The crown was heavier at night.

  Not because it weighed more—but because everything else was silent.

  The King sat at the edge of the highest tower in the capital, legs dangling over the stone. One foot swung slowly back and forth, brushing air that smelled of cold wind and distant fires. Far below, the city slept. Windows dark. Streets empty. Guards changing shifts without speaking.

  Above him, the sky was alive.

  Stars scattered across the dark like thoughts no one could finish. Some flickered. Some burned steady. Some were already dead, their light arriving late—yet still beautiful.

  The King tilted his head slightly.

  “Still shining,” he murmured.

  No one answered. No one ever did.

  He had been crowned at thirteen.

  At thirteen, the crown had felt enormous—too large for his head, sliding slightly whenever he moved. At sixteen, it had stopped slipping. At nineteen, it had become… normal. Like a second skull.

  No one remembered the last time they saw him without it.

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  They said the crown was a symbol of authority.

  They were wrong.

  It was a reminder.

  The King rested his palm on the stone beside him. The tower was ancient, older than the kingdom itself. It had watched empires rise and crumble. Kings born and buried. Promises made and forgotten.

  Yet the stars remained.

  He wondered—briefly—whether they looked down at him the same way he looked up at them.

  A question rose in his chest, familiar and sharp:

  Why am I still here?

  Not alive. He had no wish to disappear.

  But here, on this throne, in this role.

  Footsteps echoed behind him.

  Slow. Careful. Hesitant.

  The King didn’t turn.

  “You shouldn’t be sitting there, Your Majesty,” said a voice. Old. Kind. Afraid.

  “I won’t fall,” the King replied.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  A cloak rustled. The Royal Astronomer stepped closer, staff tapping softly against stone. His beard was silver, his eyes tired from decades of staring into the sky.

  “You’ve been watching the stars again,” the Astronomer said.

  “Yes.”

  “You do that often.”

  “Yes.”

  The old man sighed. “People say it’s strange.”

  The King finally turned his head. Moonlight slid across his face—soft eyes, calm expression, no smile.

  “People say many things,” he said.

  The Astronomer hesitated. Then, quietly:

  “They also say the stars have begun to move.”

  That made the King stop swinging his leg.

  “…Move?” he asked.

  “Not drift. Not rotate. Respond.”

  The wind shifted. Clouds crawled slowly across the moon.

  “For the first time in recorded history,” the Astronomer continued, “the constellations changed position last night. Only slightly—but enough.”

  The King stood.

  The crown caught starlight, reflecting it like broken glass.

  “Show me,” he said.

  The Astronomer nodded. “I feared you’d say that.”

  Together, they turned toward the sky.

  And somewhere far beyond the world—

  something looked back.