🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan
Chapter Six: 6
The candlelight in Elira's hidden chamber flickered like starlight.
Draven sat cross-legged beside the crystal pool, watching it swirl with soft silver light. His wrist still burned from the burst of magic earlier that day. The guards, the panic in the square, the soldier flying through the air—it all spun in his mind like a storm.
Elira knelt beside him, unwrapping a bundle of old scrolls. Her fingers moved with purpose.
"You nearly killed him," she said calmly.
"I didn't mean to," Draven muttered.
"You don't have to mean it. That's the danger." She unrolled a scroll across the floor. "The Moonblood line carries power in the blood, not the will. You feel, it responds. You fear, it defends."
Draven looked down at his hands. "So I'm a danger just for being alive?"
Elira glanced at him. "To those who fear the truth—yes."
She spread the scroll wide. It showed a circular pattern with twelve symbols around it—moons, crowns, swords, fire.
"In the beginning, there were twelve Moonblood kings," Elira explained. "Chosen by the silver moon herself. They ruled with magic and peace. Their bloodlines built the city that became Arodan."
She tapped the center symbol: a cracked crown.
"But fear changed everything. A High Priest convinced the people the Moonblood line was cursed. One by one, the kings were hunted down. Their names erased. Their towers burned."
Draven's throat felt dry. "And I'm one of them?"
"You carry the last piece of their blood," she said. "The curse is what's left of their power, twisted by fear and time."
Callen stepped closer. "Why now? Why is it waking?"
Elira pointed at the crystal pool. "Because the moon is rising into alignment for the first time in a hundred years. The power is returning. And it's choosing him."
Later that night, Elira guided Draven into the deeper part of her sanctuary—an underground room lined with mirrors and stone pillars. A silver circle was carved into the floor, filled with runes.
"This is a training circle," she said. "It lets your power come out in small ways. Nothing violent… unless you lose control."
Draven stood in the center. His heart raced. "What do I do?"
"Close your eyes," Elira said softly. "Breathe. Feel the blood in your veins. Listen to the mark."
He did.
And then—like something unlocking—he felt it.
The blood inside him stirred like water touched by moonlight. The mark on his wrist hummed, and from deep in his chest, something ancient rose.
Draven raised his hand.
A soft silver flame flickered above his palm.
It danced without heat. It made no sound.
Callen's jaw dropped. "You're doing it…"
Draven opened his eyes.
But the moment he lost focus, the flame sparked wildly—flaring high and bright, burning a mark into the ceiling.
Elira stepped in quickly, holding his hand.
"Control comes with time," she said. "And patience. You've had neither."
Draven breathed hard. His body felt drained—but his heart beat stronger than it ever had.
Meanwhile, in the Whitespire, Queen Valessa stood before a long mirror, staring into the face that had not aged in forty years.
A soldier knelt behind her.
"He cast the soldier back twenty feet without a word," the man reported. "Then the Wandering Mage appeared and vanished with him."
Valessa didn't speak. Her hands were steady, but her chest rose with tight, sharp breaths.
"The people saw it," she said quietly. "His power… is blooming."
Kael, her commander, stepped forward. "Then it is time, Your Grace."
"No." She turned. Her golden crown glinted in the candlelight. "We must let them believe they're winning. The boy, the mage, the bloodline—they will think they are safe. And when they are most sure…"
She picked up a black stone from the table beside her—a charm carved with a crescent moon, pierced by a blade.
"…we will erase the Moonblood forever."
Back underground, Draven sat with Elira by the crystal pool again.
"What happens now?" he asked.
Elira looked up at the ceiling, her voice soft. "Now you learn. You train. You remember who you are."
Draven's eyes narrowed. "What if I don't want to become a king?"
"You don't have to be a king," Elira said. "But you will have to choose: be the hunted… or become the hunter."
The crystal pool shimmered.
A new shape formed in the water—the throne he had seen in his vision, cracked and covered in vines.
This time, someone stood beside it.
A woman in armor, her hair black as night. Her eyes glowed with moonlight.
And she was looking directly at him.
"Who is that?" Draven whispered.
Elira's face turned pale. "I don't know."