They say it was the last star kindled.
Not by gods. Not by time.
But by mourning.
When the world was young, a nameless shepherd lived at the edge of the sky.
Every day, they watched the mortals below—falling in love, starting wars, building temples, tearing them down.
The shepherd never envied the power.
Only the mortals.
For despite their pain, they kept going.
Despite ruin, they still dreamed.
The shepherd watched kingdoms rise and burn. Watched lovers die in each other's arms. Watched children run laughing through fields of ash.
And one night, when a great sorrow touched the mortals—When life was consumed in goldenfire—
The shepherd wept for the first time.