Star Crossed

By Aashi Gurijala

Light and dark operate in harmony, creating the balance that makes life as we know it possible. When the God of Darkness is killed in cold blood and his power is released into the atmosphere only to tether itself to his murderer, the universe is plunged into chaos by the imbalance of light and dark energy. The two Light Celestials controlling th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Manuscripts LLC
• Release date: May 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889260608

Book preview

Author’s Note

I lived most of my life under the assumption that all I was meant to do was research and medicine. Every major moment in my life was somehow linked to both of those career paths. I had absolutely no doubt that I would dedicate my life to clinical research and patient care, but still, I always felt like something was missing.

I had long been a fan of literature. The books I read and the stories I heard became a part of my own history. At every misstep in my life or failure, my love for reading caught me when I fell. Eventually, I got tired of escaping into worlds that were not of my making.

Writing completed me. It was so different from my other passions yet improved my abilities as a scientist. It imbued me with the reflective and interpersonal skills to do a scientist’s most important work—communicate results. I grew immensely in all areas of my life due to a simple act of passion and creativity, and what I found continued to push me toward innovation in writing.

Star Crossed is by far my favorite story of my own creation. It started out as a beautiful story about love, sacrifice, and growth and evolved into a medium for cultural expression. Significant parts of the story are inspired by Hindu mythology as opposed to traditionally explored archetypes of Greek or Roman mythology. It combines the stories and myths I grew up hearing that inspired my characters and their various characteristics.

My hope is to encourage more inclusivity and diversity in literature by spreading awareness for my culture, which is typically under-explored in mainstream media. I aim to empower interracial interactions and the experiences that I and many others in my community have shared, both in India and America.

Star Crossed follows the complicated yet riveting love story of teenagers Jade and Axel, who discover that they are the descendants of the Celestials of Creation and Destruction. Despite being the descendants of the beings of light, Axel and Jade are forced to navigate through the darkness in their lives and the roles the universe has cast upon them as protectors of cosmic balance. As Ksatria (light warriors), they also struggle to fight against their dark counterpart, the Umbria, about whom very little is known.

All three characters are extraordinary examples of what it means to be a human—greater than the sum of their actions or parts. They speak to the importance of acknowledging moral ambiguity and ethics while accepting the power of love and emotional intelligence in helping people grow. The ultimate message I wish I heard at a younger age is that we are all the protagonists of our own stories and can choose who we want to be—hero, villain, or even nothing at all.

Prologue

Kali

A bright flash erupts outside my window. The sound of thunder follows soon after. The pattern is addicting to watch. I find comfort in the predictability of it all, the lightning and thunder, operating together in disharmony. It is a sight to behold. The lightning forms trees of pure energy and power.

Kali, it’s time, my sister says, walking into the room. The awakening has begun.

The dome lining the ceiling glistens with each flash in the distance. I take a deep breath, and the air feels thick and musty. I hate it. I turn toward her with eyes narrowed and scowl.

I suppose it is, I respond through gritted teeth.

You know what needs to be done, she says solemnly. I detect a hint of sympathy in her voice, but only a hint.

I know. It doesn’t mean that’s what I want, I say the words harsher than intended.

I am not going to enjoy this. I am simply acting out of necessity, but I find little comfort in that. I wave my hand over the window as tendrils of darkness engulf the shimmer of light from outside and snuff them out. I walk toward the center of the room and hold out my hands. Slowly, dark spirals descend from the ceiling and form a black ball of energy in front of me.

I know what I must do. The prophecy stands, and once I fulfill it, we’ll put an end to this madness. I growl, struggling to control the darkness around me.

My sister’s brows furrow with concern. She knows just as well as I do that our curse has taken a heavy toll on us, and it shows in my powers.

Maybe this time, things will be different. Maybe this time, the cycle will finally end. One can only hope—but what is hope if not something that breeds eternal misery anyway? Well, it’s not like things can get any more miserable than this. The curse must die with my counterparts. There is no other way.

I don’t have time to think about this. Now is the time to act. The ball spins in front of me, searching for what I wish to find. I watch it spin, like a top, putting me in a trance. Suddenly, the spinning stops. Ah. I’ve found it. Let darkness reign once more.

