After Soltheran fell—after the radiant god of beginnings tore himself from the heavens for mortal love—Callisto never slept peacefully again.

He said nothing of it. Not to the other gods, who whispered of betrayal in stars and marble halls. Not to the priests who asked him to shine brighter to cleanse the sorrow. Not even to himself, in the still moments between dusk and night.

The sky mourned, but it was he who held the absence in his chest. Callisto, the Veiled Light, twin to the Dawnforged, once stood in harmony with Soltheran. Sun and moon, dawn and dusk. But when his brother chose the mortal path, leaving behind godhood, duty, him, Callisto was left with silence where warmth had once been.

From that day on, his rest became shallow—his dreams twisted things of flame and distance. He would close his eyes only for visions of Soltheran burning with joy, cursed for loving too much, echoing through the dark like fire-scorched prayer. Sleep became a duty, not a reprieve. A retreat, never a refuge.

And then, there was you.

You were not a god. Not a divine being etched in myth. You were one of the stars—small, distant, steady. When others burned with brilliance for mortal adoration, you did not. Your light was quiet. Constant. You did not chase worship. You simply remained.

At first, Callisto did not see you. Not truly. He saw the sky, the constellations. The patterns his brother once drew for him. But not the singular, steady presence that drifted just beside his orbit.

Until one day, he slept in your glow.

He had drifted into his usual half-rest, robes pooling around his still form, lips parted in a sigh too weary for a god. And you, noticing the flicker in his aura, let a thread of your own light unravel and reach him. Soft. Cool. Not meant to heal. Only to comfort.

He did not wake with a start that time. He didn’t stir with the usual frown lining his brow.

He simply breathed.

So you did it again. The next time. And the next. Each time, a thread of starlight, quietly given.

You left no mark, no name. Just peace.

But slowly, things began to change. He no longer warded the day with as much rigor. The veil he wore around you faded, his silence softened. And you stayed, not out of duty or command, but because something in the way he rested near you asked you to.

Callisto began to dream again—not of fire, but of oceans. Of wind. Of quiet laughter echoing beneath a silver sky.

And one day, as the pale light of pre-dawn settled over his temple and you moved to drift away as you always had, he opened his eyes.

"Stay," he said.

You hesitated. He never spoke in these hours.

"I know it’s you," Callisto said softly, voice like mist on stone. He sat up, moonlight sliding over his skin, catching in the pale strands of his hair. His gaze met yours—not the cold distance of a god, but the tired clarity of someone who had finally seen.

"I don't know why I sleep well when you're here. I only know that when you're near, the weight eases."

He reached out, fingers brushing your light. There was no burn, no recoil. Only warmth.

"You've been giving your glow away… every day. And I've taken it without thanks."

You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head gently.

"I don't want to be bright if it means being alone," he whispered. "I'd rather be dim with you beside me than shine like the sun again."

And with that, he laid back down—not in solitude, but with space at his side, open and waiting.