Dorian reached for her, but his fingers passed through her shoulder as if she were already made of sky.

On the island, Dorian Del Isla had stopped counting sunsets. They blurred into gold and coral, each one a soft lie that the day told before drowning. But tonight was different.

“You can’t hold a star, Dorian,” she whispered. “You can only follow it.”

She smiled, slow and dangerous. “Then I won’t be afraid.”

And then she rose — not flying, not falling — simply becoming part of the night air, the starfire’s light bleeding into the constellations overhead.