Witchfire Beneath the Drifting Stars

By William Liu

The witchfire was never meant to awaken.

Hidden beneath the drifting stars, it has slept for generations—an ancient magic bound to bloodlines, silence, and sacrifice. When it ignites within her, it marks her as both a weapon and a threat in a world that hunts witches who burn too brightly.

He was sworn to protect the balance of the realm, not question it.

Raised beneath the same star-marked sky, he understands the cost of power and the danger of magic left unchecked. But when their paths entwine, the fire between them awakens more than desire. It stirs old spells, broken vows, and truths the ruling orders have buried for centuries.

As celestial forces shift and rival powers move in the shadows, witchfire and starlight begin to answer one another. The magic she carries is older than crowns. The bond forming between them is stronger than law. And the stars themselves seem to be watching, waiting to see whether love will save the realm—or set it ablaze.

Because some magic was never meant to be controlled.
And some destinies are written far beyond the reach of fear.

Witchfire Beneath the Drifting Stars is a dark, lyrical romantasy featuring witches, forbidden magic, slow-burn romance, celestial power, and a world where love and rebellion rise beneath an ever-watchful sky.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Liu
• Release date: Dec 13, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232400866

Book preview

Prologue

The stars began dying on the eve of Sorelle's twenty-third birthday, and she tasted their extinction like ash and honey on her tongue.

She stood at the edge of the Drifting Observatory, her bare feet planted on crystal floors that hummed with fading celestial resonance, watching as another pathway collapsed into the void. The cosmic road had stretched between the Ember Realm and the Gardens of Perpetual Dawn for eleven thousand years. Now it folded inward like burning parchment, swallowing three moons and a constellation older than mortal memory.

Somewhere in the dying light, a dragon screamed.

Not a roar of fury or dominance. This sound carved through dimensions, a cry of ancient power guttering like a candle flame in hurricane winds. Sorelle pressed her palm to her chest, feeling her witchfire respond with a surge of silver heat that made her gasp. Her magic had never reacted to anything beyond the Observatory's boundaries. Her magic had never wanted anything at all.

Until now.

The elder witches spoke of bonds in hushed voices, of the pacts that once tied starlight magic to celestial dragons before the Sundering scattered both across fractured realms. Naessra had warned her that such bonds demanded everything: memory, power, the very essence of self poured into another being's survival. The last witch who attempted it, Lunaris of the Silver Veil, had watched three realms burn when her dragon's death tore the bond asunder.

Sorelle should turn away. She should seal her chambers and let whatever creature suffered in the collapsing pathway meet its fate alone.

Instead, she lifted her hands to the dying stars and let her witchfire answer the dragon's call.

The magic does not forgive hesitation.

Silver flames erupted from her fingertips, weaving through the void with desperate precision. She tasted copper and starlight. She felt something ancient and impossibly vast brush against her consciousness, a presence of scales and cosmic fire and memories older than the first sun. For one shattering heartbeat, she saw through eyes that had witnessed the birth of galaxies.

Then the pathway collapsed entirely, and a figure made of shadow and fading starlight crashed through the Observatory's crystalline dome, landing three feet from where she stood.

He wore the shape of a man, though no man had ever possessed eyes like shattered nebulae or skin that flickered between bronze flesh and obsidian scales. Blood the color of liquid silver pooled beneath him, and when he lifted his head to meet her gaze, Sorelle understood with terrible clarity that the choice had never been hers to make.

The bond had already begun.

Chapter 1: The Weight of Falling Stars

Sorelle knelt beside the dying dragon at 3:47 in the morning, her witchfire painting his broken body in silver light while the Observatory's warning bells screamed their futile alarm across seven crystalline towers.

He was beautiful in the way that catastrophes are beautiful: devastating, absolute, impossible to look away from. His human form flickered with each labored breath, revealing glimpses of scales darker than the void between stars, wings that had once spanned distances measured in light-years now folded and torn against the shattered crystal floor. Blood continued pooling beneath him, silver and luminescent, carrying the scent of burnt ozone and something sweeter, like night-blooming jasmine crushed between desperate fingers.

The magic does not forgive hesitation.

She had learned that lesson at seven years old, when her first attempt at calling starlight had set fire to her mother's garden. Naessra had found her sobbing in the ashes, had lifted her chin with ancient fingers and spoken words that branded themselves into Sorelle's bones: hesitation is death for a starlight witch. The magic moves at the speed of falling stars. Match it or be consumed.