Chapter 1

Brutal

Jade

Honsle agar ho bulund

Kismet ko bhi jhukna hi padega

Even fate bends to the will of the strongest courage or belief

My parents taught me that if I wanted something badly enough, nothing in the universe could stop me from getting it. I used to think that was true, but now I’m just not sure. I think that philosophy is a burden because it requires having an overpowering belief in something intangible. Asking someone to believe—in anything really—is one of the hardest things you can do. I know that firsthand.

I thumb the swollen underbellies of my eyelids, picturing my dark circles as I lie in bed. My alarm already split my brain in half about five minutes ago, but I’m struggling to heed it. I slept for a grand total of 367 seconds, but who’s counting? I tried to sleep, really, but I was up most of the night listening to the thunder outside and witnessing the lightning illuminate my windows as the raindrops danced against the fluorescent night. I like storms. They help me forget about the ones in my head.

I shuffle over in bed and bask in the softness of the magenta comforter on my skin for just a minute more before pushing my legs off slowly. I move to stand up, but a wave of pain hits me right in the head. I nearly collapse when my knees buckle with surprise. I bring my hand up to my face warily, unfamiliar with the feeling. It’s not a normal pain, not a throb or a stab or an ache. It’s dull but growing sharper, like a latent virus is slowly emerging in my skull, and I shudder at the thought. This is the last thing I need today.

I try to push past the pain and make my way into the bathroom to get ready. If I’m late, my mother won’t be happy. Eleventh grade, she says, is the year of opportunity. It can make or break your future. No pressure.

I almost choke on my minty toothpaste as I let that thought sink in. Mom saying that does not make it any truer than I’ve already known since middle school—since elementary school even. I look at the schedule I plastered on my bathroom mirror with squinty eyes. I’ve already overloaded myself with AP classes and extracurriculars, just the way it should be. I close my eyes and spit into the sink. My head feels heavy. I’m curious if that’s because of the pain or a secret dread. I sigh and slink over to the shower, knowing it won’t bring me the catharsis I usually seek.

I put on my carefully curated outfit and grab my backpack before heading down the stairs. The smell of fresh dosa wafts through the air, and I grin reflexively.

Good morning, Jadelini! Are you ready for the new year? Mom asks, sliding the pancake-like form onto a fresh plate.

I slather on a thick layer of chutney and thank her. Yes, Ma! I’ve already made a to-do list of all my activities and tasks for the day. I have meetings all week with Professor Nicole about that new project I was telling you about too, I respond enthusiastically.

I hope she doesn’t hear my tiredness, or I’m in for a lecture. She’d tell me that nurturing my future requires nurturing my brain, which further requires sleep. I know that too.

That’s our daughter, Dad says as he strolls into the kitchen and pats me on the head.

Yep, that’s me. The overachieving robot. I smile and head over with my parents to our prayer room. I fold my knees under me as I take the appropriate prayer position. It’s a tradition in my family to pray before every major event, and the start of eleventh grade counts. I never protest because I find comfort in the routine, even if I’m not always sure it’ll work. I mean, it’s not science. Right? Maybe that makes me a bad Hindu.

Mom chants softly, her wishes filling the air around us. Even if it isn’t science, the musical words that spill from her into the atmosphere are enchanting, like they’ve always belonged. They’re enveloping and warm and tell stories of gods and goddesses, heroes and villains. I have never fully understood because I’m not fluent in Telugu like most of my native-speaking family in southern India.

Mom stops chanting and asks me to say a prayer like a wish. An indescribable feeling fills me. I want to ask for something different this year, not just the usual expected academic success.

I want something to change this year. I want to live my life the way I never have before.

No distractions this year. Okay, Jade? You have to be careful, Mom says as I walk out the door.

I pause briefly to reassure her, but I’m bothered by the implication. Distraction is a vague term. I feel the pressure mounting.

I know, Ma. You don’t have to remind me, I say, careful not to sound offensive. Her eyes narrow at me suspiciously. I hold my breath.

"Yes, I do. I just want you to succeed, nani," she replies with my special term of endearment.

