Beneath a Dying Sky

Prologue

     The sky above Elydris was an expanse of obsidian, fractured by the pulse of distant starships that drifted like malevolent gods watching from beyond. The once-pristine city, known for its towering spires of crystal and steel, was now bathed in the blood-orange glow of ruin. Below, streets that had thrived with life were swallowed by shadow, crumbling under the weight of battle. The distant echo of destruction rang out as another of the city's gleaming towers collapsed, its fall sending tremors that rippled across the surface of the planet.

     In the heart of the chaos, Lior moved like a shadow. His body was covered in ash and dirt, his breath ragged. Beneath the flickering streetlights, his armor, though tattered and worn, glimmered faintly—a testament to battles fought and scars earned. His hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his blade, its surface etched with ancient runes that pulsed weakly in the dark. There was no time to think of the fallen or to mourn the losses. The only thing that kept him moving was the mission. If they failed now, Elydris would be the first, but certainly not the last, to fall.

     Ahead, in the upper echelons of the city, the noble houses gathered in panic, retreating to their ivory palaces as their empire crumbled around them. Caius was among them. The prince—perfect, aloof, untouchable. Lior had seen him only once, standing on a dais during a victory parade, a beacon of everything Lior had grown to hate. But this wasn't about old grudges. Not anymore.

     The sky cracked open, and the invaders descended. Their ships were unlike anything Astraea had seen, their edges too sharp, their forms too fluid—as though the laws of nature bent under their will. Lior's stomach clenched at the sight, and despite all his anger, all his defiance, fear twisted in his gut.

     Suddenly, an explosion tore through the ground ahead, sending him sprawling. The heat was suffocating, the light blinding. His ears rang, but through the haze, a figure emerged—tall, regal, unscathed by the destruction that had consumed the city.

Caius.

     He stood amidst the wreckage, a picture of cold perfection, his platinum hair catching the dying light. His eyes were devoid of fear, calculating and sharp, and yet, for a moment, they locked with Lior's—just long enough for Lior to wonder if the prince saw him as more than the rebel scum he'd been branded as.

     But there was no time for reflection. The invaders had arrived. And Astraea would never be the same again.