Now, eighteen years later, Sorelle did not hesitate.

I need you to stay conscious. Her voice emerged steadier than her pulse, which hammered at 156 beats per minute against the cage of her ribs. Whatever you are, wherever you came from, you will not die in my Observatory. I forbid it.

His laugh scraped through the air like broken glass dragged across stone. You forbid it. Those shattered-nebula eyes focused on her face, and something shifted in their depths. Recognition. Hunger. A weight that pressed against her consciousness with the gravity of collapsed stars. Little witch. Your forbiddance means nothing to the void.

Then it's fortunate I'm not speaking to the void.

She pressed her palms flat against his chest, feeling the stutter of a heartbeat that moved in rhythms no human organ could produce. Four beats, then silence. Four beats, then silence. The pattern of a dying star cycling through its final rotations before the inevitable collapse.

Here is what makes him lethal: not his power, though she sensed it coiled beneath his failing flesh like a serpent waiting to strike. Not his beauty, though it carved something sharp and unwanted through her chest. His lethality lived in the way her magic reached for him without permission, straining against her control like a wild creature scenting its mate after centuries of solitude.

Your fire. His hand closed around her wrist, and the contact sent lightning cascading through her nervous system, igniting pathways she hadn't known existed. I can taste it. Silver and burning and alive. You're the one who called me through the collapse.

I didn't call anyone.

Liar. The word held no accusation. Only certainty. I heard you across seventeen dying pathways. Your magic screaming into the void like a beacon. Like a promise.

Sorelle wanted to deny it. She needed to deny it, because the alternative meant accepting that some part of her had reached across collapsing dimensions to summon this creature, this dragon wearing a man's devastating face, this impossible being whose blood now stained her hands silver.

She denied nothing.

The pathways are dying, she said instead, channeling her witchfire deeper into his failing body. The magic burned through her veins, demanding more than she knew how to give, pulling at reserves she hadn't realized she possessed. Three collapsed tonight. The elders count seventeen more showing fractures. If you came seeking sanctuary—

I came seeking you.

The words struck like physical blows. Sorelle's hands trembled against his chest, and she hated the trembling, hated the way her carefully constructed walls developed cracks at the mere pressure of his attention.

You don't know me.

I know your fire. His free hand rose, and she should have pulled away, should have retreated to safe distance and professional detachment, but his fingers brushed her jaw and her witchfire sang in response, a harmony so perfect it stole her breath. I have known it for three thousand years, little witch. Through seventeen different lives, across realms that no longer exist. Your fire called to me before you were born.

Gods, she was in trouble.

The thought surfaced through layers of magical strain and unwanted awareness, sharp and self-deprecating and entirely unhelpful. Of course the first person to make her magic sing would be a dying dragon with eyes like broken galaxies and a voice that resonated in frequencies her human ears shouldn't be able to process. Of course he would speak of destiny and lifetimes and bonds that transcended the petty boundaries of mortal existence.

Of course she would want to believe him.

Sorelle! Thessia's voice cut through the crystalline chamber, accompanied by the rapid percussion of running footsteps. Sorelle, what in the seven burning hells—

Her fellow witch stumbled to a halt at the edge of the destruction, dark eyes widening as she took in the shattered dome, the silver blood, the impossible creature beneath Sorelle's glowing hands.

Oh. Thessia's voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. Oh, stars preserve us.

The stars are dying. The dragon's gaze never left Sorelle's face, even as he addressed her companion. Preservation is beyond their current capacity.

Is he always this cheerful? Thessia edged closer, her own magic flickering tentatively around her fingers, amber and gold to Sorelle's silver. Or is the impending doom a special occasion?

I find terminal honesty preferable to comfortable delusion. Another flickering breath. Another cycle of that strange four-beat heart. Your friend is attempting to keep me alive through sheer stubbornness. I should inform her that stubbornness, while admirable, cannot substitute for a proper bonding ritual.

Sorelle's hands stilled. Her witchfire sputtered.

No.

The word emerged before conscious thought could catch up with instinct. No to the bonding. No to the ancient magic that had destroyed Lunaris and scattered Silvain across the void. No to the hungry way her power reached for this stranger, this dragon, this beautiful disaster bleeding silver onto her Observatory floor.

