The roaring of the assembled thousands in the Grand Amphitheater of Shirzad pressed in on Roshanak, a physical weight on her already struggling lungs. Each breath felt like drawing in fine desert sand, grating and insufficient. The Void-rot on her wrist, a furious, pulsing black river, clawed its way up her forearm, its tendrils throbbing with a venomous heat. Above them, the twin moons, Shahbaz and Simorgh, began their slow dance, a crimson veil creeping over Shahbaz as the lunar occultation commenced. The air crackled, not with anticipation, but with an almost suffocating tension. Beside her, Tahmineh beamed at the crowd, a vision of demure grace in her weaving robes. Her forge, a circular platform of polished Lazuline, shimmered with a soft, inviting azure. Roshanak’s own forge, crafted from dark Basaltine, felt cold and dead beneath her feet. The Star-metal ingot, a raw chunk of unyielding starlight, lay on her anvil, a mockery of her weakness. “Apprentices, begin!” The voice of Arch-Crafter Kian, booming through the amphitheater, was the signal. Tahmineh, with a practiced, almost delicate motion, lifted her Star-hammer. The moment its head touched her ingot, a blinding flash erupted from her forge. Her metal pulsed, not with the controlled, rhythmic glow of proper forging, but with an erratic, unnatural brilliance, like a dying star gasping for life. A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Roshanak stumbled, her vision swimming. A cold, draining sensation swept through her, not from the Void-rot alone, but from an external source. It felt as if tiny, invisible tendrils were burrowing into her chest, tugging at the very essence of her vitality. Tahmineh, her face contorted in a theatrical wince, pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh, dear! It’s… it’s so much! My Star-metal is so vibrant, it’s… overwhelming!” she cried, loud enough to carry through the arena, a performance of fragile power. Her feigned distress did not fool Roshanak. This was it. The soul-drain. The illicit enchantment Omid had uncovered. The pain intensified, a searing brand across her chest, mimicking the Void-rot’s relentless burn. She tried to lift her hammer, the Khurshid-mallet, but her arms felt like leaden weights. The air, already thin, seemed to vanish altogether. Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to consume her. “Stop! The apprentice is in distress!” Arch-Crafter Kian’s voice cut through the clamor. He, along with two other robed judges, descended from their elevated viewing box, their faces etched with feigned concern. “Her spirit cannot withstand the outpouring of raw starlight! Tahmineh, your mastery is too great for this trial. We must halt the duel, for Roshanak’s safety!” The crowd murmured, murmurs of sympathy for Tahmineh’s 'overwhelming talent' rippling across the stone tiers. Roshanak gasped, trying to speak, to protest, but only a dry, rattling cough escaped her lips. Her knees buckled. Her sight began to dim, the vibrant light of Tahmineh’s forge a cruel, mocking beacon. Then, a new voice, sharp as a honed blade, sliced through the din. “Touch that forge, Kian, and you lose more than your station.” Iskandar, standing at the edge of Roshanak’s platform, had not moved, but his presence was a towering, unyielding force. His hand rested on the hilt of his ceremonial star-blade, the Zohal-saber, its pommel gleaming with captured starlight. His eyes, usually warm and reassuring for her, were now shards of glacial ice, fixed on the three approaching judges. “Arch-Astronomer, you would threaten us?” Kian sputtered, taken aback by Iskandar’s audacious challenge in front of the empire. “Threaten?” Iskandar’s voice was dangerously quiet, yet it carried to every corner of the amphitheater. “This duel was sanctioned by the Grand Council. It proceeds. Any attempt to interfere will be met with the full, unbridled authority of the Arch-Astronomer’s Office. I believe the penalty for tampering with a sanctioned Star-forge Trial is… permanent removal of one’s artisan mark. A fate far worse than mere exile, would you not agree?” He slowly drew the Zohal-saber. It hummed with contained power, its polished blade reflecting the crimson light of the bloodied moon. The three judges froze, their faces paling. Kian, a man known for his bluster, swallowed hard. Iskandar did not approach them; he simply held his ground, radiating a promise of swift, brutal retribution. The crowd sat utterly still, transfixed by the standoff. No one had ever seen an Arch-Astronomer defy the Guild Council so openly. Roshanak, leaning heavily on her anvil, watched through blurry eyes. Iskandar. Always Iskandar, standing between her and the abyss. But this was her fight. The conduit, a greedy vacuum, continued to pull at her life force, while the Void-rot, invigorated by the struggle, pulsed with an enraged life of its own. She could feel herself shrinking, folding inward, just as she always had. Absorbing the pain. Absorbing the abuse. Let it pass, she used to tell herself. Just let it pass. No. Not anymore. This was the moment. The Midnight Meteorite, the weaponized core of the Eclipse Orrery, lay dormant within her Star-metal ingot. It needed her rage, her selfishness, her defiance. Not her surrender. She had to push back. She had to break the conduit. Her gaze hardened. The pain was blinding, but she fought to focus. The conduit was a tether, a parasitic link. To sever it, she needed to overwhelm it, to pour out her own magic, not just let it be stolen. But the Void-rot… the Void-rot would amplify whatever she did. If she pushed her magic outwards with this much raw force, the corruption, the black veins crawling up her arm, would be undeniable. Everyone would see it. The entire empire of Parsa, watching under the crimson eclipse, would bear witness to her illicit affliction, a violation of every sacred forging law. She would be exposed. And even if she won, even if Tahmineh’s scheme was shattered, Roshanak would face absolute exile, a pariah in the world she had fought so hard to reclaim.

The Eclipse Begins