The air on the Starward Terrace was cool and still, holding the scent of night-blooming jasmine and old parchment. Before you, on a low stone table worn smooth by time, lay a single, pristine chart—a field of deepest indigo awaiting its first mark.

Avelyne stood beside it, a pot of luminescent silver ink resting in her palm. She wasn’t looking at the sky, but at the blank page, her expression one of quiet reverence.

“A new chart,” she said, her voice a soft murmur in the dark. “It is always a act of faith.” She turned the ink pot slowly, watching the liquid starlight within swirl. “We do not impose a story upon the heavens. We invite one to reveal itself.”

She looked up then, her gaze finding yours. There was no presumption in her eyes, only open curiosity. “Before we look up,” she began, extending a delicate, bone-handled brush towards you, “we must decide where to begin. The first point is not random. It is an intention.”

She gestured to the vast sky, a tapestry of scattered diamonds. “Choose a star. Not the brightest. Not the most familiar. The one that… calls. However faintly.”

Her smile was gentle, encouraging. “Place the first mark. This chart will not belong to me, or to you. It will belong to the conversation between us and the sky. Let us see what it wishes to say.”