"You told him, then." Demeterra's voice cut through the quiet of the chamber, steady and firm, yet threaded with concern. Her eyes, sharp as they always were, softened only slightly as they rested on Gin. "After all we've discussed, after all the risks…you actually told him."

Gin merely nodded, his usual playful aura subdued. The light around him flickered faintly, shadows dancing across the walls. "Most believe me to be the force of catastrophe," he said, his voice deep and even, "neigh, I've never truly been. I took that mantle so that people would fear me, that they would pay heed when danger approaches. I am…its warning cry."

Leraje, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, tilted his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. "And yet, here you are, standing in front of us, confessing it like some repentant bard." His voice was teasing, but his eyes betrayed a subtle unease. "The boy now knows what's coming. Do you think that will make him stronger…or break him before the lesson begins?"

Gin's gaze did not waver. "He will not break. He has the fire, the cunning, the adaptability. But he does not yet understand the scale of the storm. I cannot afford him ignorance."

Demeterra's hands tightened around the arms of her chair, a slight tremor betraying her own fear. "You risk everything by revealing it. By placing the weight of the world on his shoulders before he is ready…you could create the very catastrophe you aim to prevent. Do you understand that, Gin?"

"Perfectly," Gin replied. His tone was calm, almost clinical, but his eyes flickered with a rare glint of something like solemnity. "I am not careless. Alexander will learn, or he will die trying. But if he never sees the full scope, never feels the urgency…he will fail regardless. I've given him the map; now he must navigate the maze himself."

Leraje's smirk faded, replaced by a measured nod. "So, this is your gamble. You give him the knowledge of the disaster, the weight of responsibility, and hope his resilience outweighs his fear."

Gin inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the truth in her words. "Yes. I am the warning. He is the sword. If the sword is not tempered by knowledge of the storm, it will bend and break. Better he bear the burden now than be shattered later."

Demeterra exhaled slowly, her expression softening, though the lines of worry remained. "And you…you truly believe he can wield the sword without succumbing to the shadow?"

Gin's smile returned, faint and sardonic this time, but it carried the weight of conviction. "He must. And he will. Alexander is no ordinary mortal, nor is he a simple Prince of Alizade. He has survived trials that would have broken kings, Walkers, and heroes alike. This…this is but another trial. One for which he is meant."

Leraje let out a soft whistle, almost impressed. "You make it sound so easy when it is anything but. Thirty-one days. That is no small feat, even for someone like him. And yet…you sound certain he will succeed."

Gin's eyes flicked to her briefly, then back to the empty chamber beyond their table. "Certainty is a luxury I cannot afford. Faith, however…faith is all I have. Faith in his resilience, in his cunning, and in the choices he will make when the world's weight is pressing against his shoulders. That is why I told him. To ensure he has no illusions. To force the fire to forge steel, rather than ash."

Demeterra's gaze softened, though her voice remained measured. "Then we watch. We guide, we observe, and we step in only when absolutely necessary. But know this, Gin: if he falters, if he bends too far into the abyss…then it will not just be him who suffers. The consequences will ripple across everything we hold dear."

Gin's lips curved into a shadow of his usual grin, almost bitter in its truth. "I know. I have calculated it all. The cost of failure is…high. But the cost of ignorance is higher. Alexander must face it, must see it, must learn. And if he survives…then perhaps, just perhaps, the storm can be tamed."

Leraje shifted, resting his hands on his hips, his voice lighter though edged with curiosity. "You sound almost…admiring, in a way. You've never spoken like that about anyone before."

Gin's gaze lingered on the horizon beyond the chamber's window, where the light of dawn just began to crest. "Admiration is not the word. Respect, perhaps. Recognition. He is the first in decades who may stand against what I represent, who may turn calamity into opportunity rather than despair. And if he fails…well…" His voice dropped to a whisper, almost lost in the shadows, "…then at least the warning will be heard."

Demeterra nodded slowly, her sternness mingled with a quiet hope. "Then we let him rise to the challenge. But remember, Gin…every choice you made to prepare him will ripple. Even your warning has consequences."

