Chapter 2: The Crescent’s Shadow

Kaelen's wrists burned where the irons bit into his skin, the silver veins beneath pulsing faintly against the cold metal. The Magisterium's guards hauled him through Nareth's underbelly, their armored boots clanging on the wet stone, their torchlight carving sharp edges from the darkness. He kept his head low, hood torn and dangling, strands of dark hair plastered to his sweat-streaked face. The girl trailed somewhere behind, her sobs muffled now, swallowed by the clatter of the escort. Kaelen didn't look back. He couldn't afford to—not when every step dragged him deeper into a mess he didn't understand.The alley opened into a shadowed courtyard, its centerpiece a squat, brutal building of black granite—the Magisterium's gaol. Kaelen knew it by reputation: a place where thieves vanished and heretics screamed. The guards shoved him through an iron door, the hinges groaning like a dying beast, and into a chamber that reeked of damp stone and rust. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, its flame guttering as if afraid to burn too brightly."On your knees," the gray-cloaked man barked—the one who'd ordered his capture. His voice carried the weight of authority, clipped and precise, like a blade honed for cutting. Kaelen hesitated, defiance flickering in his chest, but a guard's gauntleted fist cracked against his spine, and he dropped, knees slamming into the floor. Pain flared, but he bit it back, glaring up through tangled hair.The man stepped closer, his cloak parting to reveal a breastplate etched with the crescent moon sigil, its edges worn but gleaming. His face was sharp—high cheekbones, a hawkish nose, eyes like chips of flint beneath graying brows. "Name," he said, not a question but a command."Kaelen," he muttered, voice rough. "Duskryn, if it matters." It didn't, usually. A mixed-blood name, half-scholar, half-something-else, earned him nothing but sneers in Nareth's streets."It matters now." The man crouched, bringing them eye to eye. His gaze flicked to Kaelen's wrists, where the irons couldn't quite hide the silver glow. "What are you?"Kaelen's stomach twisted. "A scribe. Apprentice to Torvyn in the book district. That's all.""Liar." The word landed like a slap. The man reached out, faster than Kaelen could flinch, and yanked the iron cuff aside. The silver veins flared brighter under his scrutiny, threading up Kaelen's forearm like rivers of moonlight trapped beneath skin. "This is no scribe's mark. You unleashed power in that street—untrained, wild. You killed a man with it.""He was trying to kill me," Kaelen snapped, jerking his arm back. The irons clanked, biting deeper. "And the girl—whoever she is—was next."The man's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "The girl is Lirien Veyra, third daughter of House Veyra. Her blood's worth more than this entire city. Those blades were meant for her, not you. Yet here you stand, marked and dangerous." He straightened, folding his arms. "You're a heretic, Kaelen Duskryn. The penalty is death."The word hung heavy, cold seeping into Kaelen's bones. He'd seen executions in Nareth—thieves strung up in the plaza, their bodies left to rot as warnings. Heretics got worse: burned alive, their ashes scattered to the winds. He clenched his fists, the ache in his wrists sharpening. "Then why am I still breathing?""Because," a new voice cut in, smooth and lilting, "you're more valuable alive—for now."Kaelen turned his head, wincing as the movement strained his bruised back. A woman stepped from the shadows near the chamber's far wall, her presence shifting the air like a sudden breeze. She was tall, draped in a robe of deep indigo that shimmered faintly, as if woven from starlight. A mask covered half her face—black porcelain, etched with silver threads that curled like vines—but her visible eye, a piercing green, locked onto him with unnerving intensity. Her hair spilled over one shoulder, dark as ink, streaked with silver that caught the lantern's glow.The gray-cloaked man stiffened, offering her a curt nod. "Lady Yverin."She ignored him, gliding closer to Kaelen. Her steps were silent, deliberate, and when she stopped, the air seemed to hum faintly, a vibration Kaelen felt in his chest. She tilted her head, studying him like a scribe might study a rare manuscript. "The Mark of the Moonbinder," she murmured, almost to herself. "Crude, unrefined, but unmistakable.""Moonbinder?" Kaelen echoed, the word foreign yet heavy on his tongue. It stirred something in him—a memory of dreams, fractured moons, a voice whispering in the dark. He shoved it down. "I don't know what you're talking about.""You will." Lady Yverin's voice softened, but there was steel beneath it. She gestured to the guards. "Release him."The gray-cloaked man bristled. "He's a heretic, my lady. The law—""The law bends where the Threads demand it," she interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. "This one is mine now. The Academy claims him."The guards hesitated, then obeyed, unlocking the irons with a clank. Kaelen rubbed his wrists, the silver veins dimming slightly but still visible, a traitor's brand. He stood, legs unsteady, and met Lady Yverin's gaze. "Academy? What academy?""The Academy of Threads," she said simply, as if that explained everything. "A place for those like you—touched by the moons, bound to their will. You'll come with me.""And if I refuse?" Kaelen asked, though he already knew the answer. Refusal meant the pyre, or worse.Lady Yverin's visible eye gleamed. "You won't. Not when you hear the alternative." She turned, her robe swirling, and nodded to the gray-cloaked man. "Captain Torren, see to the girl. She's safe now, thanks to him. I'll handle the rest."Captain Torren scowled but said nothing, waving the guards to follow him out. The door slammed shut, leaving Kaelen alone with Lady Yverin in the flickering light. She stepped closer, her masked face unreadable, and lowered her voice. "The moons chose you tonight, Kaelen Duskryn. Whether you wanted it or not, your old life is gone. Come willingly, or be dragged. But you will come."Kaelen's throat tightened. He thought of the attic—his books, his dagger, the quiet nights stitching pages together. A small life, but his. Now it was ash, scattered like a heretic's remains. The ache in his bones pulsed again, insistent, and he knew she was right. Whatever this mark was, whatever the moons had done, it wasn't letting go."Fine," he said at last, the word bitter on his tongue. "Take me."Lady Yverin smiled—a small, secretive thing—and turned toward the door. "Good. The eclipse is nearly here. We have little time."As they stepped into the night, the moons loomed larger, their fractured edges bleeding red into the sky. Kaelen followed, his shadow stretching long and thin behind him, and somewhere deep inside, a whisper stirred—a voice not his own, soft and ancient, laughing in the dark.