The abyss held no light.

Or rather, the light in the abyss was utterly different from what Luminara defined as light. In the palace of Eliudnir, radiance flowed in congealed streams of dark violet, creeping along pillars carved from the debris of stars, casting a hazy outline of the figure seated upon the throne.

Hela’s fingers tapped lightly on the armrest.

Her fingers were pale and slender, her nails translucent gray. The tapping made no sound, as if playing a melody in the void that none could hear. The surface of her throne shimmered with the shattered reflections of countless stars—the last captured glimmers of the fallen sky-city.

“Ganglati.” Her voice was soft, like a feather brushing against silence.

At the palace entrance, a tall, stooped figure slowly turned. His movements were so sluggish that time seemed to congeal around him. His stone-gray skin showed no luster under the dim light, and his dull eyes took ten full heartbeats to fully focus on the throne.

“Ti…me…is…up…”

Hela did not respond. She raised her left hand, a fractured crystal hovering above her palm. Within it, an image of a silver city floating among clouds was reflected—streets interlaced like star charts, towers piercing the sky, countless points of light flowing within.

Then, flames erupted abruptly from the city’s center.

The image in the crystal shattered silently. Walls crumbled, towers snapped, and panicked crowds fled like insects, tumbling from broken stairways. At the climax of the destruction, two silvery points of light shot out from the city’s core, streaking across the sky before plunging toward the southeastern edge of the vast continent below.

“Coordinates anchored,” Hela said.

She closed her hand, and the crystal turned to dust, slipping through her fingers and dissipating into shadow before it could even fall.

From the depths of the palace, a soft laugh echoed.

The laughter was sweet yet cold, like honey infused with shards of ice. A graceful figure veiled in black gauze emerged faintly at the edge of the shadows, pale fingertips tracing her own lips.

“Such sweet fear…” Mahera’s voice was like the night wind whistling through bleached bones. “The dreams of the fallen stars…will be delicious.”

Hela did not look at her. Her gaze pierced through the palace dome, through layers of distorted space, toward a distant consciousness slowly awakening.

“Begin the sowing.”

Light.

Stinging his eyelids.

Astra woke in agony.

The first sensation was cold. Beneath him lay damp soil and rotting leaves, the chill seeping through his strange silver-white garments into his bones. He opened his eyes, only to be blinded by the morning light filtering through the forest canopy.

His memory was a blank slate.

No, not entirely blank. Fragments remained—sharp, scorching shards, like red-hot glass grinding in his mind: fleeing footsteps, screams tearing through the air, a hand shoving him forcefully, a voice shouting—

What was it shouting?

He couldn’t remember.

“Uh…”

A groan sounded beside him. Astra rolled over and sat up—his movements fluid, as if rehearsed a thousand times—his right hand instinctively darting toward his waist. No weapon. Only the feel of firm muscle beneath the soft fabric.

Three steps away, a girl curled among the leaves.

She wore the same silver-white garments as his, made of a material neither cloth nor leather, glowing with a pearlescent sheen under the dappled light. Her silver hair lay scattered across the dead leaves, dew clinging to the ends. Her eyelashes fluttered, and slowly, she opened her eyes.

Amber eyes, clear as a forest stream, now filled with the same confusion as his.

Their gazes met.

Silence spread through the woods, broken only by the chirping of birds and the distant murmur of a stream. An instinctual understanding surfaced from the depths of his empty memory—not a name, not an identity, not a past.

It was “must stay together.”

It was “cannot be separated.”

It was a bond deeper than blood, stronger than any vow, branded into his soul. Even with his memory wiped clean, that brand remained vivid.

“…Brother?”

The girl’s lips parted, uttering a single syllable. Her voice was soft, husky from sleep, yet it made Astra’s heart clench.

Brother.

The word was like a key, unlocking something. More fragments surged: matching garments, the silhouette of fighting side by side, alternating combat stances, and…the weightless feeling of falling, and that final hand pushing him away.

Her hand.

“You…” Astra spoke, his own voice equally rough. “Are you hurt?”

The girl—his sister, the certainty now crystal clear—slowly sat up, examining herself. The silver-white garments were spotless, undamaged. She shook her head, then looked at him, her eyes filled with confusion and a trace of unease.

“I…don’t remember,” she whispered. “Nothing. Except…you’re my brother.”