I exhale shakily. It’s hard for me to argue against that. I remind myself that she loves me, more than three words could ever express, and she worries because she wants me to be happy. She doesn’t know it’s stressing me out. She doesn’t know the things my brain says to me.

I’ve got to go! I say, sporting another smile, and she turns back inside. Her bright green shirt stands out against the characteristic eggshell white of our house.

I hop into the Volvo my parents generously gifted to my brother and me for my sixteenth birthday and turn it on, relishing in the feeling of independence that the hum of the engine and the silky red exterior signify. I put it into gear and back out of the driveway when a second wave of searing pain knocks the exterior of my head. I can’t possibly be in this much pain just because I didn’t sleep. I quickly pop a Tylenol into my mouth after parking around the corner so Mom won’t worry.

The late-summer Los Angeles air permeates through the windows while I wait for the pill to work. It’s the tactile version of a kaleidoscope of warmth and chill. I love it. It’s just like the city.

When I am stable enough to drive again and arrive at school, no students are in the parking lot. Shoot, my battle with my headache made me late. Even if people were early, they probably wouldn’t lurk in the parking lot, though. Atlas High looks like a prison from this angle with the raised brown brick wall and unsettling steel bars. The school’s only saving grace is the big rectangular glass windows on each wall of every classroom that remind students a whole world waits outside of prison block C. At least the campus smells like the magnolia trees that line the pavement. Yet today a strange number of black cars surround the building.

I park poorly and book it into the school. It’s time to abandon self-respect. I run so fast I swear I hear my lungs pop. The hallways feel deserted now with every responsible person already behind closed doors. I leap into classroom 189 just as our teacher announces the commencement of class. Her lips are moving, but I swear no words are coming out. Maybe that pop was actually my ear drums.

My ears slowly begin to function again, and I’m pulled from my thoughts back to reality. I really need to maintain a half-decent attention span.

Alright, class, take your seats according to the chart on the board, she asserts. She smiles at me as I catch my breath, making me feel slightly better about almost being late.

I can hear my classmates groan in palpable disapproval. It’s the first day of junior year, and we’re already being given a seating chart? I glance at the board, still a little breathless, and discover I’m sitting right next to Sophani Aris. Oh no. I swallow the pill-sized lump in my throat that isn’t from the Tylenol as my hands quiver against my sides. I tug on the fraying ends of my jean shorts to give my fingers something to mess with while I walk to my seat.

Well if it isn’t sweet little Jade. How was your summer? Did you celebrate the anniversary in peace? Sophani sneers, plopping down next to me.

It’s been seconds, and she’s already forced me to relive my worst moment in life with the mention of a single word, one that could mean anything really. The way she meant it, though, it’s the ugliest word in the world. The anniversary. I push down the guilt rising like bile and bite my tongue. I hate that she does this to me repeatedly without restraint or remorse, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t hate her. We used to be friends. I can’t forget, even if she can.

Hey, Sophani. How was your summer? I ask, plastering on my most Oscar-worthy smile.

Hawaii was fun, I guess, she says, flipping her tightly coiled curly hair over her shoulder.

My right eye twitches. I open my textbook and bury my nose in it, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave me alone.

Her expression shifts as she examines the board. Have you heard about the transfer student? she prods. I raise my eyebrow, and she sighs. I’ve heard he’s been homeschooled in Europe or something for the last few years.

I roll my eyes. I don’t care about meaningless gossip or transfer students. I have bigger things to worry about, like how I’m going to stomach this class next to my self-proclaimed frenemy. Still, I can’t imagine transferring to this school one year before graduation. We have a very rigorous program that should come with the same warning sign as rollercoasters for pregnant ladies or the faint of heart.

I glance at the board to see the other lucky soul I get to sit next to: A.W. K. It doesn’t sound familiar, and I have known almost every kid in this class for the last six years at least. I guess that meaningless gossip is about to become relevant. It’s fine. Sophani will keep him occupied. She loves doing that.

The room grows quiet when the teacher gets up from her seat but not because of her. The air changes. It’s not warm or chilly. It’s foreign and strangely magnetic. I can hear the combined beating of two dozen hearts among the sure, confident footsteps of someone alien. I poke my head up when the door flings open carelessly in a mark of impatience and recklessness. They may as well have plastered entitled on the walls.

