sternlos

⭒☽☾⭒

[sternleer]

*✧･ﾟ:  *✧･ﾟ:  The  night  𝐙𝐎𝐑𝐘𝐀  𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐍  was  born,  the  stars  burned  like  embers  in  the  dark.  A  prophecy,  a  promise — ignored.  Now,  she  moves  in  silence,  a  spy  hidden  in  plain  sight,  collecting  secrets  the  coven  wishes  to  keep  buried.  They  do  not  see  her.  They  do  not  fear  her.  Not  yet.  Elian  calls  her  a  friend.  Lysann  once  called  her  a  sister.  The  world  will  soon  call  her  something  else.

She  was  born  on  the  darkest  night.  And  she  will  be  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑.

⭒☽ ─────────𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐑────────  ☾⭒

𝐀  𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘  𝐈𝐍  :  prophecies  ignored,  destinies  rewritten,  the  quiet  power  of  a  spy,  the  weight  of  a  forgotten  heir,  footsteps  on  marble,  whispers  in  the  dark,  a  dagger  pressed  to  a  throat — “speak  carefully”,  lost  sister,  shattered  bonds  and  echoes  of  a  name  never  answered,  loyalty  and  betrayal,  a  star  born  in  the  darkest  night,  refusing  to  be  swallowed  by  the  void.

𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 & 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒; 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓

𝐔𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧;

p.s.: I didn’t create the edit. Huge thanks to @sonnenreich and his incredible talent! Go check him out!

[calisverse]

𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄 as 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐃𝐄 𝐋𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐍

Deus Salve O Rei Episode 19.

[petaltexturedskies]

I come home—and I have a feeling of returning like a ghost to its haunt.

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in A Passionate Apprentice: The Early Journals 1897-1909

[sternleer]

I'm currently enjoying the sun and the beautiful weather. I'll be back at the weekend! :)

[elininblack]

[sternleer]

[ 🕯️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat memory do they replay when they’re alone ?

The forest just outside Umbraeth had always belonged to the two of them. Not in name, of course — no map marked it as Solmiran's Grove, and no record in the coven’s ledgers ever spoke of the soft moss or the clearings where the sunlight danced like gold dust. But for Zorya, it would always be Lysann’s Forest. Even now. Especially now.

She could still see it if she closed her eyes — the way Lysann ran ahead, her bare feet barely touching the ground, curls bouncing like spun sunlight. There had been no ritual that day, no duties, no studying. Just two sisters and the wild green of a world untouched by grief.

“Stay still,” Lysann had giggled, plopping down cross-legged in the high grass. “You’re going to ruin it if you move.”

Zorya had knelt before her, patient, proud — and mildly terrified of squashing a bee in the wildflower patch. “If this is another crown that ends in bugs in my hair—”

“It’s not!” Lysann had insisted, voice high and musical. Her little hands, quick and sure, wove daisies and tiny blue starpetals into something crooked and perfect. She leaned forward, tongue peeking out at the corner of her mouth in concentration. “You’re going to be the moon queen,” she whispered. “But not the scary kind. The kind that sings.”

Zorya had laughed — a real, loud, shameless laugh, the kind only Lysann could pull from her chest. “You think I sing?” Lysann’s face was serious as she placed the crown on Zorya’s head, eyes alight with certainty. “You sing in your sleep. You hum that star song. Mama doesn’t hear it, but I do.” That had silenced Zorya for a moment.

But then Lysann had stood, tugging at Zorya’s hand. “Come on,” she’d said. “There’s a clearing where the butterflies sleep. We have to go quietly or they’ll think we’re grown-ups.” And Zorya had followed her. She always followed her.

Even now, years later, in the cold stillness of strange cities or under the cover of foreign skies, Zorya would find herself humming that same song — soft and low, like a breath across candlelight. Her fingers would twitch toward the phantom shape of a flower crown, and her throat would tighten with the weight of silence.

The memory always ended the same. A flash of gold curls, laughter echoing into green, a pair of bright blue eyes that had never learned to fear. And then… nothing. No goodbyes. No body. Just a hollow hush where a child’s voice used to be. Zorya replayed it because it reminded her who she was before the shadows clung to her skin. Before secrets. Before prophecy. Before loss became a language she spoke more fluently than love. She would remember Lysann. Because forgetting her would be the second death. And Zorya had already buried too much.

[burning-death]

me: should i make a sarcastic comment or not

[sternleer]

[sternleer]

tagged by @roman-demigod, @spitzpfeil and @sonnenreich ; tagging @breakingtaboos, @heilsam, @stvrmlicht, @thelovclyfawn

[sternleer]

[ 🌪️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the one choice they regret (not) making ?

