CHAPTER 1: Antonia

The Kingdom of Aurelion — Excerpt

Aurelion is among the oldest and proudest kingdoms upon the Celestial Divide. Its sigils of gold and light reflect a deep-seated belief that the kingdom's core is nothing less than the heart of the world itself. Aurelion's mechanical technology is regarded as the most refined of its age, forming the backbone of both its military might and its far-reaching ambitions of expansion.

꧁꧂

An early-winter wind slipped into a narrow alley in the northern reaches of Rivain - a place few still bothered to pass through. The street lay dark, yet it flickered with flashes of red and blue, like bare gemstones scattered across frozen stone before vanishing again. Firecrackers.

Tonight, the citizens ate and drank their fill.

The celebration of the newly crowned king had wiped tomorrow clean from their minds.

The stench of helicopter exhaust and gunpowder lingered in the bitter air, mingling with the sharp taste of liquor being passed from hand to hand in the street. They loved such things: feasts, subsidies, and the smell of explosives.

Only... no one loved the starving black cats waiting beneath the tables.

Crash!

"Damn filthy alley cats. This isn't a place for you to skulk around."

The man shouted, then raised his double-barreled gun toward the sky and fired again and again until smoke curled from the barrels.

Joy has its shadow.

Always.

On the rooftops, a dense, arrogant black presence stood watching. It turned away with faint boredom—

as though this wretched scene were something it witnessed every day, so familiar it no longer merited even a twitch of the tongue.

It moved on, unsteady yet resolute, crossing Rivain from the brilliantly lit plaza into the silent, narrow backstreets.

Then it stopped.

A red door stood out amid the washed-out gray of the street.

ANTONIA'S PAWNSHOP.

It lifted its head.

Clink.

The clear chime of a doorbell rang.

Unlike the cold, red-and-blue chaos outside, the interior of Antonia was a different kind of disorder—cozy, cluttered, brimming with warmth, as if the shop heated itself from within.

Objects from all corners of the world crowded the wooden shelves: a music box with a warped tune, a ceramic jar split by a thin crack, an old mirror that blurred the figures it reflected, and tangled chains no one remembered owning.

They had all once belonged to someone—

someone who had promised to return and reclaim them, but never did.

And so they stayed.

Day after day, they blended into the shop. The old clock began ticking to its own rhythm. The oil lamp sometimes flickered to life even when Sinhara forgot to light it. Other trinkets chimed softly whenever the door opened, as if offering a greeting.

Antonia was never empty.

It brimmed with old stories, small pockets of warmth, and objects that seemed to possess gentle, half-awake souls beneath a single roof.

"Antonia's Pawnshop, how may I—"

The teenage voice at the counter faltered.

Right before his eyes, the cat was no longer a cat.

From the thin mist rising off its damp fur, bones twisted and stretched; a hunched spine straightened; black fur sank back into flesh.

In less than a heartbeat, a dark-haired boy with golden eyes and bare feet collapsed to his knees on the tiled floor, gasping.

"You're late again."

Celles said nothing—no, Celles could not speak.

Human language, like human behavior, remained a mystery to his kind.

Sinhara rushed forward to help him, but Celles gently brushed his hand aside—a familiar motion—and steadied himself against the counter, slowly rising on trembling human legs.

Without looking back, he headed straight up the wooden stairs to the loft, his slender silhouette stretching beneath the red light. Perhaps he only wanted warmth... as always.

Sinhara stood still. He drew a deep breath, then began wiping away the streaks of water, fur, and pawprints scattered across the tiles.

Antonia fell silent again, as though nothing had happened.

Ten minutes later, the young man stepped outside. He blew out the lamp and turned the key in the lock with a soft click. The last red glow vanished, leaving only the thick darkness of Rivain's street beyond.

He turned and walked away.

...Then stopped.

A strange sensation—thin as spider silk, cold as early winter—snagged at the back of his neck. As if something were staring at him from behind the door he had just closed.

He turned.

The street lay in darkness. No voices. No footsteps.

The wind threaded through the alley like someone's breath.

And then—

"...Sinhara..."

The whisper sliced through the air, as if spoken right beside his ear. He spun around. A chill raced down his spine so fast his knees nearly gave way.

It wasn't Celles's voice.

Not a drunk's.

Not the voice of anyone who lived on this street.

Again, longer this time, carving through the silence:

"...Sinhara..."

In that instant, he knew one thing—

Tonight... something had entered the city.

Sinhara startled. The whisper dissolved like thin mist as light footsteps sounded behind him.

Tap... tap...

From the stairs leading to the loft, Celles appeared. No longer the drenched, shivering boy from before, but the posture of a thoughtful cat draped over a human frame, ears drooping slightly. In his hands was a gray ball of yarn—the one thing in the shop that always brought him comfort.

Celles bent down, picked it up, and turned it gently between his palms, as if searching for a few rare seconds of joy left in a long day... then looked up at Sinhara with faintly sorrowful golden eyes.

That look—simple, soft as a sigh—pulled Sinhara out of the lingering darkness and the echo of the strange call.

"Probably just the wind."

Sinhara turned quickly, leaving the freezing streets of Rivain behind the red door.

He locked it tight and climbed the stairs after Celles, letting the ominous sounds outside fade away.

In the loft, the oil lamp cast a dim, warm halo of light. Celles had curled up by the window, arms wrapped around the ball of yarn, head resting against the cold wooden frame. Sinhara smiled softly.

"Go to sleep, Celles."

He draped a thin blanket over him. Celles closed his eyes. His black tail twitched once, in reply.

For a brief moment, everything was still.

Only the cold moonlight, Celles's steady breathing, and a small warmth spreading through the attic of Antonia's Pawnshop.

Sinhara climbed into bed, exhaled, pulled the blanket close—and at last allowed himself to drift into sleep.

By the window, Celles slept beneath the pale moon, his small form like a fragment of darkness cradled in the arms of light.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***