear it."
For the first time that morning, Aster looked at him without his usual detachment. There was something fragile in that look — a quiet admission of how much this connection terrified him too.
"…You really don't make things easy," he murmured.
"Would you prefer I follow orders instead?" Erian teased lightly.
Aster almost smiled. "You wouldn't know how."
The tension broke, just a little. It was the kind of exchange that carried no laughter, but eased the weight pressing on their shoulders.
When Aster left, Erian remained by the balcony, watching the faint shimmer of the sky. Somewhere beyond the visible clouds, he knew the fragments of the Heart still pulsed — faint but alive, whispering through their veins.
The link between them wasn't a curse or a blessing. It was something in between — something dangerous, something that refused to let either of them walk alone again.
He touched the mark on his palm and closed his eyes. For a brief second, he could feel Aster's heartbeat echo faintly in his mind, steady and strong.
And beneath that rhythm, something else stirred — the voice that had spoken during the storm, now quieter but closer.
"Balance comes at a price. When one light rises, another must fall."
Erian's eyes opened. The silver sky seemed endless above him, vast and uncaring.
He didn't know whether the whisper was a warning or a promise. But deep inside, a quiet part of him already knew — this was only the beginning.
---
The investigation chamber of the academy was colder than Erian remembered.
Not from temperature, but from the silence that filled it — thick, deliberate, heavy enough to press against the chest.
The circular room was carved from pale stone that reflected every shimmer of light from the upper glyphs. In the center stood two chairs facing the Council table. One was occupied by Aster, calm and still as glass. The other remained empty, waiting for him.
Erian entered under the eyes of seven mages, each bearing the golden insignia of Solarius. He recognized only one of them — High Scholar Velyan, the man who had once been Aster's mentor before the royal incident three years ago.
As the door sealed behind him, the faint hum of warding sigils came alive. The air pulsed faintly, responding to the bloodline resonance between the two young men at the center.
"Erian Thale," Velyan began, his voice clipped and formal. "You were present at the astral breach two nights ago. Records state that you initiated a synchronization with His Highness Aster Valen during the containment."
"Yes," Erian replied steadily.
"Explain why."
Erian hesitated for half a breath. He could feel Aster's gaze on him — calm, unreadable.
"There wasn't time to think," he said finally. "The containment circle was failing. His pulse was destabilizing. I… acted on instinct."
Velyan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Instinct rarely binds two cores into resonance. You established a direct link through astral essence. That is forbidden under Solarius law."
Erian opened his mouth, but Aster spoke first.
"He saved my life."
The scholar turned toward him. "At what cost?"
Aster's tone did not waver. "That's for me to bear."
The murmurs around the table stilled. It wasn't defiance — merely a statement that carried a weight no one dared contest openly.
Velyan leaned forward, fingers steepled. "You understand what this means, Your Highness. A shared resonance cannot be severed without risk of collapse to both vessels. His life is now tied to yours."
"I am aware," Aster replied.
"Then you understand why the Council demands separation."
Aster's expression didn't change, but the faint shimmer in the air deepened. The glyphs around him flickered in quiet protest.
"Separation is impossible now," he said. "Any attempt would destroy us both."
Erian felt it — a pulse beneath his skin, faint but sharp, like a heartbeat out of rhythm. The chain between them stirred at the word destroy.
Velyan turned to him again. "Do you confirm this, Erian Thale?"
Erian hesitated, then nodded slowly. "The link is alive. When he's in pain, I feel it. When he suppresses the resonance, I can barely breathe."
The chamber murmured again. Someone at the far end muttered a quiet incantation, and faint glyphs shimmered above Erian's hand — revealing the silvery sigil embedded there.
"Proof enough," one of the magi whispered.
But Velyan wasn't satisfied. "If what you claim is true," he said, "then the Council cannot risk allowing both of you to remain within academy grounds. The Heart's influence is already unstable."
Aster's tone hardened. "So you plan to isolate me again?"
"Containment, Your Highness. For your protection and ours."
Erian took a slow breath, stepping closer. "You're making a mistake. The storm's core wasn't his doing. It was drawn by the Heart's awakening — something inside the ruins triggered it."
Velyan gave him a cold look. "And how would you know that, apprentice?"
"Because I saw it," Erian said. His voice wavered, but he didn't back down. "The fragments responded to something else — something older. You're focusing on the wrong danger."
For a brief moment, the old scholar's mask cracked — not from anger, but doubt.
Then he straightened. "Regardless, the Council has decided. His Highness will be placed under restricted observance until the resonance stabilizes."
Aster's chair scraped softly against the floor as he stood. "You mean confinement."
No one answered.
Erian felt the bond twist again — a subtle tightening in his chest, the faint taste of iron at the back of his throat. He reached out instinctively. "Aster—"
But the guards had already moved.
The air shimmered with suppressive glyphs. Chains of light manifested from the ground, wrapping around Aster's wrists like living tendrils. They weren't meant to harm — only restrain — but the instant they touched him, Erian gasped, doubling over as pain sliced through his ribs.
His vision blurred. The chamber spun.
"Stop!" he choked out, clutching his chest. "You're hurting him—"
Velyan turned sharply, eyes widening as both their pulse signatures spiked in tandem. The resonance glowed between them, threads of silver light binding their forms.
"Break the ward!" someone shouted.
But it was too late. The connection surged.
Erian's vision filled with white. He felt Aster's pain crash into him like a tidal wave — flashes of the storm, the sound of shattering stars, the weight of something vast pressing against his soul.
Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.
He was on the ground, breathing hard, the sigil on his hand pulsing weakly. The chains around Aster had dissolved, leaving only faint burns across his skin.
For the first time, the ever-composed prince looked shaken. He stared at Erian, silent, his chest rising and falling too fast.
Velyan's voice broke through the haze. "Remove him from this chamber. Both of them. Now."
They were escorted to the infirmary wing under heavy guard, but no one dared touch them again. The resonance was still too unstable.
Erian sat on the edge of the cot, head throbbing. Aster stood nearby, silent, watching the light shift through the narrow window.
After a while, Erian spoke, voice hoarse. "So that's what happens when they try to restrain you."
Aster didn't turn. "I told them separation was impossible."
Erian rubbed his chest. "You could've warned me about the whole shared-pain thing."
"I didn't think you'd be reckless enough to get dragged into my curse," Aster said quietly.
Erian almost smiled, even through the exhaustion. "You keep calling it a curse. I think it's more like… a very bad contract."
That earned him a glance — dry, unimpressed, but faintly amused. "You joke too easily."
"It helps me breathe," Erian muttered. "Besides, someone has to keep you from freezing solid."
Aster exhaled slowly. The faintest trace of warmth entered his voice. "You're not as ordinary as you pretend to be."
"And you're not as untouchable as you want everyone to think," Erian countered softly.
Their gazes met then — not as prince and scholar, but as two people caught in something far greater than either understood.
For a moment, the air between them softened. The heartbeat resonance calmed, aligning again.
Aster looked away first, his expression unreadable. "Rest. The next council meeting won't be as kind."
Erian lay back, though his mind refused to quiet. "You'll be there?"
Aster nodded once. "Always."
He turned to leave, the faint shimmer of silver brushing the air where he passed. Erian watched him go, a thought lingering unspoken.
No matter what the Council decided, no matter how heavy the curse or the bond, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.
Because when the world went dark that night, it wasn't the stars that kept shining.
It was Aster.
---