Dynasty

The stars had burned for eons, their light whispering secrets across the vast, unending void. But some mysteries were never meant to be solved. Not by men, not by gods.

Beneath the night sky, a boy and an old man sat by a dying fire. The wind curled around them, shifting embers into the dark.

“There are questions we were never meant to answer,” the old man said, poking the fire with a stick. “Mysteries woven into the fabric of time itself.”

The boy looked up, eyes reflecting the constellations. “But not all of them, right?”

The old man exhaled slowly, his breath mingling with the cold. “No… not all.” He pressed a hand against his chest. “The ones that matter, we carry here.”

The boy frowned. “Like what?”

“Like who we are. And why we are here.”

The boy glanced down, pressing his palm against his own chest, as if searching for the answer in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“And who are we?” he whispered.

The old man smiled, his gaze lost in the heavens. “A dynasty. Written in flesh and fire. Etched into the bones of time itself.”

The fire flickered. The stars watched. And the boy, for the first time, understood.