The mirror of the first moon

🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan

Chapter Forty-six: 46

The tunnel twisted like the coils of a sleeping serpent, narrow and steep. Draven could feel the mountain breathing around them, warm gusts of air pulsing from unseen vents in the stone. The silence was deep—too deep. Not even Kael's usual chatter echoed now. Every step forward was a step closer to something ancient… and waiting.

"Are you sure about this?" Morgha asked, her voice low and hoarse.

Draven didn't answer. He couldn't. The weight of what lay ahead pressed against his chest like a second heart. The Mirror of the First Moon—said to reflect not just your image, but your true self. The truth of your blood. Your soul. Your curse.

At the end of the tunnel stood a great archway. It was carved from black obsidian, and it shimmered faintly with silver veins. A crescent moon hung above it, glowing as if lit from within. Beyond the arch, the chamber was vast and cold, its floor covered in dust and faded runes.

In the center stood the mirror.

It was not made of glass, but of liquid light—like still water suspended in a frame of bone and crystal. The surface shimmered with a thousand colors, shifting, swirling, whispering.

Draven stepped forward.

Kael reached out to stop him. "Wait—what if it—"

But the moment Draven crossed the threshold, the chamber responded.

The runes on the floor blazed to life in pale blue. Wind howled in a circle. And the mirror pulsed.

Then it spoke.

Not in words—but in memory.

Draven saw a woman standing under a red moon, arms open wide, silver hair drifting like smoke. She was screaming—not in fear, but in defiance.

He saw a man chained to a throne made of moonstone, his eyes full of grief. Blood ran from his wrists. Soldiers bowed before him.

He saw a child—himself—crying in a field, holding the hand of a dead wolf. A mark on his palm glowing faintly.

Then the mirror cracked.

And Draven fell.

He landed in water.

Cold. Deep. Endless.

But he could breathe.

He was inside the mirror.

Floating in memory.

Faces drifted by him. Names. Moments. Battles. Loves. Betrayals.

He saw Arodan as it once was—a city of peace, of magic, of light. He saw it fall to greed. To fear. To power stolen from the moon.

He saw the origin of the curse.

A ritual, forbidden. A sacrifice unwilling. Blood spilled on moonstone. The gods turning away.

He saw the first of the Moonblood—their eyes glowing like stars. Warriors and seers. Cursed and blessed.

And he saw himself.

Draven.

But older.

Crowned.

Alone.

With fire in his eyes.

He gasped and rose from the mirror's surface, breaking through as if from a dream.

Kael and Morgha rushed to his side.

"You were gone for minutes," Kael said. "You weren't breathing."

"It felt like hours," Draven whispered.

"What did you see?" Morgha asked.

Draven looked at the mirror. It was silent now. Still. Waiting for the next soul.

"I saw the beginning," he said. "And the end."

Then he looked down at his palm. The mark of the Moonblood now glowed fully—bright, silver, and alive.

"I understand now," he said softly. "Why they cursed us. Why we must rise."

Kael swallowed. "So what happens now?"

Draven turned toward the deeper paths that opened beyond the mirror—doors unsealed by his blood.

"Now," he said, "we rewrite the story."