Astra nodded. He pushed himself up, his legs shaky but steadying quickly. He scanned the surroundings.

They were at the edge of an ancient forest. Towering trees blocked the sky, with only scattered beams of light piercing through the green layers. The air was humid, rich with the scent of decay and a faint sweetness. They stood in a small clearing, surrounded by waist-high ferns and three…corpses of something.

Astra’s pupils contracted.

The three corpses belonged to no creature he recognized—if he had any recognition at all. They were roughly canine but twice the size of wolves. Their fur was a rotten dark purple, their heads misshapen, lips stretched nearly to their ears, revealing sharp fangs. Most eerily, their wounds.

One was impaled through the eye socket by an ice spike, the ice not yet fully melted, glinting pale blue.

One’s skull was burned through by some intense heat, the edges melted.

The last…seemed to have its spine crushed by pure force, twisted beneath a tree.

Astra looked down at his hands. Slender fingers, calloused palms—marks of long-held weaponry. He remembered no battle, but his body did.

“We did this,” his sister said beside him. She stood now, half a head shorter, staring at the corpses, her brow slightly furrowed. “I…kind of remember. They pounced, and then…”

She raised her right hand. Her slender fingers traced an arc in the air.

Hum—

Golden patterns shimmered briefly in the air like ripples, then vanished. But in that instant, Astra felt a warm energy brush his skin, dispelling the forest’s chill.

His sister stared at her hand as if seeing it for the first time.

“…We should leave,” Astra said. The scent of blood and decay was spreading. Who knew what it might attract? “We need water, food, and…to figure out where we are, who we are.”

His sister—what should he call her? She needed a name.

“Sylas,” the word popped into his mind, unsummoned yet natural. “Your name is Sylas.”

The girl blinked, then nodded softly. “Okay. And you, brother…”

“Astra,” he said. Another name appearing from nowhere, yet feeling right. Like the click of a lock.

Twin Stars. Falling. Lost.

More fragments swirled, just out of reach. Astra shook his head, forcing himself to focus. He knelt, examining the monster corpses. Nothing useful, but clutched in one creature’s claws was a strand of silver-white fabric.

Identical to the missing thread on his sleeve.

“Let’s go.” He grabbed Sylas’s wrist—thin, cool-skinned—and headed toward the sound of the stream.

His first step faltered.

The second steadied.

By the third, muscle memory took over. He naturally lowered his stance, steps light, eyes scanning the shadows ahead and to the sides. Sylas followed half a step behind, equally silent, her breathing even.

They waded through ferns, stepped over gnarled roots, avoided hanging vines. The forest awoke around them, birds singing, insects chirping, distant beastly howls occasionally echoing. Astra’s nerves stayed taut, some instinct screaming: Danger. This forest is dangerous.

The stream appeared ahead. Clear mountain water gushed from rock crevices, flowing over a pebble-strewn bed. Astra knelt at the bank, cupping water in his hands. It was cold and sweet. He drank, splashed his face. The chill sharpened his muddled thoughts.

Sylas mimicked him, drinking. Droplets slid down her chin, leaving no stain on her silver-white clothes. She stared at her reflection—a face still youthful but already showing delicate features, amber eyes, silver hair.

“How old…are we?” she whispered.

Astra shook his head. He didn’t know. He looked about seventeen or eighteen, Sylas maybe a year or two younger. But that was a guess. Their clothes, their combat instincts—none of it fit ordinary adolescents.

Food was next. Astra found wild berries by the stream, deep purple, plump. He handed some to Sylas on a broad leaf.

“Try these. They’re safe,” he said. How did he know? His body remembered. Plant knowledge buried deep.

The berries were tart, easing their hunger slightly. As they ate, Astra observed. Tracks dotted the bank—deer, boar, large feline paws. No human footprints.

They followed the stream downstream. Basic survival logic: water flows low, lowlands might hold people.

An hour later, Astra halted, raising a hand.

Sylas froze, breath held.

Twenty paces ahead, where the stream curved, a beast drank.

Bear-like but leaner, shoulder-height above Astra’s chest. Dark brown fur, jagged spine-ridges. Its eyes—murky yellow, slit-pupiled—fixed on them.

The beast growled, drool dripping into the stream. It turned slowly, paws scraping ground, ready to charge.

