Excerpt:

Echoes of Noctumbria: The Last Star

It was three in the morning. The waning moon smiled down from the heavens, and the stars drifted slowly on their eternal pilgrimage.

Below, the city of Theluria slept, shrouded in mist and chimney smoke. White towers rose lazily above clouds of vapor, their metallic domes reflecting shards of starlight. The tallest, the Observatory of Saint Thomas, remained awake.

Amadeus pored over his notes again and again, swinging like a pendulum between the telescope and his desk. He had taken three daguerreotypes of the same area and still could not believe it: the Pleiades constellation had changed.

Maia, Taygeta, Celaeno, and Asterope had abandoned their three sisters, leaving behind a black void. Just two nights ago, the constellation had been complete. He was certain.

So what had caused it? A new planet? A black hole?

Excitement made his hands tremble as he wrote his report and prepared the telegraph. This was a discovery of historical proportions.

Theluria, also known as the City of Stars, had always loved its light. From the very first moment when stars reflected on Mirror Lake, covering it in diamond dust, or when they fell from the sky, tearing through the night with trails of fire.

Since then, the telescopes of the Celestial Order had studied the heavens from their lofty towers, admiring the cold, unreachable light, like an unrequited love.

The next morning, the walls of the Order’s palace thrummed with heated debate. Amadeus’s notes and daguerreotypes passed from hand to hand, sparking waves of disbelief and awe that rippled through the hall like a plague. Amadeus was the man of the hour, yet behind his proud smile lingered the shadow of doubt—something was amiss.

That very night, every telescope in Theluria turned toward the Pleiades.

Smiles vanished when they saw the rest of the constellation was gone.

No astronomer slept again. Night after night, men and women filled forums, laboratories, and towers, chasing answers through shadows. Theories were developed and discarded before dawn, and the shadows of massive telescope towers cut against the night sky, endlessly sweeping every inch of the heavens like sleepless cyclopean guardians. They rested only when the stars hid behind the golden mantle of dawn.

And night after night, the darkness grew, as if an inkwell had spilled across the celestial vault. The stain expanded, and more stars died—not exploding, not collapsing: simply disappearing.

It was not darkness… but the absence of everything. A vast, immaculate void.

The sky… was being devoured.

Celestial lights now died one by one before the eyes of the Thelurians, muffled screams and whispers of terror spreading through the city, blending with the frantic, stuttering beeps of telegraphs.

Messengers arrived in Theluria with news from across the globe. Everywhere, people spoke of the same thing: the hole, the void, the devil’s mouth, the stain, the shadow… Whatever its name, it continued to grow month by month, bringing uncertainty, and with uncertainty, fear.

Every night, millions of eyes turned skyward to witness with horror the region where constellations no longer shone. Local newspapers downplayed the phenomenon, hoping to maintain a fragile calm among the populace. But Amadeus knew the truth: our sun was a star too, and if the affliction devouring the cosmos continued to spread…

He presented his suspicions to his colleagues in the Order. According to his calculations, judging by the speed at which stars were vanishing, the sun would burn out in less than seven years. His theory competed with another, which claimed a gigantic asteroid approached the Earth. In either case, nothing could be done—humanity was doomed.

A creeping unease gripped the streets; people retreated early, rumors of strange disappearances spreading, and worried whispers spoke of sects and human sacrifices to appease a new, terrible god.

In their mansions and castles, the Thelurian nobility prepared for the end, for they alone had been informed of the Celestial Order’s discoveries. Subterranean fortresses began to rise, stocked with provisions meant to last years. Others simply squandered their fortunes on extravagant feasts and banquets. His Excellency, the Duke of Theluria, was rarely seen and seldom received audiences.

Time passed, and the Thelurians clung to their daily routines, avoiding the night sky. Many prayed, crowding Saint Peter’s Cathedral, where the archbishop’s voice resounded with desperate supplications, apocalyptic prophecies, and hope for the salvation of the righteous. Many lost faith, while staunch atheists joined God’s flock, seeking solace and meaning.

Meanwhile, others studied.

Amadeus sat in his observatory, sipping coffee as he leaned against the tower’s railing. Dark shadows rimmed his eyes. He could not tell whether it was from lack of sleep or the endless hours spent at the telescope. His pale skin longed for the sun’s warmth. Below, the city lights flickered restlessly under a sky now dominated by a massive void consuming nearly half the firmament.

The asteroid theory had long been discarded, and he himself had ruled out the black hole, noting the absence of light distortion at its edges. A victory tinged with defeat.

Three years had passed since the first stars disappeared. The joy he once felt, imagining his name on the cover of the Celestial Order’s scientific journal, was now a distant, mournful echo.

Now, whenever he gazed at the monstrous hole devouring the cosmos, he felt powerless, small, and alone… another hole of equal size yawned within him.

All they could do was watch.

The telegraph’s crackle pulled him from his thoughts. Amadeus entered the dome and, in two strides, reached the desk, tugging at the paper vomited by the printer with metallic screeches. He understood part of the message but fetched his notebook to transcribe it, clinging to the faint hope that he had misread it.

Letter by letter, he copied the trembling ink:

THELURIA STOP JERÓNIMO V STOP NOON TOWER STOP NEPTUNE IS GONE STOP IT APPROACHES

When Neptune’s disappearance became public, incredulous fear turned into pure terror—the kind that comes with a tangible, real threat.

That shadow… that horror… was here. And it was approaching.

A wave of primeval horror swept humanity, breaking the strongest minds and drowning all hope in a sea of grim certainty.

In the cities, order turned to smoke. News arrived of mass suicides and sacrifices by apocalyptic cults. Bars and brothels remained open day and night; spilled wine mixed with the blood of those who, with cruel scourges, punished their own flesh, trying to appease an absent god.

But not in Theluria.

Several fishermen returned one night from Mirror Lake, their eyes full of hope:

“The stars are still there!” they shouted. “There is no void in the lake!”

Amadeus descended to the lake with the crowd, and a breath of melancholic joy filled their hearts with a faint light.

There were the beloved stars he had devoted his life to, twinkling among the crystalline waters, hopping from wave to wave like tiny will-o’-the-wisps beneath a sky now utterly black, like the deepest oblivion.

In the following weeks, more and more people camped around Mirror Lake. Among them, scientists studied the rare phenomenon, trying to collect lake water in large containers—but none reflected the dead stars. Microscopic and instrumental analysis revealed ordinary water. Yet everyone could see the miracle.

When reason’s voice retreated defeated, devotion’s song rose in its place. Crowds of Thelurians in white robes gathered around the lake, singing mournful hymns to the black firmament. Occasionally, someone submerged in the star-dotted waters, never to be seen again.

The waning moon smiled indifferently, floating in infinite emptiness.

Below, the city of Theluria lay in absolute silence, its lights extinguished, its towers motionless, for there was nothing left to observe.

Amadeus stood among the crowd at the lake’s edge, motionless, eyes fixed on the bright constellations reflected in the waters. He thought of the years spent studying them, only to watch them die one by one, abandoned to the darkness. He stepped forward… the lake embraced him with icy arms, filling his lungs. And among stars, bubbles, and beautiful memories, Amadeus ceased to be.

One night, as had been foretold, the Moon vanished, for the Sun… was no more...

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