Romeo and Juliet

There are cities born from stone, and there are cities born from stories. The city of Calvareth was both.

Built upon the edge of a vast cliff, its towers reached for the stars, and its streets twisted like the threads of fate. But what truly made Calvareth famous was not its architecture or riches—it was the legend of the Veil.

Once every century, the sky above Calvareth would glow with the Starlit Veil—a shimmering river of stars and light said to appear when destiny bends. Lovers stood beneath it and whispered promises. Elders claimed it could undo even the cruelest curses. But most dismissed it as myth.

Except for Ilya and Cassian, whose love began beneath it… and nearly ended there too.

Ilya, the daughter of the royal astrologer, was never meant to be seen. She was kept hidden in tower libraries and ancient observatories, where scrolls mattered more than sunlight. Her mother, once cast out for marrying beneath her rank, had vanished in the waves years ago. All Ilya had left was the stars—and her father’s obsession with controlling them.

Cassian was a shadow of the streets. Born to nothing, raised by thieves, he moved through Calvareth like smoke—unseen, uncatchable. But what he lacked in title, he made up for in stories, which he performed in the square by starlight for coins and attention.

They met on the eve of the Veil’s return.

Ilya had snuck out of the observatory in search of the comet she'd studied for months, desperate to see it with her own eyes instead of through lenses and charts. Cassian was performing nearby, acting out the old tale of the goddess who stole a star for love.

Their eyes met across the firelight.

“You're looking for the stars,” he said, offering her a hand. “But maybe one found you first.”

They met again. And again.

In alleyways filled with music, in rooftops hidden from the world, and finally in the abandoned ruins of the Star Temple—once sacred, now silent. It was there, surrounded by broken constellations carved into stone, that they carved their initials together and whispered dreams louder than their fears.

But nothing stays hidden forever.

When her father discovered the truth, Ilya was locked away. “The stars choose who you belong to,” he growled. “And they did not choose him.”

Cassian was hunted, captured, and cast beyond the city walls. “The Veil is not for the lowborn,” the guards spat as they threw him into the forest. “It is for bloodlines that matter.”

But the stars had other plans.

The night of the Veil’s return arrived.

The skies shimmered as promised—silver threads dancing across the heavens. The people of Calvareth gathered to watch, unaware of what would unfold.

Ilya, dressed in ceremonial robes, stood beside her father on the palace balcony, her heart beating like thunder beneath her ribs. She wasn’t afraid of the stars. She was afraid of not trying.

And then, Cassian appeared.

He stood alone in the square, hooded and calm. How he had escaped, no one knew. But when he looked up to Ilya, there was no fear in his eyes. Only love.

“Meet me beneath the Veil,” he called out, his voice ringing through the night. “Let the stars decide.”

Gasps. Cries. But Ilya didn’t hesitate.

She ran—past the guards, past her father’s shouts, down the spiral staircase of the palace she’d once called home. People parted like waves as she crossed the square and took Cassian’s hand.

And together, beneath the shimmering Veil, they spoke the words that could not be unsaid.

“I choose you,” Ilya whispered.

“And I choose the life we write ourselves,” Cassian replied.

The sky above them flickered.

And then, something strange happened. The light of the Veil did not fade. It wrapped around them like a living ribbon, soft and golden, humming with ancient magic. For a moment, all of Calvareth held its breath.

The stars shifted.

Later, the scholars would claim it was impossible. That fate could not be rewritten. That bloodlines were sacred.

But in that moment, the people saw something undeniable: love powerful enough to be seen by the stars themselves.

The King’s council could not argue with a sky that glowed for them. Nor could Ilya’s father, whose calculations never accounted for defiance—or hope.

In the years that followed, the city changed.

The ruins of the Star Temple were rebuilt, open to all. The Veil became a symbol not of power, but of freedom. And Ilya and Cassian—now storytellers of their own legend—taught others how to read the stars not as commands, but as invitations.

Because sometimes, love is not written in the stars.

Sometimes, it writes its own sky.