The storm beneaththe stone

🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan

Chapter Forty-one: 41

The night before the Ashbound ritual, Draven sat by a smoky fire surrounded by the ancient stone totems of Irhallan. Strange symbols glowed on their surfaces—runes older than the kingdom of Arodan, carved by hands long turned to dust. The air was heavy with silence, but it wasn't empty. It buzzed with hidden voices and unseen memories.

The Ashbound did not sleep. They watched from the shadows—warriors cloaked in ash and memory. They had lost many of their kind when they first rejected the crown and fled to these dead lands. And yet, their fire still burned. Despite their exile, they were not broken.

The chieftain, Morgha, approached silently and sat across from Draven. Her gaze held a deep storm in it—pain, pride, and something close to warning.

"You remind me of someone," she said, poking the fire with a bone staff. "He came here once. Centuries ago. Carried the same mark."

Draven didn't look away. "Was he cursed too?"

"He was the curse."

The words sank deep into the silence. A gust of wind whistled through the rocks, as if echoing the truth. Draven stared into the fire, uncertain whether to speak again.

Morgha's voice softened. "That man was your ancestor. His blood tainted the pact between us. He sought the Ashbound's power—but he brought war instead. He opened the gate to a god we should never have awakened."

Draven's chest tightened. "Why help me now?"

"Because the darkness that followed him has returned," she said. "And if you fall to it... we all fall."

Draven thought of Elira, of Joren, and of the vision he'd had in the glade. His hands clenched into fists. "Then teach me to stop it."

At dawn, Draven was led through a tunnel of obsidian rock deep beneath the cliffs. The path narrowed, forcing him to crawl at times, until it opened into a chamber glowing with pale red light—light that came from a burning root embedded in the stone ceiling. This was the Heart of Irhallan, where the Ashbound sealed their oaths and awakened old power.

Around him stood the elders, painted in white ash, humming in a tongue that bent the air. Draven was brought forward and told to kneel in a circle of carved stone wolves. Their eyes seemed to follow him.

A blade was handed to him—curved and ancient, its edge engraved with both moon symbols and claw marks. The hilt was wrapped in sinew. Morgha's voice rang out:

"Draven, child of broken blood, do you offer your will to bind with the Ashbound Pact?"

"I do," he answered, gripping the blade tightly.

"Will you carry the fire of Irhallan, even if it scorches your soul?"

"I will."

"Will you fight the shadow that sleeps beneath your blood?"

"I will."

The ground trembled. The circle of wolves glowed red.

From the ceiling root, a single drop of glowing sap fell into the blade's groove. It pulsed—and the runes came alive, wrapping around Draven's hand like fire.

He screamed as it seared his skin—not with pain, but with memory.

Visions rushed through him—ancient battles, wolves howling through snow, the birth of Arodan, the fall of the Moonblood king, the first cursed child, and a face… the face of a dark god smiling with hollow eyes.

The fire faded.

The blade dimmed.

And Draven stood, changed.

"Then rise, Ashbound," Morgha said.

The warriors roared, their voices rising into the cavern like a storm. A thunder without lightning. A promise without mercy.

Draven could feel the pulse of something ancient now beating in his chest. His senses sharpened. He heard the heartbeat of the earth. He felt the movement of distant wolves running under the moon.

As the warriors filed out, Morgha stayed behind.

"There is one more truth," she said. "Your ancestor's spirit is not gone. He waits. Somewhere in the North, he has returned in shadow. You must face him, Draven. He is the mirror of what you might become."

Draven nodded, though fear coiled inside him. "I won't become him."

"We shall see. The path is never straight."

Far away, in a forgotten crypt beneath the palace of Arodan, Queen Valdara stood before a coffin carved of obsidian. Atop it rested a black mask and a silver dagger wrapped in dried thorns. She placed her hand on the lid.

"Awaken," she whispered.

The stone cracked.

A breath was drawn—dry, cold, eternal.

And something rose.

Something with Moonblood.

Something hungry.