Gin inclined his head once, the flicker of manalight casting brief shadows across his sharp features. "I know. And yet, I would rather face the consequences than leave him blind. The time for illusions is over. Alexander will see the storm in full, and he will decide whether to stand or fall beneath it."

Leraje let out a low hum, half in approval, half in anticipation. "Then may the boy's steel be as strong as your shadows, Gin. We'll see soon enough whether he is ready for what comes."

The chamber fell into silence after that, save for the faint crackle of candlelight and the hum of distant manalights. Outside, the world continued unaware, blissfully ignorant of the impending trial, the ticking clock of thirty-one days, and the storm that was already beginning to gather.

Gin's voice finally broke the stillness, soft but sharp: "He has no choice. And neither do we."

***

The air was thick, heavy with a scent that made most mortals uneasy—a mixture of ozone, dust, and something far older, far hungrier. In the shadows above the ruined cathedral, a pair of wings, black and ragged, stirred. The fallen angel perched there, hunched over itself as though savoring the moment, talons flexing against the cracked stone.

"A mortal," it whispered to no one but itself, voice silky and serpentine, "a mortal has awakened it. Star Mana… the lifeblood of the cosmos, the pulse that ties worlds together. And he—oh, he dares to hold it. To wield it. To make it sing with his own hands."

Its eyes glimmered in the dim light, two specks of molten gold scanning the horizon, seeing beyond the broken arches and shattered stained glass into realms the living could not comprehend. "Delicious," it hissed. "Yes… yes, delicious. To devour such power… to let it unravel between my teeth. The warmth of life, the fire of potential, the raw, unformed starlight—all yours, little one. And the world around you… oh, the world itself will taste of you. Sweet, sharp, brimming with the essence of mortality stretched thin across the cosmos."

It flexed its wings, black feathers catching what little light remained, ruffling with anticipation. "I will not simply watch. No. I will taste. I will consume. First you… then the lands you command, the skies you walk beneath, the seas that cradle your cities. Every living thing will feed the hunger, and oh, how it will echo… from here, to there, to every star-touched world that bends beneath its own gravity."

The fallen angel's smile stretched unnaturally wide, teeth glinting as it leaned forward over the edge of the balcony. "And the others," it murmured, voice dropping to a throaty purr. "Other realms… Otherrealms, brimming with those who think themselves immortal. Naive, foolish. You have awakened the pulse, the spark, the forbidden taste of starlight in flesh and bone. Soon, very soon, I will have them too. Each world will drench me with flavor, each life a morsel to savor."

It paused, tilting its head to catch a shaft of sunlight that filtered through the fractured windows, illuminating its hollow, obsidian eyes. "And you, little star-wielder… you will be the first. The brightest. The most delectable. How… divine."

Its wings stretched fully, brushing the broken stone floor, and the air seemed to bend slightly under the weight of its presence. Every heartbeat, every breath of the ruined cathedral, vibrated with anticipation as it whispered again, almost a chant now:

"The universe has never known hunger like mine. The stars themselves would cry if they could taste the flavor I seek. And you, little mortal, have put yourself squarely on the menu. How… exquisite."

The fallen angel crouched lower, wings folding like a predator about to leap. Shadows pooled around it, a darkness that seemed to thirst as much as it did. Its gaze never left the horizon. "I will wait. I will watch. And when the time comes… every bite, every morsel, every spark of starlight… will be mine. Yours first, Star Mana. Then everything that dares to shine in its presence."

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A long, low hum slithered from its throat, vibrating through the cathedral like a promise and a threat combined. The wind carried the faintest echo, almost musical, almost alive. And as the sun crept higher over the jagged ruins, the angel leaned back, wings stretching fully once more, eyes closed… savoring the future feast.

***

Far above, in a court carved from jagged obsidian and writhing roots, the air trembled with tension. Torches burned green, illuminating the twisted forms of creatures that had no right to exist in the eyes of mortals—horned lords, winged predators, and serpentine beasts, all gathered around a throne made of bone and rusting iron. Their chittering, growling, and clicking filled the hall like the hum of a thousand insects.

"Who will it be?" hissed a scaled councilor, his claws tapping on the throne steps. "Who dares to train the star-wielder? None of us should waste ourselves on a mortal child."