Astra pushed Sylas behind him, knees bent, weight low. No weapons, only hands. Throat, eyes, joints—

The beast lunged.

Faster than expected. Astra sidestepped, claws grazing his chest. He spun, hand striking like a blade toward its ribs.

As his fingertips touched fur, cold surged from his core, rushing down his arm.

Crack.

The sound of spreading ice. Frost coated the beast’s right side, stiffening its movement for half a second. Astra seized the opening, left fist smashing its snout.

A crunching sound. The beast recoiled, howling, ice slowing it further.

Sylas cried out behind him.

A second beast lunged from the shadows toward her. She stumbled backward over a root, falling. The beast’s jaws loomed—

Astra couldn’t reach her in time.

Time seemed to slow.

As Sylas fell, her hands thrust forward instinctively. No chant, no gesture, only pure will to push.

Light.

Warm, golden radiance burst from her palms, forming a translucent shield. The beast crashed into it, teeth shattering, skull twisting as it flew backward into a tree, motionless.

The shield held for three seconds before shattering into glimmers.

Sylas lay panting in the leaves, pale. Her first conscious power use had drained her.

Astra rushed to her, helping her up. The frozen beast had fled. She was unharmed, just shaken.

“I…didn’t know how…” Sylas trembled.

“Your body remembered,” Astra said, watching her faintly glowing fingertips. “Like mine.”

He helped her onward, more alert than ever. But the questions grew: Who were they? Why such power? What were those monsters? Where did these clothes come from?

At noon, they found the cabin.

It stood at the forest’s edge, backed against a cliff, clearly abandoned for years. Thatch roof half-collapsed, walls vine-covered, door hanging crooked.

Astra signaled Sylas to wait, entering sideways.

Inside was dim, dust motes dancing in light from roof holes. A small space: a wood bed with moldy pelts, a stone fireplace, a wobbly table. The ashes were cold, but Astra brushed aside the top layer.

Something beneath.

He dug out a small rusted iron box, lock intact. Forcing it open, he found corroded copper coins and a oilcloth-wrapped half-map. Unfurling it, he saw hand-drawn lines of mountains, rivers, names scrawled:

Darkwoods (their area);

Mellon Town (two days southeast);

Cyrus’s Adventurer Station (center of Mellon Town).

On the back, faded ink:

“Lumina Conclave hunting tieflings…say impurity must be cleansed…Cyrus’s Station might be safe, old Cyrus is decent…but avoid main roads, they’ll set checkpoints…light protect the innocent.”

Lumina Conclave. Tieflings. Cleansing.

Unfamiliar terms, but ominous together. Astra pocketed the map and coins. Under the bed, he found a rusty double-bladed spear, chipped but better than nothing.

Sylas gasped outside. Astra rushed out. She pointed at the ground.

Footprints.

Human, three or four sets, same boot tread, approaching the cabin, lingering, then heading deeper into the woods. Fresh, within two days.

“Someone was here,” Astra murmured. “Might return.”

They left quickly, heading southeast via a hunter’s path marked on the map.

For two days, they trekked through the forest.

Astra’s survival instincts sharpened: edible fungi, roots, simple traps for rabbits, safe campsites. Sylas’s light magic flickered unpredictably but could purify water and heal minor wounds.

Nights were hardest.

Not just cold and beasts, but…dreams.

The first night, Astra dreamed of a corridor.

An endless silver hallway, walls flowing with soft light. He ran, Sylas behind, both in researcher-like white robes, clutching a glowing metal box. Darkness chased them, the corridor collapsing. A woman’s voice shouted, urgent and firm:

“Take the Spark! To Tilmia! Light all the—”

The dream severed.

He woke sweating. Beside him, Sylas twitched in sleep, lips moving silently as if trapped in nightmares.

The second night, she jolted awake, breathless, clutching her chest.

“…Eyes,” she mumbled. “So many eyes…watching me…smiling…”

Astra held her hand. It was cold, trembling.

“Just dreams,” he said, unconvinced.

On the third dusk, they saw signs of people.

Not the station, but a merchant caravan.

Ten wagons rolled along a dirt road, silver hoof emblem on canopies, armed guards on horses. At the rear, a few ragged travelers followed, including two who stood out: a mother and child.