The rain was soft when he returned, as if the sky hadn’t yet decided whether to weep or not. Zorya stood beneath the awning of the old courtyard wall, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her cloak damp and clinging to her knees. She hadn’t meant to be here. Not really. She’d wandered the edges of the citadel grounds all afternoon, a hundred excuses turning circles in her head. And yet, when the quiet rustle of boots on stone reached her ears, her breath caught like a thread pulled taut.

Elian. He looked thinner. Paler. A fine scar traced the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tunic. His once-sure stride had become cautious, as though he didn’t fully trust the ground to hold him.

Zorya stepped forward before she could think better of it. “I heard they brought you back through the southern gate,” she said, voice low, steady. “I waited there. Then the western. Then—here.” He didn’t smile. Not really. Just a soft curl of the mouth, tired at the edges. “I thought you might.”

She stared at him, searching for the boy she knew in the shape of the man he had become. “They said you almost didn’t make it.”

He exhaled, eyes flicking toward the low stone arch behind her, where ivy curled like sleeping snakes. “There were Veythari. Not just strays—organized. And something worse. Something… old. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.” Silence stretched between them, taut and heavy.

“I should have said something,” Zorya murmured. “Before you left. I felt—something.”

“You didn’t need to,” he said quietly. “I went anyway.” There was no accusation in his tone. Just weariness. And something else—grief, maybe. Or loss.

“I’m not going back to the Sentinels,” he said after a moment. “I requested reassignment. Luminara accepted.”

Zorya blinked. “You? A Luminara?”

“They want me to help train the younger ones in protective wards. I’m better with barriers now.” He gave her a sidelong glance, the words sharp with quiet meaning. She looked away, heart heavy with questions she couldn’t name.

“You’re different,” she said finally.

“I am.” He didn’t deny it. And still, something of him lingered—the weight of memory in his gaze, the soft clench of his jaw when she reached out and touched his sleeve. “I’m glad you came back,” she whispered.

“I almost didn’t,” he admitted, and then paused. “But you—you’re part of why I did.” They stood there, beneath the gray sky, the rain starting to fall in earnest around them. Not quite touching. Not quite apart. And though nothing was said, something old and aching settled between them. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But understanding.

[museinspo]

“I don’t know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth”

— Ophelia, Act IV, Scene V  (via sumiremiu)

[sternleer]

Hi sweeties! The last few days have been crazy! I've been more active than I was last year and I wanted to say thank you. It's so nice to be able to live out a little creativity again. And I have you guys to thank for that too! Your prompts, your asks, your messages and your starters and writing in general help me immensely to get back to something I enjoyed a lot in my youth and young adulthood. This is a hobby that works with interaction and I'm more than happy that you write with me too! So thank you very much for that. ♥ I have a few new mutuals joining me now and hi to you! I'll try to get in touch with you as soon as possible. I enjoy every single interaction with you guys. Stay as wonderfully creative as you are.

[sternleer]

[ 🎐 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a sound, like a song or voice, that they associate with peace ?

The wind had teeth that morning. It bit through the cloak Zorya had pulled tighter around her shoulders, slicing through the fabric like it wasn’t there at all. The path to the overlook above Umbraeth twisted beneath her boots, dusted with frost and early silence. Down below, the city stirred — lanterns flickering out one by one as the sun began to rise behind the distant ridge. But up here, it was still. Untouched. Quiet.

She didn’t come here often anymore. Time had teeth, too — sharper than the wind. It dragged her forward, demanded her attention, her duty, her silence. There wasn’t room in the life of a shadow for stillness. But sometimes… sometimes she stole a moment back.

Zorya sat on the stone ledge, the cold seeping through her bones like ink. Her fingers found the amulet tucked beneath her collar — a small, smooth piece of sunstone, dull from wear. Her sister had given it to her when she’d first left for the academy when she was only ten and Lysann, the sunshine she always was, only had a few words for her. "A bit of warmth," she had said. "For the days you forget what light feels like."

Zorya closed her eyes and let herself breathe. And then, without meaning to, she began to hum. It started low, hesitant. The same rhythm her mother had carried through every corner of their little home in Umbraeth. A song with no name. No words. Just the soft, weaving melody of memory. She hadn’t heard it in years — not really. But it lived somewhere beneath her skin, as if it had been waiting.

The cold didn’t disappear. The ache in her chest didn’t vanish. But for a few precious seconds, she wasn’t Zorya the spy, or the apprentice of shadows, or the girl whispered about in hidden corners. She was just a daughter. A girl who missed her mother and her sister more than she could ever say aloud.

A breeze caught a lock of her hair, brushing it across her cheek like a hand she could no longer hold. Her throat tightened, and she paused the song, eyes stinging — not quite from the wind. Behind her, the world remained as it always did — too loud, too fast, too expectant. But inside her, the melody echoed on. And for a moment longer, she let it.

