The stars were watching her again.
Lyra Virelle stood at the edge of the cliff, eyes reflecting the distant shimmer of fractured constellations. Space was too quiet tonight. Even the wind on her forgotten moon felt hesitant, like it, too, was holding its breath.
She wrapped her arms around herself, not because she was cold—but because something had shifted in the universe. She could feel it in her bones, like static crawling under her skin.
It was never just wind. Never just silence.
Lyra had lived in hiding long enough to know the signs of a coming storm.
Her boots crunched softly over silver dust as she turned back toward the cavern she called home, but she didn't get far.
The sky split open.
A tear of darkness, jagged and burning violet, ripped across the stars. A soundless boom followed—louder in her chest than her ears. Something was falling. Fast.
No, crashing.
Lyra's eyes widened as the fireball pierced the atmosphere and slammed into the outer ridge. The impact shook the ground beneath her, sending a wave of dust and heat in every direction. The horizon flared with a dark, eerie glow.
She didn't hesitate.
Her instincts screamed to run the other way. But her feet moved forward, driven by something deeper than curiosity. Magic. Fate. Or perhaps something far more dangerous.
The air thickened as she reached the crash site. Smoke curled into the stars. The wreckage was still smoldering—a pod, not a ship, built of unfamiliar alloy scorched black by atmospheric burn. Runes pulsed faintly along its outer shell.
This wasn't from any friendly fleet.
Lyra raised her palm, conjuring a soft orb of blue flame. It hovered beside her, casting light over the wreck. She took cautious steps forward.
The pod hissed.
Metal groaned.
A piece of the hull slid open with a shriek, and the smoke poured out in violent clouds. Lyra stepped back instinctively—until something moved inside.
A man.
No—not a man.
He staggered forward, falling to one knee. His hair, damp with sweat and blood, clung to his forehead. His chest rose and fell in uneven gasps. He wore dark armor, cracked and broken across one shoulder, revealing skin marred with jagged scars and glowing red markings that pulsed like veins of lava.
And then she saw them—horns.
Small, curved obsidian horns coiled from his temples like a crown of shadows.
Devil.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice low but firm, one hand ready to summon magic if needed.
The man—creature—lifted his head.
His eyes were molten gold, burning from within. But they weren't wild. They were sharp. Calculating.
And tired.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his bloodied lips.
"A devil," he rasped. "Obviously."
He coughed, wincing as he tried to stand. Lyra didn't help him. She should have left him here. Let the stars finish what they started.
Instead, she stepped closer.
"You fell out of the sky," she said quietly.
"I was pushed," he muttered, voice like gravel and smoke. "And you…"
His eyes narrowed on her. A flicker of recognition—or something deeper—crossed his face.
"You smell like magic."
Lyra stiffened. She clenched her jaw, eyes flashing.
That was not something he should know. Not something anyone should know.
"Get away from here," she said sharply.
He tilted his head. Even barely conscious, he looked infuriatingly amused.
"Didn't you just save me?"
"I didn't say I would again."
He chuckled, dark and low, but it ended in a groan as he swayed on his feet.
Then—he collapsed.
Lyra stood frozen. She could walk away. Leave him to whatever poison was burning through his body. This was not her war.
But the stars had sent him here. And magic never made mistakes.
She cursed under her breath.
Then bent down beside the fallen devil.
____________________________________________________________
Dragging a full-grown half-demon into a hidden cavern wasn't exactly part of Lyra's evening plans.
But here she was.
He lay on the stone cot in the deepest part of her sanctuary, still unconscious. Sweat clung to his skin. Whatever power he had—it was burning him from the inside.
Lyra summoned water from the cave's source, letting it cool across his forehead. The moment the water touched him, his skin sizzled faintly.
She blinked.
"Hellfire," she whispered. "You really are what you say."
His body stirred. His lips parted, and he murmured something in a language long forgotten. Lyra leaned closer, recognizing the ancient tongue. She only understood one word.
"Bonded."
She pulled away.
No. That wasn't possible. She didn't believe in cosmic bonds. She didn't believe in devils with golden eyes or broken warriors who landed at her feet like cursed prayers.
But she did believe in signs.
And this… was one of them.
She sat beside him, just out of reach, wrapping her cloak tighter. She'd wait for him to wake. Ask her questions. Get her answers.
And then send him back to the hell he came from.
Because no matter how beautiful the devil was…She wasn't stupid enough to fall for one.
Was she?