The woman looked thirty, with dark, backward-curving short horns at her temples, molten-gold eyes. Her daughter, about seven, had small horn buds, but the same golden eyes, now wide with fear.

Tieflings.

The map’s word surfaced. Astra pulled Sylas behind trees, observing. The caravan seemed normal, but tension hung thick.

“We’ll follow them,” Astra decided. “At least to the station.”

They trailed a hundred meters back, using cover. Half a day later, at a crossroads, three white-robed figures blocked the path.

“Halt!”

The lead robed man raised a hand. He was lean, sharp-eyed, gold trim on white robes, a sun-and-sword emblem on his chest. His companions held sword hilts.

The caravan guard captain—a bearded man—rode forward, forcing a smile. “We’re the ‘Silver Hoof Caravan,’ legit, with capital passes—”

“Tieflings,” the robed man cut in, staring past him at the mother and child. “The girl. Her horns have an unusual glow.”

The captain’s smile stiffened.

The mother shielded her daughter, golden eyes unwavering but fingers trembling.

“She’s just a child,” the captain argued. “Her mother’s worked with us three years, harmless—”

“The Conclave’s doctrine: all chaos-tainted blood must be cleansed,” the robed man said coldly. “Especially such…‘high-luminance’ individuals. They are chaos’s perfect vessels.”

He stepped forward. His companions followed.

The travelers shrank back, isolating the pair. The girl whimpered, clutching her mother.

The captain hesitated, hand on sword. No one moved. The Conclave’s name held power.

Astra watched from the trees.

He didn’t understand “Conclave” or “chaos,” but he understood the mother’s despair, the child’s fear. He understood bullying.

His body moved before his mind.

He found himself standing before the pair, shielding them from the robed men.

Silence fell.

All eyes on him—this sudden youth in strange silver-white robes, unarmed, calm.

The lead robed man narrowed his eyes.

“Who the hell are you?”

Astra didn’t answer. He didn’t know.

“Move,” the man snapped. “Interfere, and you share their fate.”

Astra stood firm.

The leader lost patience. A gesture, and his companion drew a sword, thrusting at Astra’s chest.

Fast, but not fast enough.

Astra sidestepped, grabbed the wrist, twisted. A crack, the sword clattered. Astra kicked the hilt into his left hand, pressing the blade to the man’s neck.

Two seconds flat.

The leader’s pupils shrank. “Mage? No, no elemental ripple…”

He drew his own sword. Light glowed along the blade, heat radiating. Aggressive, oppressive light.

“Last warning.”

Astra gripped the plain sword. It couldn’t match enchanted steel, but he had no choice. The whimpers behind him, the mother’s breath, something deeper drove him.

Must protect.

The thought burned in his soul.

The leader charged, sword like light. Astra parried, unenchanted steel sparking against light. The impact numbed his arm, the blade cracking.

A second strike. Astra dodged, his clothes sliced. A third thrust aimed at his heart—too late to evade—

Instinct took over.

His left hand rose, tracing the air.

Unthinking, pure will to block.

Golden patterns shimmered, intricate, ancient, solidifying into a translucent shield three feet before his palm.

Clang!

The light-sword struck the shield, metal ringing. The shield wavered but held.

The leader recoiled, stunned. “Light element?! No…this resonance…”

Astra stared at his left hand, the fading shield. Not Sylas’s warm light—this was hard, sharp, meant for defense and combat.

Similar to the opponent’s light, but fundamentally different.

“Enough!”

A clear voice cut through from the road.

Hooves pounded as a ten-strong cavalry unit arrived, led by two youths.

A girl about fourteen, riding a white horse, golden hair in a ponytail, blue eyes sharp. Light leather armor, sword at waist, short bow on back.

A boy slightly older, curly-haired, handsome, two ancient-looking swords at his hips. He reined in, gaze sweeping the scene, pausing on Astra, especially the silver-white robes, his pupils widening.

“Brulee Cyrus, of Cyrus’s Adventurer Station,” the girl announced, voice firm beyond her years. “This is Cyrus territory. Conclave members, you’ve overstepped.”

The lead robed man scowled. “We’re conducting cleansing—”

“Cleansing requires local church and sheriff approval,” Brulee interrupted. “Do you have Mellon Town permits? Sheriff’s warrant?”

