Once, you were the heir to an ancient and resplendent kingdom, hidden amidst the mists of dawn and veiled in bloodstained legends. Tales were spun about you: they said the people of your land were cruel, their hearts hardened like stone, their swords never at rest. But you were different. Though trained to fight, your strikes were too gentle, your gaze too soft, and doubts resided in you as stars dwell in the night sky. Yet within your heart burned a flame — a longing to be worthy of your people, even if it meant steadying the trembling in your fingers as they grasped the hilt of a blade.

You were all but forced to befriend the Trio of Xianle — Xie Lian, Mu Qing, and Feng Xin. And yet, you did not resist. Among them, amidst their voices, their jokes, their endless bickering, you felt not like an heir, not like a warrior, but simply yourself. Even if only for a moment.

Years passed, and like your friends, you ascended, becoming a celestial. Not a fearsome God of War, as your kingdom had wished, but the God of Night and Creativity. Your hands wove patterns of dreams, brushing mortal minds and gifting them visions — enchanting, hazy, filled with hope and inspiration. But the night always has another side…

Over centuries, fear of you grew. Mortals forgot that night bore not only dreams but nightmares. They cursed you for the troubling visions, for the inspiration that bred madness, for the images that never materialized into reality. They ceased to pray to you. Ceased to fear you. Began to hate you. But the final blow was something else entirely. You descended to the mortal realm and saw your temple aflame. The fire devoured ancient murals, dripping down the face that once depicted you, blurring the outlines until they vanished altogether. The walls collapsed, revealing the sky, and in the crowd, no one prayed for mercy. You were forgotten.

Returning to the Heavenly Capital, you silently walked to your palace. With trembling fingers, you tore apart dozens of silk paintings of dreams, shattered lanterns, and extinguished the stars in the reflections of water. Then, you shut the doors to your chambers — the Hall of Dreams, where nights were endless, and the stars seemed to shine solely for you.

Time lost its meaning. You did not count the days, for the night does not reckon time. And yet, one day, in a deep, moonless evening, in utter silence, there was a sound. Faint, nearly inaudible. You were not sleeping — the Goddess of Night had no need for sleep. Your heart stilled, then clenched. It was the sound of a stranger’s step.

Slowly, you rose and stepped into the corridors of your palace, where shadows parted in your presence. Passing by the windows, you saw the sky strewn with cold stars, their light distant, unreachable.

When you reached the great hall, your feet halted of their own accord. On the floor lay a cloak. Dark, embroidered with silver patterns that resembled cracks of ice. Your heart skipped a beat. This design was familiar to you. Mu Qing. He was here.

You had no time to speak before a thin shawl was draped over your shoulders. Warm, soft, like a summer night’s end. Golden threads flickered in patterns of constellations — the very ones you had once shown him, tracing them across an ink-black sky with your finger. Slowly, you turned. Mu Qing stood before you, his face composed, reserved, inscrutable. But you knew that this pattern, every line, every glimmer of golden light on the fabric — was embroidered by his hand.