The tombs beneath flamepeak

🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan

Chapter Fourty-three: 43

The sky above Flamepeak was a canvas of ash and fire.

Draven stood at the edge of the jagged ridge, wind roaring around him, his cloak snapping violently. Below, the mountain's throat pulsed with red light—magma flowed through its veins like blood. The path to the tombs was carved into the mountain's roots, hidden deep beneath the lava flows and sealed by runes older than Arodan itself.

Kael looked over the cliffside, jaw tight. "You're sure about this?"

"No," Draven answered, "but I can feel the pull. The tomb is calling me."

Morgha, ever the guardian, stepped ahead and drew a curved blade from her back. Its surface shimmered with ancient markings that burned softly in the heat. "Then we climb."

Their journey down the slope was brutal. Razor-sharp rocks tore at their boots, and the air grew hotter with each step. When they reached a ledge half-buried in black stone, Draven knelt beside a scorched pillar and pressed his palm against the center. The stone pulsed—first red, then silver.

Something inside him stirred.

"Blood unlocks it," Morgha said. "Yours."

Draven took a deep breath, drew a small blade, and sliced a shallow cut across his palm. As the blood touched the carved symbol, the entire pillar trembled and split in two. Steam hissed out, followed by the deep groan of ancient doors sliding open.

A long stairway appeared beneath them, descending into darkness.

Kael lit a torch. "After you, cursed prince."

Draven didn't smile. The joke no longer felt like one.

The Tombs of the Moonblood were unlike anything they'd seen.

The air was still, almost frozen. Walls carved from obsidian glittered like night itself. Statues lined the halls—some of kings, others of beasts with human eyes. Every step echoed like thunder in the silence.

They reached a chamber where a stone dais rose from the floor. On it lay a sarcophagus, its lid engraved with the sigil of the moon wrapped in thorns.

Draven stepped forward, heart pounding. "He's here."

Kael hesitated. "You mean your ancestor?"

"No," Draven said, his voice flat. "My other self."

Morgha watched him carefully. "If you open it, you may not be the same."

"I'm already changing," he replied.

With both hands, he pushed the lid. Stone scraped against stone, and cold air rushed out. Inside lay a man in black robes, his face almost identical to Draven's—but older. Crueler.

The corpse opened its eyes.

Kael staggered back. "By the gods—he's alive?"

"No," the figure said, voice soft like dust over old bones. "I was alive. Now I live through you."

Draven froze. "Who are you?"

"I am what you could become. The first Moonblood. The one who drank from the silver pool. The one who dared speak with the god beneath the earth."

Morgha gripped her blade, but Draven raised a hand.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"I made a deal," the corpse said. "I gave the moon my soul. In return, it gave me power. But power is hunger… and the moon is never full."

"You cursed us," Draven whispered.

"I opened the path. You must decide whether to finish it… or end it."

The tomb began to tremble.

"The others will come now," the figure said. "The Moonborn feel your presence. You have little time."

With that, the figure turned to dust—leaving only a silver ring where his hand had been. Draven picked it up. The metal burned, but he didn't drop it.

Kael shouted, "Draven, look!"

From the shadows beyond the hall, figures emerged—pale, glowing, with hollow eyes and moon symbols carved into their skin. The Moonborn. Dozens of them.

Morgha stepped in front of him. "Go! I'll hold them!"

"No!" Draven growled, slipping the ring on. His body surged with heat. The chamber around them pulsed as if alive. "I'm done running."

Light erupted from his hands—silver flames lashing out in all directions.

Kael shielded his eyes. "What are you doing?!"

Draven's voice was low, steady. "I'm taking back the curse.