It happened without warning. One moment, the night sky above Oakhaven was blazing with constellations I’d spent weeks memorizing — patterns I’d catalogued the way I once indexed databases. The next moment, they were gone. Every single one.
Torin noticed first. He was on watch when the sky went black. Not cloudy-black — empty-black. No stars, no moons, just an abyss that seemed to swallow light itself. He woke the rest of us with a whisper that carried more fear than any shout.
“This isn’t natural,” Lyra said, her fingers already weaving diagnostic spells. The magic came back wrong — her diagnostic circle flickered and died, something I’d never seen happen before. Magic failing is like watching a computer crash in slow motion. Disturbing on a fundamental level.
I did what I do best: I started gathering data. Temperature dropping. Atmospheric pressure shifting in patterns that suggested something massive moving above us. The village animals were silent — no dogs barking, no owls hooting. Even the insects had stopped.
Silas was the one who figured it out. He’d seen something like this before, years ago, in the underground cities beneath the Thornwood. “Void Eclipse,” he muttered, his face pale. “Someone’s opening a gate to the space between realms.”
We spent the rest of the night in the village square, weapons ready, watching a sky that watched us back. The stars returned at dawn, one by one, as if embarrassed by their absence. But something was different. Three constellations were missing. And in their place, new stars burned — ones I’d never seen before, in patterns that made my skin crawl.
Whatever opened that gate left something behind. And I intend to find out what.
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