The stars bled silver that night.
Aurea Starling stood barefoot on the edge of the forest, her nightgown clinging to her as wind rustled the pine leaves like a warning whispered from the old gods. The cold bit through her skin, but she didn't move. Her chest was rising too fast. Her fingertips were tingling. Something ancient—something wrong—was stirring in her blood.
Tonight was the Festival of Falling Stars. She should've been back at the village square, dancing under lanterns, laughing with people she barely knew but had grown up alongside. Instead, she was here. Because something had called to her.
And now… it was inside her.
She fell to her knees, gasping as pain lanced through her spine. Her vision blurred as stars fell from the heavens—no, they shot—searing trails of white fire across the sky, so bright she thought her soul might split in two.
No. Three.
Her heartbeat thundered as light erupted across her collarbone. She looked down—
And screamed.
Glowing marks were blooming on her skin: three sigils, each foreign, each pulsing with a different color—storm-blue, shadow-black, and celestial gold. They spiraled around her like chains etched into her flesh.
What is this? What is happening to me?
A voice—no, three voices layered into one—whispered in her mind:
You have been chosen.
You are the Oracle.
And you belong to us.
She stumbled back, breath catching in her throat. The forest pulsed around her like it, too, had come alive. Trees bent inward, shadows gathered, and in the space between two heartbeats, the air rippled—
And he stepped out.
A man, tall and unyielding, armored in silver and stormclouds, eyes like summer lightning. His presence pressed down on the world like a thunderclap held back by sheer will.
"You're earlier than I expected," he said, voice low, clipped.
She backed away. "Who are you?"
He stepped forward. "You carry my mark. The Stormbind. You are mine."
"Excuse me?"
"You'll understand soon enough," he said. "But you need to come with me, now. The others will be drawn to you soon. And they won't be as gentle."
"Gentle? You just told me I'm yours!"
"You are," he said simply. "But I'm trying not to terrify you."
Too late.
Aurea turned and ran.
Branches tore at her arms, her feet pounded over root and stone, and her mind screamed wake up, this isn't real, but the mark on her collarbone burned hotter with each step. The wind howled behind her—
And then, he was in front of her, impossibly fast.
She slammed into his chest, hard and unmovable. His arms closed around her like a trap, one hand curling behind her head.
"You can't run from this," he murmured. "From us."
She struggled. "I didn't choose this!"
"No," he said, his breath warm against her temple. "But fate did. And fate never makes mistakes."
Her vision blurred again—not from pain, but from something sharper: a rush of memory that wasn't hers. A battlefield. A throne of stars. Three hands reaching toward her. A kiss that seared her soul.
When she opened her eyes, he was gone.
But the marks remained.
So did the echo of that voice:
You have been claimed. By storm, by shadow, by starlight.
You are not one. You are all.
To be continued…