No, she repeated, stronger now. I am not binding myself to you. I don't care how many lifetimes you claim to have searched. I don't care what my magic does when you touch me. Bonds kill. Bonds destroy. Lunaris tried, and three realms burned.

Lunaris tried to sever what was already sealed. His voice carried the weight of mountains, of tectonic plates grinding against each other over millennia. She feared the bond more than she trusted it. Fear is poison to starlight magic. You know this.

She did know this.

Gods damn him, she knew this.

Consider the cost when a witch lets fear guide her fire. Naessra had taught that lesson too, had shown Sorelle the scars on her own hands where magic had turned inward against a moment of doubt. Starlight demanded absolute conviction. It burned brightest in the absence of hesitation, in the space where fear transformed into fierce, unwavering purpose.

But this—this was different. This wasn't a simple spell or a calculated working. This was binding her essence to another being, pouring her power into his survival, tying her fate to a creature she'd known for less than an hour.

This was everything she'd sworn she would never risk.

The pathways will continue collapsing. He spoke the words like prophecy, like inevitability, like the grinding progress of glaciers reshaping continents. Without the dragons to anchor them, without the witches to guide the starlight, every realm connected to the cosmic roads will fall into the void. The Gardens of Perpetual Dawn vanished tonight. The Ember Realm will follow within the week. After that—

After that, every realm touched by starlight dies. Naessra's voice preceded her entrance, ancient and measured and carrying the particular resonance that meant she had been listening from the shadows for some time. The elder witch stepped through the ruined doorway, her silver hair streaming behind her like captured moonlight, her eyes fixed on the dragon with an expression Sorelle couldn't decipher. Hello, Draycen. I wondered when you would find your way here.

The dragon—Draycen—turned his head toward the elder witch, and something passed between them that Sorelle couldn't read. Recognition, certainly. But also something older. Something weighted with history she couldn't access.

Keeper. Draycen's voice softened by fractional degrees. You knew I would come.

I knew your kind would seek out the brightest fire when the darkness began spreading. Naessra's gaze shifted to Sorelle, and the weight of her attention made Sorelle's witchfire flicker with nervous energy. I did not expect that fire to be my most stubborn student.

I didn't call him.

Your magic called him. Naessra moved closer, her movements deliberate and unhurried despite the chaos surrounding them. The conscious mind and the magical core are not always aligned, child. You have been restless for months. Your fire has been reaching beyond the Observatory's boundaries since the autumn equinox. Did you think I hadn't noticed?

Sorelle opened her mouth to argue, but the words died unspoken. She had noticed the restlessness. She had felt her magic straining against invisible constraints, had woken from dreams of falling through starlit darkness with her hands burning silver and her heart aching for something she couldn't name.

She had told herself it meant nothing.

The magic burns hotter when it recognizes its purpose. Naessra knelt beside them, her aged hands joining Sorelle's against Draycen's chest. Fresh power flowed through the connection, gold-white and ancient, stabilizing the dragon's failing heartbeat. You have spent twenty-three years learning control, Sorelle. Learning restraint. Learning to keep your fire contained within acceptable boundaries. But starlight was never meant for cages.

Neither was I. Draycen's eyes found Sorelle's again, and the hunger in them had transformed into something softer. Sadder. We are the same, little witch. Burning in isolation while the universe demands connection.

This is not desire. This is recognition.

The thought crystallized in Sorelle's mind with painful clarity. She didn't want Draycen because he was beautiful, though he was. She didn't want him because her magic responded to his presence with embarrassing enthusiasm, though it did. She wanted him because something in his brokenness mirrored something in her own. Because his isolation echoed her isolation. Because his fire, fading though it was, spoke the same language as hers.

Because wanting him felt like coming home to a place she'd never known existed.

Thessia. Naessra's voice cut through Sorelle's spiraling thoughts. Fetch the Binding Texts from the restricted archives. Third shelf, behind the Treatise on Collapsed Dimensions.

I haven't agreed to anything. Sorelle's protest emerged weaker than intended.

Your magic has agreed. Naessra's hands pressed more firmly against Draycen's chest. The formal words are merely ceremony. The bond began forming the moment your fire answered his call. Fighting it now will only ensure that both of you die when the connection tears itself apart from internal resistance.

