Aurea dreamed of fire.
Not the kind that burned—but the kind that sang.
Golden threads poured through her veins, weaving into the shape of a song she'd never heard before, yet somehow knew. It called to her—not with words, but with memories she didn't own.
She stood beneath constellations that moved like breathing creatures.
In the center of the sky, a man waited.
Hair like sunlight on fresh snow.
Eyes like constellations drowned in honey and shadow.
And a voice that whispered, "Wake."
She woke in the middle of the night.
Sweat-drenched, lungs gasping, heart thundering as if it wanted to escape her ribs. The room was quiet—but the stars outside her window weren't right.
They were… moving.
No. Aligning.
Forming a shape—the third mark. A ring of ancient glyphs she'd never studied, yet suddenly knew. In her chest, the golden sigil flared to life.
Aurea bolted to her feet. Her body moved before thought could catch it. She threw on her cloak, boots, and burst through the door.
This time, she wasn't pulled into the forest.
She was pulled upward.
The village sat on the edge of a forgotten cliff—high enough that no one dared climb its jagged height.
But Aurea climbed anyway.
As if the wind had ceased to matter. As if the rock bent itself to her steps. She didn't look down. Didn't pause. Because she knew—he was waiting.
At the summit, wind howled through broken stones.
And there, standing beneath the starlight like a prayer given form, was the third.
He did not speak at first.
He merely turned, slowly, and gazed at her as if she were more real than anything else in the world.
She stopped. Her breath caught.
His robes were woven of moonlight and dusk. His skin bore faint veins of glowing silver, and his ears—slightly pointed—hinted at something not fully human.
He radiated something celestial.
"I heard you," she whispered, not knowing how she knew. "In the dream."
His eyes softened. "Then it begins."
"You're the third," she said.
"No," he corrected gently. "I'm the first."
She blinked. "But—"
"I was born to the stars, shaped by the Old Tongue, raised by silence and prophecy. Long before you took your first breath, Aurea, I knew your name."
The way he spoke it—it wasn't romantic.
It was reverent.
Like her name was an incantation.
She stepped back. "Don't do that. Don't treat me like I'm… some kind of chosen relic."
He tilted his head. "But you are. You were never meant to be ordinary. The world does not mark three champions to guard a baker's daughter."
Aurea froze.
"How do you know that's what I am?"
His expression was unreadable. "Because you're not. You were hidden. Your blood sings with forbidden syllables. You are not human, Aurea. Not fully."
She laughed—shaky and scared. "That's ridiculous."
He stepped forward. "Then explain why your eyes shine in the dark. Why your touch can command storms, whisper to shadows, awaken ancient memory."
She didn't answer.
Because she couldn't.
He offered a hand, palm glowing gold. "I am Eryan, of the Starforged Line. The last of the Astrael. And I am yours."
Her heart twisted.
"I didn't choose this," she whispered.
"None of us did," he said, softly. "But fate is no longer asking."
And then he kissed her forehead.
Not out of desire.
But devotion.
And the third sigil—celestial gold—burned to life across her skin.
Aurea collapsed.
Not from pain.
But from truth.
When she awoke again, she was lying on stone.
The stars were gone. Eryan was gone.
But the three sigils on her body now glowed in harmony—storm-blue, shadow-black, and celestial gold.
And far beneath the earth, something stirred.
A voice older than time whispered:
"The Oracle awakens. The Seals begin to crack. And the Chosen has been found."