The last light of the dying sun painted the sky in hues of bruised plum and fading amber as Elara stepped out from the shadowed maw of the Archives. Dust — ancient and clinging — still powdered her tunic, proof of hours spent hunched over crumbling scrolls and forgotten star charts.
Her fingers, stained with ink and the faint metallic scent of old parchment, clutched a single, brittle scroll. Upon it, a constellation — unlike any known to Aeridor's scholars — shimmered faintly, its lines drawn in an unfamiliar hand.
For generations, the people of Aeridor had studied the night sky's familiar patterns, using them to guide ships across the obsidian seas and track the passage of seasons. But the parchment Elara held spoke of something different: a star called the Whisper, said to appear only once every thousand years — a harbinger of either a golden age of prosperity or a descent into an era of profound darkness.
The legends were vague. Contradictory. Often dismissed as superstition.
Yet something in those delicate, almost-living lines stirred a feeling deep within Elara — like the echo of a forgotten melody.
She walked through the bustling market, passing stalls filled with spiced bread and rare fruits. Normally, the scents and sounds of Silverwood soothed her. But tonight, the city — usually so full of life — felt strangely muted, as though holding its breath.
Or perhaps it was just her.
Back at her modest apartment, overlooking Silverwood's tiled rooftops, she gently spread the parchment out on her worn wooden table. A flickering oil lamp cast golden shadows across the fragile page.
The constellation — a swirl of seven stars, all pointing toward a single, brighter center — seemed to shimmer beneath the flame.
Beside it, text written in an ancient, near-illegible script whispered secrets of a "key" and a "song."
> "A key to what?" she murmured, fingers brushing the faded ink.
"And a song for a star?"
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