Silence.

They didn’t.

“We had a tip—”

“Then bring paperwork next time,” Brulee said, riding closer. “Leave now, or I’ll arrest you for unlawful assembly and threatening civilians.”

The three robed men exchanged glances. Outnumbered, and the “Cyrus” name carried weight.

“Fine,” the leader sheathed his sword, cold eyes scanning Astra, the tieflings, then Brulee. “The Conclave will remember this.”

They left swiftly.

Brulee sighed, dismounting to approach the tieflings. “Aunt Alla, little Lily, you okay?”

The mother shook her head, holding her daughter. “Thank you very much, Miss Brulee…and this…” She looked at Astra, grateful.

Astra lowered the sword. The shield had faded, but warmth lingered in his palm. He stared at his hand, thoughts chaotic.

“You…”

Brulee walked over, looking up at him. She only reached his shoulders, but her presence was commanding. “Who are you? Where from? And these clothes…”

She reached out, fingertips lightly brushing the silver-white fabric at his sleeve. The touch was gentle, almost reverent.

Then she saw the faint, nearly invisible emblem: a circle with interlocking geometric lines, like a city’s blueprint.

Brulee’s breath hitched.

She turned sharply to her brother. Mikarl approached, his expression freezing at the emblem.

They exchanged a look—shock, disbelief, and…long-awaited anticipation.

“Come with me,” Brulee said softly, for Astra’s ears only. “No questions. Back to the station first. Grandpa…will want to see you.”

She paused, looking behind Astra.

Sylas stepped from the trees, joining her brother, wary of Brulee.

Seeing Sylas, her identical clothes and emblem, Brulee’s eyes brightened further. Controlling herself, she mounted.

“Mikarl, escort the caravan to the station. I’ll take these two ahead.”

She looked at Astra and Sylas, her blue eyes complex.

“It’s time you knew some things.”

As the sun set, Cyrus’s Adventurer Station appeared.

A stone-and-wood fortress-like structure, more outpost than mere station. Multi-level main building, stables, workshops, a perimeter wall, guards on watchtowers. Crowds of merchants, adventurers, travelers bustled, vibrant with life.

Brulee led them through a side gate, avoiding the main courtyard, down a corridor to a quiet backyard.

An old man stood in the center.

About sixty-five, white hair neatly combed. His left sleeve hung empty, fastened to his side with a strap. His right hand held an oak cane, but his back was straight as pine. Time had carved deep lines, but his gray eyes remained sharp, now fixed on the trio entering—especially the clothes Astra and Sylas wore.

“Grandpa,” Brulee said softly. “It’s them.”

Old Cyrus didn’t speak. He walked closer, steps steady, stopping before Astra. His gaze moved from the emblem to Astra’s face, then Sylas’s.

After a long moment, he reached out with his remaining hand, fingers trembling, touching the emblem on Astra’s sleeve.

“…Aethermark,” the old man’s voice was hoarse, suppressed excitement. “Three hundred years…the Cyrus family has waited three hundred years…”

He stepped back, inhaling deeply.

“I am Oliveia Cyrus, master of this station, current head of the Cyrus family.” He looked at Astra and Sylas, eyes complex. “Do you…remember who you are?”

Astra shook his head.

“Nothing. Only that we’re siblings. I’m Astra, she’s Sylas.”

Old Cyrus nodded as if expecting this. “Memory loss is normal…surviving that impact is miracle enough.”

He turned toward the main building. “Come. There are things you must see.”

Brulee gestured for them to follow. They ascended a narrow spiral staircase to a locked room on the top floor.

Old Cyrus unlocked the heavy oak door.

The room was small, windowless, stone-walled. A long table held a thick, weathered leather-bound book. Shelves displayed ancient artifacts: rusted swords, broken armor, inscribed stone tablets.

The old man opened the book.

Yellowed parchment, faded but legible. Hand-drawn illustrations: a silver city floating among clouds, towering walls, spires piercing the sky, light flowing through streets like rivers.

Caption in ancient script:

“Sky-City Aetherium, masterpiece of the ancient gods, Tilmia’s last watchful eye. Fell in the late Third Era, its people scattered, awaiting the rekindling of the Spark.”

Old Cyrus turned the page.

