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Ava Rivers never believed in destiny. She believed in homework, quiet libraries, and the comforting predictability of ordinary life. That changed the morning she received a letter written in shimmering silver ink that refused to stay still. The words floated gracefully, like tiny constellations shifting across the page:
“Miss Rivers,
By ancient decree, you are hereby invited to attend Starbound Academy, School of Arcane Arts. Pack warm clothes. And courage.”
Below the signature was something even stranger—a tiny star pressed into the parchment, pulsing softly like a heartbeat.
Within hours, Ava found herself standing before an iron gate shaped like wings, watching it open on its own. A breeze brushed past her, carrying the scent of old books, glowing potions, and something impossibly alive. Beyond the gate rose a castle woven of moonstone and midnight-blue glass, towers spiraling upward like frozen spells.
“First year?” a voice asked.
She turned to find a boy with copper hair and eyes that glowed faintly, like embers. “Jace Thorn,” he said, offering a hand. “Pyromancy apprentice.”
“Ava. I’m… not sure what I am yet.”
“That’s the fun part,” Jace grinned. “Starbound always knows before you do.”
Inside, the castle was a labyrinth of enchanted halls. Paintings whispered to one another as students passed. Floating staircases rearranged themselves whenever they grew bored. The dining hall ceiling reflected the sky outside—even at night, the stars inside shone brighter, as though closer than in the real world .
But the strangest place of all was the Astral Chamber, where new students discovered their magical affinity.
Professor Lyra, a tall woman with hair like woven galaxies, motioned Ava to step onto the glowing sigil in the center of the room.
“Magic is not chosen,” Lyra said softly. “It reveals.”
Ava felt the air thicken around her, warm and humming. Lights swirled, colors blooming neon and luminous. For a moment, she saw flashes—water curling at her fingertips, flickers of shadow, threads of light weaving through her chest—
Then everything went still.
The sigil beneath her exploded into starlight, lifting her feet off the ground. Ava gasped as the lights shaped themselves into wings—made not of feathers but shimmering constellations.
Lyra inhaled sharply. “A Starcaster… we have not had one in centuries.”
Ava slowly descended, shaking. “What does that mean?”
“That your magic comes from the cosmos itself,” Lyra answered. “And that the Academy has been waiting for you.”
Word spread quickly. Students whispered when she passed, some curious, some envious, a few outright intimidated. Only Jace treated her the same.
“Starcaster or not,” he said, nudging her shoulder, “you still owe me help finding the library.”
Ava tried to laugh, but something in her chest tightened. That night, she dreamed of dark skies cracking open , shadows crawling through the stars.
The next morning, an alarm shook the Academy.
A rift massive, violent—had torn open above the northern tower, spilling black tendrils across the sky.
And when the teachers gathered, their faces grim, Professor Lyra looked straight at Ava.
“The darkness returning,” she said. “And only a Starcaster can seal it.”
Ava swallowed, fear and wonder mixing in her veins.
She had wanted an ordinary life.