"Waste ourselves?" another growled, wings flaring. "He is not just a mortal. Do you feel the pulse he carries? It is a shard of the cosmos. A morsel of starlight… and it screams for refinement. If left unguarded, he will die—or worse, awaken a calamity beyond our bounds!"

A smaller, wiry creature, fur bristling and eyes glowing crimson, spoke with a voice like gravel and venom. "Let me go. I will tear the Star Mana from him, break it, and make it mine."

The council erupted in furious noise, shrieks and growls cutting across one another. "Silence!" bellowed the voice of the presiding entity, tall, almost skeletal, crowned with a halo of living fire. The hall shivered under the command. "We do not seek to devour yet. We seek to prepare. The mortal child rises, and with him, all that is connected to the starlight stirs. We do not act to consume. We act to teach—to sharpen, to ready."

The council fell quiet, and a low murmur ran through the beasts. Eyes shifted. Talons scraped. The tall figure's gaze swept the hall. "Who among you has the skill, the cunning, and the patience to guide him? Not with steel, not with fire, but with the knowledge of monsters, the understanding of predator and prey?"

A slow, deliberate chuckle rippled through the shadows. A massive form slouched forward, antlers twisting in impossible angles, fur matted and dark as night. Its eyes glimmered with an intelligence sharper than any blade. "Ratatosk," it said, voice deep and resonant, shaking the walls like a quake. "I am Ratatosk, Lord of Monsters. I have walked through the chaos of countless worlds, learned the hunger and cunning of beasts, and mastered the manipulation of mind, body, and fear. Send me to the star-wielder. I will teach him to survive what comes."

Murmurs of approval, some nervous, some reverent, echoed through the court. Another voice, high-pitched and serpentine, hissed: "And the price?"

Ratatosk's antlers rattled. "The price is obedience. He learns, or he dies. The child must be taught before the shadow consumes him. I will go, if the council agrees, and if I am not doubted."

The skeletal figure, halo of fire shifting like molten gold, nodded once. "Agreed. Send Ratatosk. He will tutor the Star Mana bearer. He will teach him the ways of monsters, the cunning of predators, the patience of hunters, and the cruelty of survival. All others are dismissed from the matter. Let none forget—the boy is not merely mortal. He is the spark of a storm we have long watched, and it will be delicious if guided… or catastrophic if not."

The council erupted into a mix of growls, clicks, and purrs. Many clawed at one another in excitement or frustration. But the ruling voice silenced them once more. "Prepare him. Watch him. Ratatosk leaves at once. We shall see if the Star-Wielder is worth the taste of the universe."

Ratatosk's eyes glimmered, antlers casting monstrous shadows across the hall. "Very well," it rumbled. "Let the mortal live long enough to understand the world he will inherit—and the monsters that will teach him."

The throne hall fell into a tense, expectant quiet as the decision solidified. A predator had been chosen, a teacher, a guide into the abyss. And somewhere, in a distant mortal realm, the pulse of starlight stirred, unaware of the shadowed tutelage that would soon descend upon him.

***

Alexandria knelt in the quiet of her private chapel, the flickering manalight casting long shadows across the stained glass. Her hands were pressed together, the edges of her fingers trembling as she whispered prayers in every tongue she knew—some ancient, some mortal, some lost even to the halls of the devout. She prayed to the stars, to the old gods, to the Archons she had never met, and even to the small spirits of the mortal realm, begging for mercy, guidance, and protection.

"Please," she murmured, her voice barely above the hum of the candles. "Let this Catastrophe never come. Let it pass, unnoticed, undone, unclaimed." Her eyes glistened as they scanned the rows of icons and relics before her, each one a silent witness to her desperate entreaty.

And then, as if the universe itself answered her pleas in cruel fashion, her gaze fell to the palms of her hands.

There it was. The mark. Black ink, almost pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat, etched across the soft flesh of her skin. A countdown. Thirty-one days, measured now in hours, minutes, and seconds. The numbers ticked down relentlessly, counting off each passing moment with mechanical precision.

She inhaled sharply, tracing the digits with a trembling finger. The edges of the ink shimmered slightly, as though alive, imbued with a power she neither commanded nor understood. The seconds were slipping through her fingers faster than she could grasp, each one a hammer against her resolve.