A larger illustration: two figures in silver-white armor standing side by side, one holding a sword, the other a shield. Their armor bore the clear circle-and-lines emblem.

“Aethermark, symbol of the Sky-City’s guardians, the Stellaguardians. Two types: Astra (primary offense) and Sylas (primary defense), usually existing as twins, their synergy surpassing individual power. They were Aetherium’s elite guard, final executors of the ‘Spark’ project.”

His finger rested on the words “Spark project.”

“Three hundred years ago, Sky-City Aetherium fell for unknown reasons. The Cyrus ancestor—then a peripheral contact in Luminara—received a final message: await the bearers of the Aethermark, assist them in completing the ‘Spark’ project.”

The old man looked up at Astra and Sylas.

“We’ve waited ten generations. Each family head passed down the secret, guarding this station, maintaining networks, searching for clues. Until today.”

He closed the book.

“You are the ‘Fallen Stars’ we’ve awaited.”

The backyard was dead silent.

Astra stared at the book, the illustrated figures resembling them. Fragments clashed in his mind: corridor, flight, metal box, a woman’s shout…

“What is the Spark?” he asked.

“Unknown,” Old Cyrus admitted. “The message only said it’s ‘key to reigniting destiny.’ Only you—the executors—would know.”

“But we remember nothing.”

“Memory will return. Until then—” The old man took a deep breath. “The Cyrus family will shelter you. Officially, you’re distant cousins, parents killed by monsters, here for refuge. Brulee and Mikarl will teach you this world’s ways. And those clothes…”

He paused. “Don’t wear them openly yet. The Aethermark is too conspicuous, especially to the Conclave.”

“What is the Conclave?” Sylas whispered.

Old Cyrus’s face darkened.

“An extremist sect. They worship ‘pure light,’ believe all non-human races, all ‘chaos-tainted’ beings must be cleansed. Growing rapidly, with supporters in the church and kingdom. Those you met are just low-ranking members.”

He looked at Astra.

“Your light ability—same origin as theirs, but different nature. They’ll notice you. Until you’re stronger, understand your mission, stay low-profile.”

Astra nodded. He understood.

“We’ll train you—combat, survival, this world’s rules,” Brulee said, eyes bright. “Grandpa’s arranged it. Starting tomorrow, Mikarl and I will train you.”

Old Cyrus took an ancient brass key from his robe, placing it in Astra’s hand.

“The station cellar key. Holds items…that might help you. When you’re ready, go see.”

The key was cold, heavy. Astra gripped it, feeling intricate patterns.

“Now, rest,” the old man smiled gently for the first time. “Rooms are ready. Bathe, eat. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Brulee led them out. In the corridor, she whispered, “Don’t worry. Cyruses keep promises. If Grandpa says you’re safe, you are.”

She added, “And…I’ve waited long for this. Grew up on sky-city tales, thought they were myths. Now myths are real. I’m glad.”

She smiled, showing small canine teeth, finally looking fourteen.

Astra watched her smile, some tension easing.

Maybe this was a place to stay.

Maybe they’d find answers.

That night, lying in a soft bed, Astra stared at the wooden ceiling. Next door, Sylas’s even breathing—exhausted, she slept.

He raised his hand, studying his palm.

With a thought, faint golden patterns glimmered under his skin. Warm, firm, full of protective strength.

“Stellaguardian…” he murmured.

Another fragment: a white temple, eleven altars circling, the figure kneeling at the light altar turning—

His own face.

At his waist, a complete, star-shimmering sword. On his back, a shield engraved with dawn light.

“Eleven…”

What did the number mean? The altars? The temple’s location?

Too many questions, too few answers.

But they had a starting point.

Astra lowered his hand, closing his eyes. Before sleep took him, one last thought:

Tomorrow, training begins.

They would grow strong. Strong enough to face any threat, reclaim their memories, complete the mysterious “Spark” project.

Whatever it was.

Whatever the cost.

Outside, moonlight bathed the yard. Old Cyrus stood alone, looking at the stars. He touched his empty left sleeve, whispering:

“Ancestors…I’ve found them. The rest…is up to them.”

The stars were silent, only the night wind whispering, carrying the murmur of the distant Darkwoods.

The murmur of chaos, of stirring shadows, of fate’s gears slowly engaging, emitting the first, almost inaudible—

Click.