STARLIGhHT REQUIEM

The lights blazed like a thousand suns. A surge of adrenaline coursed through Hana Lee’s veins as the crowd erupted. The roar echoed through the Seoul Dome, vibrating the stage beneath her heels. Every lightstick in the arena pulsed in sync, casting the sea of fans in glimmering hues of sapphire and violet. They chanted her name like a hymn. "HANA! HANA! HANA!" This was her world. Her kingdom. And tonight was her coronation. Drenched in sweat and stardust, she struck her final pose of the song. The music halted, the backup dancers froze, and time itself seemed to pause. The LED screen behind her displayed the name of her farewell tour: Starlight: The Last Verse. Hana smiled, her chest heaving. “Thank you for loving me... for loving my voice,” she whispered into the mic. “Even when I didn’t love myself.” The crowd surged with emotion. Some wept. Others screamed. Phones were raised, capturing every second of her final performance. This was supposed to be her triumphant end—a goodbye on her own terms. But destiny had other plans. As the intro to her closing ballad began, something strange happened. Hana felt a tremble in her fingertips. A chill skated up her spine. Her vision blurred, colors bleeding together like spilled ink. Not now… she thought. Please, not now. She fought it. Forced a smile. Took a step forward— And collapsed. Gasps rippled across the arena. Her microphone clattered to the floor, the speakers screeching. The lights dimmed. The music stopped. The world tilted. Then everything went dark. --- When Hana opened her eyes, she expected pain, chaos, maybe a hospital room. Instead, she saw stars—not stage lights or ceiling fixtures, but a tapestry of unfamiliar constellations. She was floating. Beneath her, swirling mists curled like ribbons. A soft melody filled the air, wordless and ancient. It tugged at something buried deep inside her. Was this a dream? A hallucination? “Where… am I?” she whispered. No answer. Only the music. And then—a voice. “You sang the final verse, child of two worlds. Now let the second act begin.” Before Hana could ask anything more, she was falling—spiraling through clouds of gold and violet, through winds that sang and thundered that wept. Her heart pounded with terror and awe. Just as quickly, she slammed into existence. --- “Congratulations, Your Majesty,” a woman cooed. “She’s beautiful,” a man whispered, voice trembling. The baby cried. A healthy, strong wail. But Hana wasn’t just a baby. She was in the baby. Trapped in it. No. Not trapped. Reborn. The voice echoed in her head again: "Let the second act begin." She wanted to scream. She wanted answers. Instead, the infant’s mouth opened and cried. The nurse gently placed her into the queen’s arms. The queen—young, graceful, and crowned in silver lilies—smiled down at her. “We shall name her Aurelia,” she said. “A light sent from the heavens.” Hana... no, Aurelia… closed her eyes and wept. Not because she was in pain. But because she remembered everything. --- Years passed, as they always do in such stories, though to Hana—now Princess Aurelia—it felt like living inside a lucid dream. By age three, she could speak fluently, surprising her caretakers. They called it a miracle. The court whispered of divine blessings. Some even feared her. At age five, she sang in the palace chapel, causing flowers to bloom from marble cracks and rain to fall gently inside. By age seven, she had accepted that this was not Earth. This was Elarion, a kingdom nestled in a world brimming with magic, creatures of myth, and songs that literally shaped reality. Aurelia learned that music was not just entertainment here—it was power. Songweavers could mend bones with lullabies. Bards could charm dragons. Warlocks could curse entire villages with a single chant. And her voice? It was unlike any other. It made trees bow and winds sigh. It echoed through dreams. They trained her in secret. Shielded her from the world. Told her she had a purpose—though no one ever said what. Her parents, King Thalos and Queen Myrielle, adored her, but always with a distant, watchful air. They called her the “Child of Prophecy.” They spoke of her “return.” But Aurelia wasn’t returning to anything. She was a K-pop star who had died onstage. A girl who had known glitter and loneliness, fame and isolation. This world, with all its wonders, still felt like a prison. --- At age ten, she stood in the Tower of Echoes, staring at the forbidden mirror—a relic that reflected not your face, but your true self. She expected to see a golden-haired princess. Instead, she saw Hana Lee—barefaced, wearing her old trainee uniform, holding a mic. And behind her... shadows. Figures bound in chains. A weeping queen in tattered robes. Aurelia screamed. The mirror cracked. The castle's alarms blared, and guards rushed in. No one explained what she saw. No one dared to ask. --- Years passed again. At thirteen, she stopped trying to ask questions. At fifteen, she stopped trying to believe the answers. But she never stopped singing. She began sneaking out at night, cloaking herself in illusion spells. Wandering through the city. Listening to real music—the street performers, the sailor’s songs, the drunkards' lullabies. They had more soul than any royal ballad. She would return to the castle by dawn, lips humming with borrowed tunes, heart filled with a longing she couldn’t name. One night, deep in the abandoned gardens, she met a boy named Kael—a rogue thief cursed never to lie. He was stealing fruit and singing to himself. His voice cracked, but his song was alive. They talked. And talked. He didn’t recognize her. Didn’t care about her title. He liked her voice. Not for magic. But for the way it felt. That night, something changed in her. She didn’t want to be Elarion’s savior. She wanted to be free. --- At seventeen, she stood before her parents at the Summer Solstice Court. They declared her “Daughter of Light. Voice of the Stars. Heir to the Eternal Flame.” She bowed. Smiled. Sang the ceremonial hymn. Then that night, she packed a bag. Left a note on her pillow. And vanished. --- Under the cover of moonlight, she ran. Ran with nothing but a traveler's cloak, a stolen blade, a charm of protection, and her mother’s old pendant—carved with a symbol that burned against her skin when she sang certain notes. She had no map. No plan. Only a song in her soul and a hunger for truth. For freedom. And maybe… redemption. --- The stars watched her go. The same stars that had once watched her fall. The world didn’t know it yet, but the girl who had once ruled a stage and now defied a throne… Was about to rewrite a forgotten prophecy. --- End of Chapter 1