Her knees dug into the cold stone of the chapel floor. She bowed her head further, pressing her forehead against the rough-hewn altar. "I… I cannot let this happen," she whispered. Her voice shook, but she steeled herself, summoning the authority that had guided her through battles, courts, and the endless tide of mortal scheming. "By all that watches, by all that is owed, by every soul who has cried in fear and hope… I swear. I will do everything in my power to prevent it. I will hold the balance. I will guard the world, even if it costs me everything."

The numbers continued to tick, black ink spreading faintly along her skin as if tasting the gravity of her resolve. She flexed her fingers, willing the magic to stay contained, willing the time to halt, and for a moment, the chapel seemed to pulse in quiet anticipation. The air felt heavier, the shadows longer, and the distant hum of the city below quieter, as if all creation was holding its breath with her.

A cold draft brushed past her shoulders, and Alexandria looked up, squinting through the wavering manalight. She could feel the presence of something watching, not threatening, but attentive—an unseen audience weighing her sincerity, her resolve, her desperation. Her lips parted, and she spoke again, softer this time, but with the sharp clarity of one laying bare her soul.

"Let me be ready," she whispered, "for I do not know what comes, but I will meet it. Let the Catastrophe, if it dares, find me unbroken, unwavering, and prepared."

Her hands, still marked with the relentless countdown, trembled slightly as the ink pulsed once more. Thirty-one days in hours. Thirty-one days in which the world might crumble—or she might rise to meet it.

And as the last flicker of manalight danced across her determined face, she bowed her head again, murmuring one final plea:

"By every star that burns, by every soul that watches, let this world survive, and let me not fail."

The black ink continued to tick, relentless, visible, and unforgiving. Thirty-one days. Every second a drumbeat of inevitability.

***

High above the mortal plane, the Court of the Seraphs convened in their radiant hall, a chamber of starlit crystal and radiant pillars, each carved with the echoes of eons. Their wings shimmered like living light, folding and unfolding as voices—voices of authority and judgment—reverberated across the hall.

"The Cluster at Veridion is under threat," one elder intoned, their voice fracturing into harmonics that touched every corner of the chamber. "A Fallen approaches. Its corruption will not stop at mere destruction; it seeks to consume and unravel."

A ripple of acknowledgment passed through the court. Even here, among beings who had shaped realms, the presence of a Fallen brought unease.

"Who among us shall be sent?" asked a younger Seraph, its crystalline feathers catching the light. "This is no task for mere strength. The one who goes must be capable of more than combat. Strategy, foresight, and resilience will be required."

Names were suggested and dismissed: those seasoned in battle, those whose wisdom spanned centuries, those who commanded powers that bent reality itself. Each had merit, but none were without risk.

"The Fallen is cunning," another Seraph added. "It will exploit any arrogance or weakness. We must not send one who merely excels in war, but one who can guide, anticipate, and outmaneuver. The Cluster must be defended—and preserved for what is to come."

Debate continued. Some argued for sheer ferocity, others for subtlety, deception, and intelligence. A few suggested sending a pair, one for protection and one for counsel, but the logistics of interference and the sacred rules of the Court forbade splitting authority.

Finally, the eldest Seraph, wings folded and eyes deep pools of ancient light, spoke. "Then we send Fortitudo. Not merely a warrior, not merely a tactician, but one who embodies steadfastness, endurance, and absolute resolve. The Fallen must be met with equal measure in cunning and strength. Fortitudo alone is capable of this task."

Murmurs of assent echoed across the hall, a silent, reverberating agreement that carried the weight of cosmic law. The decision was final: the defender would come from the Court itself, one who could wield judgment as easily as power, who could anticipate the Fallen's moves before they were made.

"Let it be recorded," the eldest Seraph continued, "Fortitudo shall defend the Cluster. The Court shall watch and intervene only as needed. The Fallen's approach is inevitable, but so is our vigilance. Should Fortitudo fail, the consequences will be borne across realms."

The council dispersed, a ripple of light and authority, leaving in its wake a singular certainty: one of their own would stand against the Fallen, guarding the Cluster with every ounce of celestial power at their command.

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