Rise of the forgotten flame

🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan

Chapter Thirty-seven: 37

The surface of Arodan was shrouded in fog as the trio emerged from the underground chamber. The silver light of dawn filtered through the mists, painting the kingdom in pale hues of hope and ash. But the calm was a lie—beneath it, tension crackled like a storm waiting to break.

Draven's cloak was damp from the deep places, his fingers still tingling from the Heart of the Pact, now glowing faintly against his chest. It no longer hummed with wild energy. It waited. Watching. Listening.

As they made their way through the lower city, citizens peered out from shuttered windows. Whispers followed them—rumors of the Moonblood heir, of cursed magic, of a rising Queen who claimed the stars obeyed her.

"They're scared," Elira murmured, her eyes scanning the streets.

"They should be," Vaela said, not unkindly. "The Queen has begun to move."

They reached the edge of the merchant district, where ruins from the last magic quake still stood untouched. Children played between broken statues, unaware of the war building around them. One of them pointed at Draven.

"Moonblood," he whispered.

The others stilled.

Draven met their eyes. He didn't smile. He simply nodded.

A soft wind stirred.

That was when the sky darkened.

A roar—like metal tearing through the heavens—split the silence. Flames spiraled from above, and a creature descended. Not a dragon. Not quite. It was something twisted, shaped by fire and magic. Its wings were scorched red, its eyes glowing with hatred.

"A flamewrought!" Vaela shouted, drawing her sword.

The creature shrieked, smoke trailing from its fangs. It was sent, not born. A message from the Queen.

It dove for them.

Draven stepped forward, his eyes glowing silver now, not red. He held up the Heart of the Pact. The creature hesitated mid-air, its wings flinching.

And then—light burst from the crystal.

Not white. Not silver.

Blue fire.

The creature screamed and veered away, crashing into a building. Draven moved like water—fluid, focused. He didn't strike with brute force. He unraveled the creature's bindings. Magic streamed from his hands like threads, breaking the twisted spell that gave the flamewrought life.

In moments, it was gone—ashes on the wind.

Vaela stared. "You… you didn't kill it. You freed it."

"I saw what made it," Draven said, his voice low. "A soul twisted in chains. Not a monster. Just… lost."

Elira looked at the stunned crowd. "They saw that."

Yes, they had.

Some knelt.

Some wept.

And some ran—back to the Queen with the news that the cursed heir was no longer just cursed. He was chosen.

A sound rose across the city—quiet at first, then louder. A chant.

"Moonblood. Moonblood. Moonblood."

Not in fear.

In hope.

Draven looked at the sky. The Queen would not ignore this. Her shadow would come. Her fury would rise.

But he would not kneel.