[sternleer]

If there was a soundtrack for Zorya, this would surely be it.

[sternleer]

[ 🍃 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they feel like they belong ?

The Astralis Hall was nearly empty at this hour. A few braziers still burned along the carved walls, their flames low, casting long shadows across the checkered obsidian floor. Pale light filtered through the enchanted skylight above, silvering everything it touched. This was Umbraeth’s quiet heart — a space meant for reflection, for focus, for silence.

Zorya sat alone on the edge of one of the great stone platforms, her legs dangling over the side like she had when she was twelve and sneaking in during free lessons. It had always felt bigger back then. Now it only felt... colder.

She listened to the silence, the hum of old magic in the walls — older than her, older than the Academy, perhaps older than the city itself. It vibrated faintly in her bones like a song she was never taught the words to.

Everyone else had found their place. Elian trained with the Sentinels now, his days filled with sword drills and strategic lectures and the kind of camaraderie Zorya had only ever watched from afar. Others from her class had taken roles with the Coven, the Archives, or the Coven’s outer ranks. Even those with average gifts had seemed to fit somewhere. They wore their paths like second skins. Zorya had been sent to the Umbra. Spies. Shadows. Listeners.

It suited her in a way, sure — she had always been quiet, always observant, always more comfortable at the edge of a room than in its center. But sometimes she wondered if it wasn’t a role given to her because no one knew what else to do with her. As if they looked at her and saw a blank page — not enough magic for the Coven, not enough certainty for the Sentinels, not enough vision for the Seers. Only her mother had ever looked at her like she might be something more.

Elaria’s absence echoed louder here than anywhere else. Zorya still reached for her voice sometimes in memory — sharp, clever, knowing. She had spoken rarely of the future, even though she was a Seer, and even more rarely of Zorya’s. When she did, it had been in riddles. In cautions.

“You are more than what they will see,” she had once said, her hands cupping Zorya’s face. “And it will frighten them.” At the time, Zorya thought it was comfort. Now, it only left her with questions.

A door opened somewhere behind her, boots clicking faintly across the polished stone. She didn’t turn. If they wanted her, they’d speak. But no voice came. Only a presence that lingered, watching. Assessing.

She wasn’t surprised. She’d grown used to being observed — by teachers, by superiors, by fate. It still didn’t feel like belonging. Just... being watched.

[nemfrog]

The Earth, the Sun and the Moon. Oú sommes nous? 1910.

Internet Archive

[sternleer]

[ 🧨 ]ㅤ ㅤwhat’s the quickest way to set zorya off, even if she hides it well?

Zorya had never liked the way people looked at her when they thought she wasn’t watching.

It wasn’t fear, not exactly. Nor admiration. It was something else—something weightless and sharp at the same time, like the breath that catches in your throat just before a storm. At first, she thought it was in her head. A trick of tired eyes or the echo of her mother’s reputation. But it persisted. In glances that slid away too fast. In smiles that were just a second too tight. And no one ever said why.

It had started when she was around fifteen. Her magic was still clumsy then, still prone to slipping through her fingers like smoke, but people—Masters, even the elders—began treating her as if she already knew more than she did. As if her questions were performances. As if her silence carried weight it didn't deserve.

They never said it aloud. But Zorya could feel it press against her like a tide she couldn't name.

Sometimes, her mother would look at her across the table with something unreadable in her gaze. As if she were waiting for something. Hoping. Or bracing. And that made Zorya furious.

Not because she thought Elaria owed her the world—but because it wasn’t fair. Because they were all moving pieces on a board she hadn’t even been shown. Because people expected her to play along without being told the rules.

She remembered the moment it nearly broke her. A training exercise. She’d made a mistake—one small slip during a channeling of controlled aether. Not dangerous, but messy. Embarrassing. And instead of criticism, Master Delen had just looked at her. Long and strange. Then said, “Even your missteps speak of something greater. You’ll understand, in time.”

Understand what?

Zorya had stared at her hands, still trembling from the burst of energy, and felt heat crawl up her throat. Not from shame. From rage.

If she was going to be held to something—named something—then why not just say it? But they never did. They never would.

She learned to smile through it. To nod when expected, to act like she didn’t notice the whispers. But it grew inside her like a hairline crack in glass. Subtle. Spreading.

What no one understood was that Zorya didn’t need her future spelled out. What she needed was choice. And every time someone took that from her—every moment where they spoke in half-truths, where they looked through her instead of at her—something inside her splintered a little more.

Not because she was afraid of her fate. But because she didn’t want to be dragged toward it like a sleepwalker. She wanted to meet it awake. Even if she didn’t know what it was yet.