On cue, Mrs. Grandstone begins to speak. Class, we have a new student this year! Please be welcoming since coming into this school as a junior is not easy. Axel, why don’t you introduce yourself.

Before I can catch a good look at him, a spark ignites in my chest. Zing. The kind of spark you feel from a shock of static electricity. The kind of spark that comes from the most unwelcome rush of emotion. I look down on impulse when my fingers start shaking. No, not now. Not when the room is so silent they could hear me tap compulsively. I squeeze my pen tighter until the folds of my palm turn into alternating ribbons of red and white. I have to stay calm and resist the urge to tap.

Everyone gasps and starts whispering. At first my heart stops because I think they’ve figured out what I am trying my hardest to hide, but they’re not gossiping about me. It’s him. The ghostly specter of A.W. K. has descended upon the classroom. I glance at Sophani, whose face has turned bright pink aligned with the surprise she is incapable of masking. I stay slumped over in my seat, unnerved by everyone’s reaction but not daring to partake.

I hear a deep grunt, as if someone was clearing his throat, followed by whispers and footsteps trailing out of the room. My hands stop shaking, and I sit up straighter in relief. That was close.

Yes, we’ll be happy to see you later, Mr. Knight! Well, let’s get on with it. Shall we? Mrs. Grandstone says, walking toward the whiteboard.

Everyone is still whispering. Oh, come on. I know it’s unusual for us to have a new student, but he is just a person. Maybe I’m being a little harsh. I don’t like wasting time. I clear my throat deliberately loudly, and wide grins turn into tight lipped smiles. We start our lesson.

I practically teleport to the cafeteria the moment the third bell rings. I walk into the lunchroom and immediately hear a high-pitched scream.

Jade! Sam yells.

Sam! I yell back and run toward her, enveloping her in a hug. I squeeze her tightly. I missed you so much!

Not as much as I missed you! Two months in New York is way too long to spend away from you. You should’ve come with me! She pouts and smooths the strawberry blonde waves of her shoulder-length hair. I giggle at my best friend and hand her a blue Jolly Rancher in response. She squeals and throws it into her mouth in excitement.

You remembered! She squeezes me. I feign weakness when she picks me off the ground and grins.

That this candy is the reason we’ve been friends since kindergarten? No, you may have to remind me, I retort.

She snorts and puts me down. Must you do this every time we reunite after break? Fine. Kris Dixon stole my blue Rancher first day, you forced him to give it back. She pats my head.

I’ll never forget the face Sam made that day—not because of how happy she looked but because I could see something curious shine in her eyes. I desperately wanted to figure it out.

Reliving that memory is a tradition. Plus, the drool on your chin made it hard to ignore back then, I tease.

She laughs again. Well, nothing gets me drooling like righting a true injustice.

It’s my turn to snort. We waste some time filling each other in on the progress of her computer science internship and my research when the conversation takes an unexpected turn before we’ve even sat down.

Did you see we have a new student? Sam asks. I’ve heard so many things about him.

This again? I shrug my shoulders dismissively, wanting to hear more about her first day back.

Yeah, apparently he sits next to me in bio class, but he’s been missing all day, I say, remembering his name on the roster in at least two of my other classes.

What’s his name? Sam asks while she slips into the nearest lunch table.

I follow. Uh, Axel? Axel Knight, I think, I respond.

Sam’s face turns red in shock. Knight? Did you say Knight? she asks.

I nod in ignorance, unsure as to what’s getting her so excited.

Don’t you remember the name? Does Aridon Knight ring a bell? Sam asks with a wild look in her eyes.

Aridon Knight? Oh. I finally make the connection. "Wait, the Aridon Knight? As in, the richest businessman in California, Aridon Knight? I respond rather loudly. I didn’t even know he had a son. He’s always talked about in the context of his business."

Try the richest in America, she says after looking him up on her phone. Look.

I glance at her phone that’s pulled up a news article from the Wall Street Journal about a profile piece centered around The King of California and His Young Prince.

Wow. This is unreal, I say, still reeling from the surprise. No wonder everyone reacted that way in class. I knew something was off. Does everyone but me know who he is?

