As the wind keeps drifting and the seasons keep changing, I often look towards the eastern horizon and dream of that place where starlight used to touch the ground.

I was 6 years old at that time. I didn't know. I couldn't have known that it was the last restless night, within the secure confines that I missed for many many years to come.

That night papa seemed somewhat down, so the atmosphere was slightly tense at the dinner table. The servants, afraid of being a target of venting, all had their heads down. Only my older brother who was more than 10 years older than me, was behaving habitually, carefree as a drunkard, laughing and annoying papa even further. After dinner, I was summoned to my father's study room where I was taught the basics of every(almost) field of study. I was so tired that I just wanted to lie down and doze off.

It was just an ordinary day, nothing out of the norm. But the same day has been etched deep within my heart as the last memory of my family, my home.

I dreamt of being a mage that night, of me soaring in the sky, free as an eagle, looking over my father's huge territory that would have looked like an anthill from the clouds.

I opened my eyes the next morning, wounded, lying on a stone under the starless sky. I rubbed my eyes first at the sight but I only got more and more afraid as I looked around. Nobody was there. I kept screaming and soon felt like the skies were the mouth of an abyssal beast in the chaotic heavens, about to swallow everything.

My body was full of cuts and bruises. They didn't hurt that much and were nothing compared to the panic and fear I felt as the darkness surrounded me but they kept reminding me that this was not a dream and not an illusion. This was not something I could skip or run away from.