Chapter 3: The Star That Fell Like Blood
The sky bled red.
It started at dusk. The villagers of Mirasol, nestled near the edge of the Silverwood Forest, had seen many strange skies—storms that shimmered, stars that wept—but nothing like this.
An old farmer was the first to see it.
He dropped his tool mid-swing, eyes wide as a scarlet light tore through the heavens like a divine wound. It wasn't a comet. Comets did not leave trails of petals. The glowing streak scorched the sky, and in its wake floated red spider lilies, drifting unnaturally through the air as if unbothered by gravity or fire.
The old man whispered a prayer.
By the time the crimson light neared the horizon, every child had been pulled indoors. Every dog had gone silent. The air tasted like iron and ash.
Then came the sound.
It wasn't thunder. It wasn't a roar.
It was a heartbeat.
Deep. Distant. Divine.
And then—impact.
The earth trembled. Trees bowed as if kneeling. Wind was sucked inward before a silent explosion of energy tore through the sky in a dome of red light. Where the fire had fallen, a crater now smoked—its edges lined with flowers that had no business blooming from stone.
And at its center… a boy.
He stood barefoot at the heart of the crater, untouched by flame or debris. No older than fifteen, maybe younger. His hair was the color of fire, glowing softly even without light. His eyes, pale and white as moonlight, stared blankly at the trees in front of him.
He wore no armor. No crown.
But the air around him bent. Birds wouldn't fly near him. Leaves turned to ash as they fell into his shadow.
The first mortal to see him was a child—Emil, a shepherd boy who had followed the light despite his mother's screams. He stood frozen on the edge of the crater, staring at the godling standing alone.
Their eyes met.
In that moment, Emil felt every thought melt. It wasn't fear. It was reverence.
The boy in the crater tilted his head, curious.
"…You're… real," Emil whispered.
The red-haired god-child blinked, as if waking.
"I'm what they made," he said, voice soft, ancient.
"But I don't think they understand what I am."
His voice wasn't angry. It was honest.
Too honest for a child.
The boy raised one hand, and a spider lily bloomed instantly in his palm. He looked at it, expression unreadable, and then let it fall. The petals landed on the ash-filled ground and began to grow—roots digging into rock, sprouting others.
Dozens. Hundreds. A field of red.
From the trees, others watched now—villagers, cloaked mages, even a royal scout who had ridden from the capital to investigate the "divine flame." None dared step forward.
And the boy smiled faintly.
"This world doesn't know me," he whispered. "So I'll let them learn."
He took a step forward. The crater healed behind him. Flowers bloomed in his wake.
And high above, hidden in the clouds of fire and time, the true god-child watched in silence—his white eyes glowing, amused.
The game had begun.