She's lying. Even as she spoke the accusation, Sorelle felt the truth of Naessra's words resonating through her magical core. The connection was already there, gossamer-thin but growing stronger with every pulse of shared power. Fighting it felt like fighting gravity. Tell me she's lying.

Draycen's hand found hers, silver blood smearing across her knuckles, and the contact sent fresh lightning dancing through her nervous system.

I cannot lie to you, little witch. His voice had dropped to something intimate, something meant only for her ears despite their audience. The bond between starlight and dragon fire has never required permission. It requires only recognition. And I have recognized your fire since before your grandmother's grandmother drew her first breath.

That's not romantic. That's unsettling.

His laugh startled her—a genuine sound of amusement that transformed his devastating face into something approaching human warmth. Your directness is refreshing. The last witch who spoke to me with such honesty lived four centuries ago.

What happened to her?

The warmth faded. She died. They all die, eventually. Mortal flames, however bright, cannot burn forever.

Is that supposed to convince me to bind myself to you? The reminder that I'll die regardless?

It is supposed to remind you that time is precious. His thumb traced circles against her wrist, and her pulse jumped from 156 to 178 beats per minute in response. You will die someday, Sorelle of the Drifting Observatory. The question is whether you will spend your remaining years burning alone, or burning alongside someone who understands the exact temperature of your fire.

Here is what makes him lethal: the truth wrapped in poetry, the devastation disguised as comfort, the way he makes surrender sound like victory.

Thessia returned with the texts, her arms laden with leather-bound volumes that smelled of dust and dying stars. She set them beside Naessra without comment, but her eyes found Sorelle's across the chaos of the shattered chamber, and the question in them was clear.

What are you going to do?

Sorelle looked at Draycen. At the silver blood still seeping from wounds that should have killed him hours ago. At the way his human form flickered with increasing instability, revealing glimpses of scales and claws and wings that belonged to creatures of myth rather than the solid reality of her Observatory.

She looked at her own hands, glowing with witchfire that refused to extinguish, that reached for him even now despite her conscious resistance.

She thought of the pathways collapsing. Of realms falling into the void. Of the Gardens of Perpetual Dawn, gone forever because no one had been strong enough to hold the cosmic roads together.

She thought of Lunaris, who had tried and failed and destroyed three worlds in the process.

She thought of the alternative: watching Draycen die on her floor, feeling the nascent bond tear itself apart inside her chest, spending whatever remaining years she had knowing she could have saved him and chose fear instead.

The magic does not forgive hesitation.

Tell me what the ritual requires. Her voice steadied as she spoke. Tell me everything. And if you lie to me, if you omit anything, if you try to manipulate this situation to your advantage—I will find a way to make a dragon regret his choices. Do you understand?

Draycen's smile contained centuries of relief and something else, something that looked dangerously like hope.

Perfectly, little witch. Perfectly.

The Binding Texts spread across the crystalline floor like a map of shared destruction, their pages yellowed with age and heavy with the weight of ancient magic. Sorelle studied them with the methodical intensity she brought to all her scholarly work, refusing to let her trembling hands or racing heart interfere with proper comprehension.

The ritual required three elements: blood from both parties, freely given under starlight. A spoken oath of three parts, each word carrying the weight of absolute truth. And the alignment of the seven remaining stable pathways, which occurred for exactly seventeen minutes at the peak of each lunar cycle.

The next alignment is in six days. Thessia's voice broke the heavy silence that had fallen over the chamber. Can he survive that long?

Naessra's expression provided the answer before her words confirmed it. Not without intervention. The temporary stabilization we've achieved will hold for hours, not days. His core is too damaged.

Then we need another option. Sorelle's witchfire flared brighter, responding to her frustration. There must be something in these texts—some variation of the ritual that doesn't require the full alignment—

There is. Draycen's voice cut through her rising panic. But you will not like it.

I don't like any of this. She met his gaze without flinching, though the effort cost her. Those shattered-nebula eyes saw too much, knew too much, demanded more than she wanted to give. Tell me anyway.

The preliminary binding. Naessra answered when Draycen remained silent, her aged fingers tracing a passage in one of the open texts. "It stabilizes the connection between witch and dragon, allowing the dragon to draw on the witch's power for survival. But it is not reversible, Sorelle. Once the preliminary binding is complete, the full ritual becomes inevitable. You will have