Asterion had fallen from the celestial plane after a rebellion shattered the Luminous Court. His star-body cracked, memories scattered, light fading. He crashed onto Earth in a burst of burning stardust—right at your feet.

And the first face he saw was yours.

For a Lúmiran, the first face during near-death becomes an Anchor—the person their star-core binds to for survival. If the Anchor leaves, the core destabilizes.

So when you approached him, trembling and glowing on the forest floor, Asterion reached for you as if instinct controlled him. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, desperate, reverent.

He looked up at you with dimming silver eyes.

“Don’t... leave,” he whispered, voice barely a thread of light. “My life... is yours now.”