GANIYU_ALIMOT

In the magical kingdom of Arodan, a boy named Draven lives with a curse he does not yet understand. Marked by the blood of Moonblood—a long-lost bloodline feared by many—he becomes the target of a ruthless queen who will do anything to destroy him. When a red moon rises in the sky, ancient powers begin to stir, and Draven is forced to flee the only home he’s ever known. Joined by a kind healer named Elira and a mysterious warrior named Callen, he journeys through haunted ruins, dark forests, and forgotten temples in search of answers. But the deeper he goes, the more he uncovers secrets that could change the fate of Arodan forever. As war brews and the curse grows stronger, Draven must decide if he will run from his destiny—or rise to face it. Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan is a tale of magic, friendship, sacrifice, and the power hidden within a broken soul.

Moonblood: The curse of Arodan

🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan

Chapter Fourty: 40

The northern wind howled like a beast in pain, dragging dust across the cracked highlands where nothing but thorned trees and black stone dared grow. Draven rode through it, his cloak torn and heavy with frost, his eyes fixed on the jagged peaks ahead.

This was the Wastes of Irhallan—a place where the sky seemed closer and crueler, and the sun never lingered long. Few dared come here. Fewer returned.

But Draven had no choice. The Ashbound were his only hope.

He reached the cliffs by dawn, his horse breathing heavily. From here, the land dropped sharply into a deep, hidden valley veiled in mist. Somewhere down there, beyond the veil, the Ashbound waited. Watching. Testing.

Draven dismounted and raised his hands, holding out the moon-marked stone Vaela had given him—a symbol of the ancient truce between the Moonblood line and the Ashbound clan.

"I am Draven of Arodan," he called out, his voice echoing against the stone walls. "Born of cursed blood. I seek the pact once sworn."

The wind answered with a low groan, then silence.

Just when the chill began to pierce his skin, a shape stepped from the mist below—tall, cloaked in smoke-grey fur, eyes burning with silver fire. Then another. And another. Soon, a dozen figures stood before him, their presence like ghosts pulled from ash and war.

One stepped forward. A woman, tall and wild-eyed, her hair like a storm. She looked at Draven not with fear—but with memory.

"You carry the curse," she said, her voice like gravel and wind.

"I do," Draven answered. "But I fight it."

She studied him. "You came alone."

At that, she raised her hand—and fire burst to life in a perfect ring around Draven, flames that did not burn him but danced like curious spirits.

"Then face the fire," she said. "If your soul is true, it will not consume you."

Draven looked into the fire. He thought of his mother's scream the night the Queen's soldiers came. Of his father's broken blade. Of Elira's wounded eyes. Of Vaela's quiet pain. Of Arodan—fading.

It hissed, clawed, whispered. It searched his memories, his fears, his blood. It found the curse curled deep in his soul.

But it also found something else—hope.

Then the woman knelt. "You are fireborn," she said. "The curse lives in you. But so does something older."

She stood and motioned to the others. "Prepare the pact. The Ashbound ride again."

Meanwhile, back in Arodan, Queen Valdara stood before the shattered mirror of her ancestors. In her hand, a single black feather—gifted by a creature that did not belong in this world.

"My enemy rises," she whispered. "Then so must I."

She turned toward the altar of bone and whispered an ancient name that had not been spoken in centuries. The walls pulsed. The candles bent. And something behind the veil opened its eyes.

The ashbound pact