Astraia huffed and made her way over to Orion to retrieve the vanilla soap she had taken with her from the Capri Inn.
Standing next to her horse, giving him well deserved neck scratches, she glanced up at the black void, and for a second, she thought she saw a glimmer of light in the dense blackness. Blinking, she shook her head and looked ahead at the stream a few yards away.
Regret filled her. There in the moonlit waters was Draven, shirtless. His muscles rippled in the moonbeams. His hair glistened with the luminescence. She had the sudden thought of being held in those arms, running her fingers through his untamed hair as he held her close to him.
Heat rose to her face, knowing full well that it was not her bond flaring causing this reaction.
“Stars save me,” she whispered, unable to tear her gaze away from the sight of him.
He turned, his back to her, shadowed by the night. Astraia noticed several elaborate tattoos covering most of his torso and arms as well as scars, long slashes that marred his perfect body. She wondered what could have made those scars, or who.
Just then, she noticed a different set of markings, right in the middle of his spine. These were different, not as dark as the tattoos, but not as light as healed scars. She squinted in the dark, trying to decipher the markings, when he turned.
Draven’s eyes found hers, almost as if he sensed her watching him.
She averted her eyes, returning to the task of retrieving her vanilla soap, forcing down her embarrassment.
Splashing and quiet footsteps approached the campfire.
“Enjoying the view, Starborne?” His voice was low, husky again, a hint of a challenge in his tone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, bounty hunter,” she snapped, yanking her cloak from Orion’s saddlebag and storming off toward the stream.
She made sure to stay behind a tree beside the stream to bathe, preventing any further embarrassment by overexposing herself. The water was cool, but not unbearable as she scrubbed off the sweat from traveling and training.
In the moonlight, she could faintly make out her lumenmark. The sigil of the Constellations, a sign of being Starborne, only appeared when you were chosen by the Stars.
Not everyone was chosen for the bond. Only those who demonstrated the trait of a constellation to its highest degree were bestowed abilities.
Astraia’s Sacrifice lumenmark appeared when she was only twelve. She had accepted blame for one of Elion’s mischievous tricks, but her father had been in an unforgiving mood. He had whipped her with a rod, twelve times to match her age, a lashing for every year of “being a disappointment,” he had said. That night, while she wept as Elion dressed her wounds, the lumenmark had illuminated her skin—branding her as Starborne.
Etched into the smooth flesh of the left side of her chest just below her collarbone, the mark shimmered faintly beneath her skin—a constellation of golden light, each star a precise, gleaming point woven in a graceful arc that mirrored the sacred formation of Pegasus in the heavens.
The mark was not static. Itbreathedwith her, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of her heartbeat, waxing brighter in momentsof pain, and dimming when her thoughts were calm. The central star mark, just below the curve of her shoulder, burned the brightest.
And when she flared—when the bond ignited with purpose—the entire lumenmark blazed with celestial fire, lighting her skin from within like a divine brand. Lines of fine, thread-like gold connected the celestial points in an elegant silhouette—wings flared wide, head bowed not in defeat, but in defiant grace.
At a glance, it resembled a winged steed mid-flight—but to those who looked closer, it was a story written in Starlight: of selflessness, of strength tempered with sorrow, of a girl who would burn for others before she’d ever let them fall.
She traced her fingers gingerly over the mark. The healing abilities of Sacrifice were always a comfort to her. A drop of mending in a shattered world.
Her second lumenmark dotted the middle of her spine, a tribute to the constellation Canis Major, the white wolf. Power was one of the few constellations that had dared challenge Dominion in the Celestial War—a noble but ultimately futile effort.
Astraia had refused to acknowledge the brand on her back. She had even contemplated carving it out of her skin, as if this would somehow sever the bond with Power.
Yet tonight, for the first time in five years, she was no longer afraid of the golden etchings adorning her.
Just to prove her reformation, she let Power glide from her center, remembering Draven’s instruction to use the world as her anchor, not just her own resolve. Warmth pooled in her core, tingling as it surged up her spine and into her limbs. The sensation was exhilarating—like fire and light dancing through her blood. Her skin began to glow, a pale white gold, until even the surface of the stream shimmered with refracted Starlight.
She smiled, euphoric. For the first time, she knew Power belonged to her. That she belonged to herself.
But then—a crack.
A tremor ran through her limbs. The light pulsed once, then again—brighter, hotter, erratic.
Her grin faltered.
The tether slipped. Just slightly.
