Chapter 2 - Whispers in the wall

🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan

Chapter Two: 2

The path to the city was lined with frost and silence.

Draven walked ahead, his hand pressed tightly to his wrist. The mark still burned, a slow throb of light beneath his skin. Behind him, Callen walked in silence, no longer cracking jokes. Even he could feel it now—something had changed.

The moon hung high behind the clouds, but its glow still touched the tops of the trees and the spires of the city ahead. Arodan, the ancient kingdom of the west, stood behind its great stone walls like a slumbering beast.

Its towers stretched high into the sky, their tips vanishing into the mist. Flags bearing the golden sun of House Thorne, the ruling family, waved gently in the night breeze. Magic lamps flickered on the upper roads, casting blue light across the rooftops. Somewhere, a bell rang—soft and distant—counting the hour.

Twelve chimes. Midnight.

Draven had always found this hour the hardest.

Midnight was when the dreams came.

When the moon felt closest.

When the curse spoke without words.

They approached the southern gate. It was tall and black, carved with faces of forgotten kings and beasts with wings. Two city guards stood at the entrance in full armor. Their faces were shadowed beneath silver helmets, and long halberds rested in their hands.

"Halt," one said, stepping forward. "Name and business."

Callen opened his mouth, but Draven raised his hand and pulled back his sleeve. The silver crescent mark glowed faintly beneath the torchlight.

The guard's eyes narrowed. "Ah. You."

The other guard whispered something under his breath—probably a prayer.

"Still alive, I see," the first one muttered. "Unlucky for us."

Without waiting for a reply, the heavy gate groaned open. The sound echoed like thunder through the street. Draven stepped through first, and Callen followed quickly, keeping his eyes down.

The streets of Arodan at night were never truly quiet.

Even now, after midnight, people moved like shadows. Merchants packed their carts under flickering lanterns. A group of cloaked monks chanted as they passed through the moonlit square. Somewhere far off, a woman laughed, high and bitter.

The air smelled of woodsmoke, horse sweat, rain-soaked stone, and something faintly sweet—the spice bread baked in the lower quarters.

But the people saw him.

Draven felt their eyes from behind curtains, heard the whispers between the closing doors.

"That's him—"

"The boy with the mark—"

"Moonblood…"

One woman clutched a charm to her chest and muttered a protection spell as he passed. A group of children, playing with paper lanterns, fell silent when they saw him and ran down an alley.

Callen sighed. "They act like you're a ghost."

"Maybe I am," Draven said softly.

They passed a small square, where an old statue stood in the center—a forgotten king holding a broken sword. Moss grew from its eyes. The plaque had been scratched so many times, no one could read it anymore.

"Do you think the old kings were like you?" Callen asked.

Draven didn't answer. He looked up at the moon.

Its glow seemed to follow him.

They walked into the southern quarter, where crooked homes leaned against each other like old men in the cold. Wooden bridges stretched between rooftops. Ropes hung with drying clothes swayed gently above them.

A black cat darted across the street.

The bakery lights were still glowing ahead—Callen's home. The windows were fogged with warmth, and the scent of cinnamon and ash drifted out.

But Draven stopped.

Something had caught his eye.

Tucked between two stones in the wall beside the alley was a small piece of paper—thin, yellowed, and old. It fluttered slightly in the wind, as if calling him.

He reached out and pulled it free.

"What's that?" Callen asked, peering over his shoulder.

Draven unrolled it carefully.

The parchment was stiff and delicate. Strange symbols filled the top—curved and sharp, like ancient writing from another time. But as he stared, the symbols began to shift in his mind, forming words he could somehow understand.

A chill ran down his spine.

To the last of the blood, seek the place where the stars sleep. The truth waits beneath the stone. The moon remembers what men forget.

At the bottom, in red wax, was a symbol: a crescent moon wrapped in thorns.

Draven's heart pounded.

"Someone knows who I am," he whispered.

"Is it a warning?" Callen asked. "Or a message?"

"I don't know. But—"

Before he could finish, the parchment crumbled into ash in his hands. No flame, no smoke—just soft black dust that vanished in the wind.

Callen jumped back. "That's not normal."

Draven looked down at his wrist.

The mark pulsed once, brighter than before, then faded.

"I think it was magic," he said.

"From who?" Callen asked.

Draven didn't answer.

Because in that moment, he felt it again—that same strange feeling from the cliff.

Like someone was watching him. From above. From beneath. From everywhere.

He looked back at the city.

The walls felt higher. The streets darker. The towers colder.

"We're not safe here anymore," he said quietly.

Callen frowned. "What do you mean? You live here."

"I mean something is coming," Draven said. His eyes turned back to the moon, now rising higher above the city spires.

"Arodan isn't what it seems"

Draven didn't answer.

Because in that moment, he felt it again—that same strange feeling from the cliff.

Like someone was watching him. From above. From beneath. From everywhere.

He looked back at the city.

The walls felt higher. The streets darker. The towers colder.

Every window was a watching eye. Every shadow whispered his name.

He tightened his cloak around his shoulders, suddenly aware of how small he felt in the middle of such a giant kingdom. The cobblestones beneath his boots felt uneven, like they remembered things—old things, buried things.

"We're not safe here anymore," he said quietly.

Callen frowned. "What do you mean? You live here."

Draven didn't respond right away. His eyes drifted to the tallest tower in the heart of Arodan—the Whitespire, where the royal family lived. A single golden light burned in the topmost window.

He had never been inside. Most people hadn't. It was a place of kings, laws, secrets, and judgment.

And yet… a strange tug pulled at his chest when he looked at it. Like something—or someone—was waiting for him there.

"I mean something is coming," Draven finally said. "Something that's been asleep for a long time."

Callen was quiet for a moment. Then he whispered, "And you think it's waking up because of you?"

Draven looked down at his wrist. The mark had stopped glowing, but it still tingled. Like a whisper under the skin.

"No," he said. "Not because of me. Because of what I am."

And overhead, the moon shone down—full and watchful—on the cursed bloodline that Arodan had tried so hard to forget.