The Starlight Prince

In the moonlit kingdom of Elloria, nights were never truly dark. The sky above shimmered with constellations so bright they seemed to rest upon the rooftops, and the River of Light — a band of silver stars — flowed across the heavens like a celestial road.

Princess Seraphina had grown up with this view, but unlike the rest of the court, she didn’t see the stars as decorations. She saw them as living, breathing things — storytellers, dancers, guardians. And she believed that, if one stayed very quiet and listened very hard, the stars might speak back.

Her ladies-in-waiting often found her missing from the royal ballroom, the library, or even her own chambers, only to discover her perched on the castle’s highest tower, barefoot, with her skirts tucked under her, chin tilted toward the night.

One warm summer evening, as the cicadas hummed and fireflies drifted lazily through the gardens, Seraphina spotted a shooting star. She made her wish — though she never told anyone what it was — and waited for it to vanish.

But it didn’t.

The streak of light grew larger. Brighter. Closer. It swirled downward in a spiral of gold and silver, until, with a soft thrum, it landed in the rose garden far below.

Seraphina’s heart quickened. She didn’t call for guards. She didn’t wake the palace. She simply lifted her skirts and ran down the spiral stairs, through the moon-drenched courtyard, and into the gardens.

There, standing among the roses, was a young man dressed in silver and white. His hair glowed faintly, like strands of spun moonlight, and his eyes held constellations within them — tiny sparks of light, shifting and shimmering.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice calm and melodic. “I didn’t mean to land here. I… fell farther than intended.”

Seraphina blinked. “You’re a star.”

The young man gave a small bow. “Prince Caelum of the Starborne Court. I was sent to deliver a message to a kingdom far to the north… but your garden caught me off course.”

She might have laughed if she weren’t so mesmerized by the way the starlight seemed to cling to him. “The garden distracted you?”

“It’s rare to see roses in the sky,” he said, stepping closer. “And rarer still to see someone who listens to the night.”

They talked for hours, their voices low so as not to wake the palace. Caelum told her of the constellations — each one a kingdom in the skies, with its own rulers, rivers, and seasons. He spoke of the Great Archer who kept the balance between day and night, and the River of Light that carried dreams from the mortal realm to the heavens.

She told him of Elloria, of her love for midnight walks, and of how she longed to see what lay beyond the palace gates.

When dawn began to turn the horizon pink, Caelum stepped back. “I must go before the sun sees me. I’ll return tomorrow night — if you wish it.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I wish it.”

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For the next six nights, he came. Sometimes they walked the winding paths of the garden, brushing past lavender and night-blooming jasmine. Sometimes they sat in the tower, legs dangling over the ledge, trading stories. Once, he took her hand and taught her a slow, graceful dance that the stars themselves were said to perform on the longest night of the year.

With each meeting, the air between them grew warmer — not the fierce heat of the sun, but the deep, steady warmth of starlight.

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On the seventh night, Caelum’s gaze was different. Softer. Sadder.

“My time here is ending,” he said, his voice like the hush between chimes. “When the Crescent Moon rises tomorrow, I must return to the skies.”

Her throat tightened. “Can’t you stay?”

“If I stay, the stories in the heavens will fade. The Archer will lose his aim. The River will slow. And I think…” He looked at her with a bittersweet smile. “I think you would miss them too much.”

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The next evening, the Crescent Moon hung over Elloria like a silver smile. Caelum met her in the tower, the wind carrying the scent of roses and the hush of a thousand sleeping stars.

He reached into his cloak and drew out a small pendant — a star-shaped charm, warm to the touch, glowing faintly in her palm.

“Whenever you miss me,” he said, “hold this, and look at the night sky. I’ll make sure there is always one light burning for you.”

She wanted to tell him she’d never felt so alive, that his visits had been more than just starlight — they had been a promise of something beyond her walls. But before she could speak, his form began to shimmer, threads of silver light unraveling into the wind.

“Goodbye, Seraphina,” he whispered.

“Not goodbye,” she said. “Just… until I see you in the stars.”

And then he was gone, rising into the River of Light above, his glow mingling with the constellations.

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From then on, Seraphina ruled Elloria with grace and quiet strength. But each night, she climbed the tower with the pendant in her hand. And high above the castle, one star shone brighter than all the rest — steady, patient, waiting.

And sometimes, when the night was still enough, she thought she could hear a voice carried by the wind saying, I’m still here.

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