The shrill scream of the bell signals the end of our conversation. Sam throws me her cranberry juice box per usual and scurries off to class. I head in the direction of my own class, but something is plaguing my mind. Axel looked so strange in that picture with his father, so haunted. I’d only ever seen that look on myself before. A transient but unmistakable chill runs up my spine. I try to put away the feeling.

I forget the article as soon as I enter my favorite class of the day. I’m supposed to spend most of creative writing class discussing the layout for the newest magazine issue, but for some reason everything seems fuzzy to me. The words on the page blur with every pang in my head.

I drive home in a daze. Something is up, and I don’t like it. I may just be putting too much pressure on myself. I’ve always wanted to be successful. I’ve needed to be successful. I am the pride of my family, who risked everything to immigrate to a new country for the sake of a better life. How does anyone repay that? How does anyone live up to that? My brother is too young to shoulder that responsibility, so it falls on me.

The thing about success, however, is that it’s not quantifiable. I feel like there’s always more to accomplish. My mentors call me a straight-A hyper-achiever. I dedicate all my free time to research. Yet I feel so empty, so lost, like a part of me is aching to get out.

A car honks at me from behind, and my mind snaps back to reality. My hands vibrate, almost causing me to crash into the car next to me. I pull over quickly and take a deep breath. I look down at my fingers and clench them.

I’m tired of just being a robot. I’m tired of feeling like my life means chasing success and nothing else. I want to know that missing part of me. I must be good for more than just my family… for the world, to make an impact. I rest my head against the wheel, my eyes shut tightly to block out the world.

Stop daydreaming, Jadelini, my parents would say to me right now. Keep your eyes on the prize.

I hate that mentality, but maybe it’s because I am a daydreamer. I can’t recall the last time I didn’t dream of accomplishing some heroic feat.

Reveries have no place in my family. I get why. My name, Jadelini Ishq, was given to me because my parents wanted me to stand out. They wanted me to be unmatched, unique, maybe even a trophy. I don’t know if that’s who they got. Everyone calls me Jade, instead, a symbol of serenity and strength just like the stone. I hope I can live up to at least my nickname.

A dull glow pokes through the dark barrier of my eyelids. I open them up to see my fingers glowing blue softly against the dashboard. I think I’m losing my mind.

Chapter 2

King

Axel

Power. It’s something of the devil. It stole my mother from me. It stole my father too. I’m basically an orphan. Great way to start a story. Right? Well, this isn’t any ordinary story. It’s our story, hers and mine, and it all starts with power.

I can list over a hundred books on my shelf that all have to do with power—Art of War, The Prince, Communist Manifesto, Leviathan, and I’ve read every single one, page to page. I didn’t want to. Aridon forced me to inhale the information as if it was air. Evidently, I know an awful lot about power, far more than the average sixteen-year-old.

Why is the world so bloody obsessed with it? Those who have it want more, those who don’t have it need more, and those who don’t care about it… should. I have learned an important lesson from all my time reading and being the great Aridon Knight’s son. Influence speaks for itself and doesn’t need an exhibition of strength to be deadly. The most dangerous types are hidden under pillows, like teeth for the tooth fairy, and in briefcases guarded by gold-sealed vaults.

It’s more precious than life to some people. I can’t think of a worse way to live.

I splash cold water on my face, the stark shock of the coldness rubbing the skin raw. I allow the water to glide past the sharp edges of my jaw and down my neck onto the counter below. Drip. Drip. I cringe from the sound. It sounds like the dripping of blood. I groan and swing the towel in my hands over my shoulder as I walk out of the bathroom. I lie down on my bed with my head clasped between my hands. I’m tired just thinking about what tomorrow brings. My best friend walks into the room, a cup of tea in hand.

You good? Vitan asks, eyeing me from the doorway. I jealously stare at his mug. He smirks and hands it to me.

Thanks. I’m fine, I respond. Just getting used to the idea of being in a classroom in less than twelve hours.

I haven’t actually been in school for the last ten years of my life. Equipped with a photographic memory, I have absorbed as much information as I could from private tutors, online courses, and observation. Then I