🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan
Chapter Four: 4
The clouds over Arodan hung low and heavy.
The rain hadn't come yet, but the air was full of waiting—like the sky was holding its breath.
Draven moved through the city with his cloak pulled tight. Even in the morning light, he felt the cold beneath his skin. The message, the stranger in the mist, the old name of the garden… it was all still pressing against his thoughts.
But what haunted him most was the feeling from the alley.
That figure.
That silence.
That presence.
He'd been watched before—by people who feared him or hated him. But this was different. That thing hadn't watched with fear. It had watched with hunger.
At the edge of the city, Draven and Callen stood near the southern wall, staring at the old overgrown path leading into the Whispering Grove. The trees beyond it were ancient, their roots thick and twisted, their branches curved like claws.
"This used to be a garden?" Callen asked, peering into the tangled woods.
"A long time ago," Draven said. "Before Arodan built walls."
They followed the path slowly, pushing through leaves and hanging vines. The sound of the city faded behind them. Birds chirped overhead, but their songs were short—nervous.
Then the wind shifted.
Draven's mark burned.
He fell to his knees.
"Draven!" Callen dropped beside him.
His wrist glowed so brightly now that it lit the trees around them. He gasped for air. A sharp pain stabbed through his chest—and then…
Everything changed.
He was no longer in the forest.
He stood inside a great marble hall, cold and broken. The floor was cracked. Moonlight spilled through shattered windows. Ivy climbed the walls like veins.
Statues of robed kings lined both sides—twelve of them—each with their hands stretched forward, their eyes hollow.
At the center of the room was a stone throne covered in vines.
On that throne sat a figure cloaked in silver.
Their face was hidden, but Draven could feel their presence like thunder. Ancient. Powerful. Familiar.
The figure raised a hand, and their voice echoed—not from their lips, but from the walls, the air, the stone itself:
"He will rise under silver light.
He will wake what lies beneath.
And the city will bleed for its lies."
The throne cracked.
The vines turned to ash.
And the vision shattered.
Draven gasped and sat upright in the forest. Callen was holding his shoulders, eyes wide with fear.
"You just—just collapsed! You weren't breathing!"
Draven wiped cold sweat from his face. The mark was still glowing, but not burning.
"I saw something," he said, voice shaking. "A hall. A throne. Someone was waiting for me."
Callen looked around. "We need to leave this place. Whatever this garden was—it's cursed."
Draven stood slowly. But deep down, he didn't want to leave.
This place… it had called him.
Far across the city, in the highest chamber of the Whitespire Palace, Queen Valessa of Arodan stood before a tall glass window.
She was draped in deep violet robes, her golden crown glowing faintly beneath the morning light. Her face was pale, smooth, untouched by time. But her eyes were sharp and cold—like blades of frost.
Beside her stood a man in dark armor: Lord Commander Kael, head of the royal guard.
"They saw him," the Queen said. Her voice was calm, but her fingers trembled on the windowsill. "The cursed boy. The mark has awakened."
Kael bowed his head. "Yes, my queen. The old magic stirs."
Queen Valessa turned toward the tall mirror on the wall. In it, her reflection did not match her movements. The glass rippled faintly, like water.
"He must be watched," she whispered. "If he touches the Garden, if he hears the old words… we could lose everything."
Kael nodded. "Shall I send the Black Cloaks?"
The Queen's eyes darkened. "No. Not yet."
She stepped closer to the mirror. "Let him wander. Let him feel powerful. Then—when the city trusts him—we strike."
Behind her, the air shimmered.
A shadow passed across the wall—a shape with no face, no name, no light.
Even the Queen did not turn to face it.
She simply whispered:
"Watch him. And if he remembers the truth… kill him."
That night, Draven dreamed of fire.
He saw the city walls torn down. He saw towers falling, streets flooding with silver light. He heard voices crying out in a language he didn't know—but understood.
At the center of it all was a boy with burning eyes, standing on the broken throne.
He was the curse.
He was the key.
And he was Draven.