Awakening of the Starborne (The Game of Endings and Beginnings #1)

Prologue

Ablur of gold whirls for my face, punching through my translucent strands as I narrowly dodge the package chucked at me by a frantic Carrier-Drake.

I might pity the poor Drake, if I had any fucks left to give.

I unravel the folded parchment to reveal my new uniform. They’re cutting it awfully close.

The door exhales a creaking complaint as I enter one last time to slap on my new outfit.

My nostrils flare. Gloom hangs heavy in the air as the memories I’ve tried to repress creep up the walls like haunted vines, gouging out to drag me into their clutches.

I imagine another layer of frost sprawling up along my ribs as I slip into my new leathers.

The door slams shut behind me, locking away those pesky emotions and serrated memories—beyond the broken mosaic window in my mind.

Now looking the part, I tread steadfast towards my future with a resolve sharp enough to make even marble flinch and shadows kneel.

Eyes wide, I drink in the gleaming white and gold rotunda, its peaking spires carving into the hill before me: Gildorea Universitás.

The war university of Cascara. The only place to be formally trained to join the elite front, keeping our civilian population safe from the corruption of the Wuvon threatening to devour us all.

An exasperated sigh mashes my lungs. Stars above…

Already, I’ve stopped on three separate occasions just to dust myself off.

Kicked-up soil. Breezing pollination. Each determined to cling to me like a useless, spellbound lover.

What fucking genius chose white aerial leathers for a Celestials be dimmed war university?

I grind my molars, begrudging how impossible it’ll be to keep these things clean, even with water magic.

I give it two whole days before I’m scrubbing my fingers raw, prying splattered blood from the seams. Maybe I’ll ploy a Runic Engineer into etching me a clever rune for spotless enchantment.

The Fates know these leathers won’t survive me otherwise.

My muttered curses echo through the palatial Grand Conservatory as I fidget defiantly with my attire, struggling to break in the new material.

Wiggling, twisting, tugging—grief needling just beneath the surface of my skin, making everything uncomfortably tight.

I meld my trauma into a more familiar temper: rage.

Yet each chafe kindles my fury, sparks licking up the edges of my composure, threatening to incinerate my icy demeanor.

I clench my fist, trapping the shiver that dares slither down my spine as I walk through the arched doors of the Gilded Amphitheater. My shattered soul—still too raw and frozen to weave back together—bristles on my skin like armor. Sharp. Jagged. Slicing into anyone who gets too close.

The grand lecture hall is silent as I arrive early to claim the best seat. I’m not here to make friends. I’m not here to impress anyone. I’m here for me, holding on to the only tether I have left: my goal of becoming an Ellian Knight.

A twitch tugs at my lower lip as I leer down at my armor.

Pristine, gold-laced. Too perfect. My unique form, especially in this drag, appearing more like a statue—a decoration at home among these ornate walls—rather than a Fae of blood and bone.

My golden-olive skin is the only hue preventing me from blending into the alabaster facade entirely.

Each footstep resonates across the sea of white marble, which splashes up the walls.

Geometric details glint back at me, mirroring the markings on my flesh: two golden bands spill down the back of my neck, cascading over my shoulders.

They nearly kiss above my heart before streaming down my center, bowing out to meet the flare of my hips, feathering into gilded wings.

No one has ever been known to carry gold woven into their skin, forever branding me as different, curseborne. Yet they never cease to glitter and gleam, forever mocking the darkness pooling inside me from all the suffering they’ve wrought.

I tilt my head up, drinking in the lavish decor gleaming with Celestial worship. My long hair waterfalls with the movement, translucent strands snatching every color, spooling like liquid crystal.

I’m not the only Elarian who has white hair.

But I am unique: I was not born this way, a fact betrayed by my dark brows and eyelashes.

The rumor in my village was that the fear of whatever killed my parents turned my hair wraith-white.

Typically, pale starlight hair belongs to Arabellians, Elarians thought to descend from the very Celestials who created our world.

While mine… mine is nothing more than pastel ruin, the ghostly echoes of rainbows once bright with hope.

And me? I’m an orphan with no history, only the story I’ve carved out of this world for myself with nothing but my own blood and grit. Yet I’m finally here, taking a breath for what feels like the first time since that wretched day.

The edges of my skin bristle, freezing me in place. I know exactly who stalks the shadows. His gaze gnawing at my nerves like a starving beast, waiting for my guard to drop so he can devour me whole. I roll my shoulder, slipping off his grating presence along the ice of my hollow core.

I flit down the steps with deadly grace, mind swirling with memories of the three trials I clawed my way through to stand here. The sacrifices etched into my bones. The loss echoing in the silent screams of my marrow. All of which is now comfortably numb.

My bottom sinks into a golden velvet seat, center row with a prized view of the stage below.

I inhale the air thick with the weight of all those who have sat before me: warriors of the Golden Legion, molded in magic, cast in strategy, forged for war.

Here, all my abilities will be honed into the ultimate weapon.

But becoming an ensign here requires more than just magical prowess.

All the Fae species of Cascara have varying abilities to practice magic.

It’s strongest in the great bloodlines, the pairings of Fae with powerful magic that complement one another.

Some civilians even believe them to be divine, like the Arabellians.

But I know better. It’s simply breeding for genetic selection.

The same logic farmers use to create hardier stock for the unforgiving mountains of the Highlands.

Today is the magical entrance exam. My worth dissected down to a score.

The moment that determines the threaded path I’ll be spun upon.

There are eleven different tracks, but you can only be selected for one: Healing, Ground-Combatant, Savant, Persuasive, Spycraft, Runic Engineer, Kinetic, Scouting Rogue, Marksman, and the Ellian Knights—the masters of all, blessed with a sacred bond—taking flight to the skies.