Flames beneath the stone

🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan

Chapter Thirty-nine: 39

The ground beneath Arodan trembled—not with fear, but with awakening.

Deep below the city, in the ancient catacombs sealed for over a century, a group of figures moved in silence. Each one wore a hood of ash-grey, their faces hidden by time and vow. They were the Order of the Hollow Flame, protectors of a forgotten truth and guardians of the fire that never died.

They had waited for this moment—waited for the bloodline to stir once more.

The walls of their hidden sanctum pulsed with flickers of ancient light, flames burning low but eternal. Along the chamber's edges, carvings of the Moonblood ancestors glowed faintly, as though sensing Draven's rise.

One of the oldest, a woman called Serin, stood before the central flame. Her hands were raised, her voice cracked with age, yet powerful:

"Let the fire remember. Let the curse yield to strength. He comes."

High above, in the heart of Arodan, the city buzzed with whispers. Not just of fear, but of hope.

The Queen's darkness had spread. Markets no longer bustled. Songs had gone silent. Children clutched charms at their necks and elders closed their doors before sunset. The skies remained grey, even at noon. People said it was the Queen's eyes that clouded the sun.

But tonight, in the city's council chamber, hope began to speak again.

Draven stood at the head of the war table. A long wooden piece, carved with the map of Arodan inlaid with faded gold. Around it sat those brave enough to stand against Queen Valdara—noblemen, warriors, old mages, and new voices.

His voice was calm but filled with power. "The Queen's grip tightens, but we still have breath. And where there is breath, there is fire."

Vaela nodded. "Her magic grows stronger. Even the rivers run slower, as if obeying her will."

Elira, her eyes full of wild light, pointed to the western border. "We can't hold her off with just steel. We need the old ways. We need the Hollow Flame and the Ashbound."

The mention of the Ashbound brought unease. Whispers swirled like smoke.

"They were exiled," said Lord Frein. "Their betrayal poisoned the North."

"Or so we were told," Elira snapped. "We've lived on stories crafted by fear. It's time we seek truth."

Draven's hand hovered over the northlands on the map. "I will go to them. If they are alive, they must know the truth. They must hear it from me."

"You're the Moonblood heir," Vaela said. "If they see your mark, they might listen."

"You can't go alone," Callen said. "The Queen's spies are everywhere."

Draven looked around the room, his voice low. "That's why I must go alone."

That night, when the city's lanterns dimmed and the moon bled red over the hills, Draven slipped away. Not as a prince or a warrior, but as a shadow.

His horse was black as pitch, fast and quiet. With him he carried only essentials: a blade of star-forged steel, the Moonblood sigil around his neck, and a scroll sealed with wax—the flame crest of the Hollow Order.

He rode west, into the Windmarsh Forest, where time hung heavy and trees whispered old names. The wind howled like a warning, but he did not turn back. The path narrowed into thorns, and wolves called from far hills. Still, he pressed on.

He made camp near a dried creek bed. The night was cold, but he welcomed the silence. His mind raced with doubts. Would the Ashbound hear him? Would they strike him down like they did the last Moonblood messenger, decades ago?

As he fed the fire, a soft voice came from the darkness.

"You carry the curse. I can smell it."

Draven leapt to his feet, drawing his blade.

A girl stepped into the firelight—no older than sixteen, barefoot and dressed in tattered furs. Her hair was silver, her eyes like burning coals. She looked more beast than girl.

"I am Sira," she said. "Ashbound scout. And you, cursed child, are far from home."

Draven lowered his sword, but not his guard.

"I need to speak to your people."

Sira tilted her head. "Then you'll need to survive the Ash Trial. We don't listen to cowards."

Draven's voice didn't shake. "I'm not here to beg. I'm here to end a curse."

Back in Arodan, the Hollow Flame gathered in the lowest chamber. They stood before a great forge, cold for a hundred years.

Serin reached out, and as her fingers brushed the metal, the forge sparked to life.

"His path has begun," she whispered.

And far away, in her black palace, Queen Valdara opened her red eyes and whispered, "So it begins."