Call of the fallen star

Call of the Fallen Star

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Part One: The Wrong Number

Nagma Khan wasn't supposed to call that number.

It sat alone in the contacts of a second-hand phone her cousin Rosé had bought from a street market in Milan. One name. No picture. Just two words: Hub. She pressed call by accident while arguing with Rosé about the last slice of pizza.

The voice that answered wasn't what she expected.

"Yeoboseyo."

Deep. Rough. Foreign. A sound that didn't belong to her world of textbooks and exams and late-night K-drama binges.

She almost hung up. Almost.

But then — "Hurt?" she heard herself say. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."

The silence that followed lasted so long she thought the line had died. Then he spoke again. Slower this time. Like he was tasting her words.

"You're not her."

And Nagma, stubborn, reckless, never-one-to-back-down Nagma, frowned at her phone and said, "Of course I'm not. I'm Lily Kim. And I think you have the wrong number."

She lied. Badly.

He knew.

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Part Two: The Man Who Didn't Let Go

His name was Liam Jeon. Thirty-two. Korean. A mafia boss who'd buried the only woman he ever loved seven years ago and hadn't looked at another since.

Until Nagma.

He should have let it go. Should have let her send back the phone and disappear. But something in her voice — that apology, that fire, that "I'm not scared of you" — burrowed under his skin and refused to leave.

So he found her.

Not by stalking. Not by force. Through a live video Rosé posted of Nagma playing guitar in a snowy Italian park, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, singing like she'd forgotten anyone was watching.

"She's mine," he commented. Then deleted it. But she saw.

She always saw.

"Mr. Stranger," she texted that night, "I don't know you. Stop acting like you do."

"Then let me," he replied. "Let me know you. Let me find you. Let me prove that not all monsters stay in books."

She didn't answer.

But she didn't block him either.

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Part Three: Pyramids and Promises

Egypt was supposed to be a distraction. A trip with Rosé and Marco and too many textbooks. Nagma planned to explore tombs, ignore her growing feelings for a voice on the phone, and definitely not think about the way Liam said little one like it was a secret between them.

Then the sandstorm hit. The mummies rose. And Imhotep — the actual, ancient, flesh-rotting Imhotep — decided that modern medicine students made excellent sacrifices.

"Stay behind me," Marco said, grabbing her arm.

Nagma pulled free. "I don't stay behind anyone."

She fought. Swords. Magic. A lyre that glowed like starlight. She swung a blade she'd never trained with, sang a song she'd never rehearsed, and when the ceiling began to crumble, she stabbed herself to draw Imhotep's attention.

"Finish him," she whispered to the air, to Liam, to whatever god was listening. "Finish him so I can go home."

The phoenix fire that erupted from Liam's sword — when he appeared from nowhere, eyes wild, teeth bared — wasn't magic. It was grief. Rage. Love.

He didn't just defeat Imhotep.

He unmade him.

Then he fell to his knees beside her, gathered her bleeding body in his arms, and said, "Don't you ever do that again."

Nagma smiled, blood on her teeth. "No promises, Your Majesty."

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Part Four: The Truth Beneath Crowns

The palace was beautiful. Marble. Gold. Tapestries that told stories older than her mother's death.

Liam wasn't just a mafia boss. He was a lost king — heir to a realm even the Avengers didn't know existed. And Nagma? She wasn't just a medical student. She was Loki's daughter. A princess who'd rejected two thrones because she'd rather protect than rule.

"You ran," Hela told her one night, in the garden where Nagma trained alone. "From the crown. From your mother's death. From anyone who tried to love you."

"I don't run."

"You ran from Liam."

Nagma's sword clattered to the ground. "He's not my type."

"He's exactly your type. And you're terrified."

Hela left her there. In the dark. With the truth.

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Part Five: The Dance of Laws and Stubborn Hearts

When Liam declared his intent to marry her in front of every realm, Nagma's first instinct was to flee.

"You can't choose me," she argued. "I'm not a crown princess. The laws—"

"I don't care about laws."

"The kingdoms will go to war."

"Then I'll fight."

"You'll die."

"Then I'll die loving you."

She kissed him then. In front of everyone. Hard and desperate and finally.

"If you die," she whispered against his lips, "I'll haunt you."

"Promises, promises."

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Part Six: A Wedding and a Crown

The wedding was small. Family only. Loki cried. Tony pretended not to. Hela smiled at Nagma from the front row — a knowing, ancient smile that said I told you so.

Rosé caught the bouquet. Marco caught Rosé. Lee pretended to be jealous.

And when the ceremony ended, when the stars came out over the palace balcony, Liam pulled Nagma close and said, "You're not running anymore?"

"Not today."

"Tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

He laughed. Kissed her forehead. "Then I'll chase you tomorrow."

She smiled against his chest.

"I'm counting on it."

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Epilogue: The Forever We Forged

Five years later, Nagma stood on the same balcony, holding a small hand in hers.

"Mommy, tell me the story again."

"Which one, little star?"

"The one where Daddy was a mafia boss and you were a princess and you fought mummies."

Liam appeared in the doorway, sword on his back, hair graying at the temples, smile still crooked.

"Your mother stabbed herself," he said. "Dramatic. Very dramatic."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"You almost died."

"But I didn't."

Their daughter giggled. "You're both weird."

Nagma picked her up. Kissed her cheek. "We're in love. There's a difference."

Liam wrapped his arms around them both. Looked at the stars.

"Same thing," he said.

And somewhere, in another realm, Imhotep's ashes stirred. But that's a story for another night.

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THE END.