The stars did not fall with noise or fire.
Instead, they drifted, soft as ash, slow as regret, blanketing the skies above Sanctum for three nights and three days. Each flake glimmered, ephemeral, settling on rooftops, the backs of silent wolves, and the palms of children who dared to reach for them. The city stilled beneath this celestial hush, the air trembling not with fear or awe, but with the sense that an ancient story had finally run out of pages.
Elara felt it deep in her bones. The certainty was not fear. It was not hope, either. It was the gravity of cycles ending, of prophecy folding in on itself and turning to dust. She stood on the balcony of the Moonstone Spire, barefoot, her hair unbound, and watched the stars fall. The magic in her veins pulsed quietly, softer now, a background note in the music of the world.
She let the wind chill her skin, let the silence fill her. This, she realized, was peace. Not the peace bought by victory, but the peace that comes after surrender
