🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan
Chapter Five: 5
Draven couldn't sleep.
The fire from his dream still burned in his chest. His skin felt hot. His breath was short. He kept hearing the voice from the throne room, repeating the same words again and again:
"He will rise under silver light…"
He stared at the ceiling of the bakery loft, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the crackle of the fire downstairs. Callen was asleep on the floor nearby, snoring softly.
Draven turned his wrist in the dark.
The mark glowed faintly now, like an ember that refused to die.
Something inside him was changing.
By morning, the fog had returned. The streets of Arodan were wet and grey, and the sky was thick with clouds. People moved quietly. Whispers followed him like shadows.
Even Callen noticed it.
"Look," he said as they walked past a crowded well, "no one's shouting this time. They're just… staring."
Draven felt it too. A fear that was heavier than before. Not just hate now—suspicion. He could hear their thoughts in their silence.
"Is the curse real?"
"What if he is the one from the prophecy?"
"What will the Queen do if she finds out?"
Draven pulled his hood lower.
"Let's go to the Dustspire," he said.
They reached the old library just before noon.
Master Elric was waiting for them, surrounded by open books and candlelight. He didn't greet them with words. Instead, he held out a thick tome with a cover of black leather.
"Elric, what is this?" Draven asked.
The old man's eyes were serious. "Proof. You are not the first to wear the Moonmark."
Draven opened the book. Drawings covered the page—sketches of kings and warriors, all bearing the same silver crescent on their arms, foreheads, or chests. Beside each was a name, and below them, old spells written in the Moonblood script.
"Some were cursed like you," Elric said. "Others ruled. But all of them… were hunted."
Draven stared at one of the names: King Loras Moonblood. A boy with dark hair and eyes like his.
"Why?" Draven asked. "Why did the kingdom fear them?"
Elric's voice dropped to a whisper. "Because the Moonbloods could do things no one else could. Magic that didn't come from books. Power that answered only to blood."
Callen leaned in. "What kind of power?"
Elric hesitated.
"Enough to break stone. Call fire from the sky. Speak to the moon."
Draven closed the book. His heart pounded.
"What if it's coming back?" he asked. "What if it's waking inside me?"
Elric met his eyes. "Then Arodan will try to kill you… before you understand how to use it."
Later that day, they walked through Kingsward Square, the heart of Arodan. A market buzzed with life. Stalls overflowed with cloth, fruit, and spices. Children ran between carts. Bells rang softly from the towers.
But peace never lasted long.
A shout cut through the noise.
"Moonblood!"
People turned. Draven froze.
From the crowd stepped three Black Cloaks—soldiers of the Queen's secret guard. They wore dark armor, hoods over their faces, and swords strapped across their backs.
One pointed. "By order of the Queen, you are to kneel."
The square went silent. Everyone stepped back, forming a wide ring around them.
Draven didn't move.
"Kneel," the soldier growled again.
Callen stepped beside him. "He's done nothing wrong!"
A sharp slap struck Callen across the face. He stumbled back, eyes wide.
Draven's fists clenched.
The mark on his wrist flared with heat.
The soldier stepped forward to grab him.
And then it happened.
The air cracked.
A sudden burst of silver light exploded from Draven's body—silent, blinding, sharp. The soldier was thrown backward across the square, crashing into a cart of fruit.
The crowd gasped.
A child screamed.
The two remaining soldiers drew their blades.
Callen stood frozen. "Draven… what did you just do?"
Draven was shaking. His wrist glowed like fire now, and his hands pulsed with energy. The stone beneath his feet had cracked in a perfect circle.
"I… I didn't mean to."
"Seize him!" one soldier shouted.
But before they could move, a voice rang out from the edge of the square.
"Enough."
A tall woman stepped forward, wrapped in a hooded blue cloak. Her hair was silver. Her eyes were violet. She held a wooden staff with glowing symbols carved along its length.
The crowd gasped.
"Elira!" someone whispered. "The Wandering Mage!"
She raised her hand.
The two soldiers froze in place. Their swords stopped midair. They could not move.
Elira looked at Draven with calm, sharp eyes. "If you want to live, boy, come with me."
Draven didn't move.
"Who are you?" he asked.
Her voice was low and sure. "Someone who remembers your blood."
They ran through the alleys, Elira leading them with quick, silent steps. Callen followed close behind.
Finally, they reached an old cellar door, hidden behind a broken wall in the Scholar's Quarter. She pulled it open, and they stepped into the dark.
Inside, dozens of silver candles lit themselves.
Symbols lined the stone walls. Books. Bottles. A crystal pool in the center of the room, glowing faintly.
Draven turned to her.
"Why are you helping me?"
Elira stepped closer. Her voice was calm, but fierce.
"Because the Queen fears what you are becoming. And I fear what she'll do to stop it."
She raised her hand, touching the mark on his wrist. It pulsed under her fingers.
"Your curse is not just a burden," she whispered.
"It's your birthright."