đ Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan
Chapter Seven: 7
The crystal flame flickered above Draven's palm.
He was sweating, jaw clenched, every breath sharp with focus. Around him, the runes in Elira's training chamber glowed softlyâsilver lines etched into black stone.
"Keep it steady," Elira said. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were locked on him. "No emotion. Feel it. Don't fear it."
Draven's arm trembled. The flame danced, wanting to grow, wanting to leapâto burn, to move.
He gritted his teeth and held it. Counted to three.
Then let it go.
The flame vanished like smoke, leaving only warmth in the air.
Callen clapped. "Better! You didn't set anything on fire this time."
Draven allowed himself a small smile, but his chest ached with pressure. The curse, or the powerâhe still wasn't sure what to call itâfelt like a locked door behind his ribs. Every time he trained, it cracked open a little more.
"What happens when I stop holding it back?" he asked quietly.
Elira's eyes darkened. "The city won't survive it."
Elsewhere, the gates of Arodan creaked open.
A man passed through without a sound.
His cloak was black, stitched with bone. His hair was silver-white, his eyes hidden beneath a shadowed hood. Two curved knives hung at his waist. His steps made no noise. His breath left no mist.
The guards didn't see him.
They never saw the Daggerborn.
In his hand was a single page of parchment. On it: a drawing of Draven's face.
Below it, five words written in red ink:
Kill him before the moon.
That night, Draven couldn't sleep.
He sat alone in Elira's sanctuary, staring into the silver pool. The reflections shiftedâhis face, the cracked throne, the city on fire. But this time, a new image appeared:
A tower.
The Whitespire.
And a shadow crawling up its walls like smoke.
The mark on his wrist pulsed.
A voice echoed in his headânot Elira's, not his own.
It was low, soft⊠ancient.
You are not the curse.
You are the key.
Let go, and we will rise againâŠ
Draven stepped back, heart racing. The image vanished.
He looked at his hands, shaking.
"Was that the power?" he whispered. "Or something worse?"
In the early light, Callen sat by the cellar door, boots in the dust, arms crossed.
"I don't belong here," he said.
Draven turned to him. "What do you mean?"
Callen didn't look up. "You're learning spells. Talking to glowing pools. Facing queens. I'm just a baker's son who followed you because you were my friend."
"You still are."
Callen finally met his eyes. "I can't protect you, Draven. Not from this."
Draven was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Then just stay. That's all I want."
Callen noddedâbut he didn't look convinced.
At noon, a sharp knock echoed at the top of the sanctuary stairs.
Elira opened it slowly. A small wooden box lay on the step, sealed with royal red wax. She brought it inside with gloved hands.
Draven watched as she unsealed it.
Inside was a folded scroll.
Elira read it once, her lips tightening. Then she handed it to Draven.
"To the boy who bears the Moonmark.
A place awaits you at the Queen's table.
Speak your name before the throne
âand your life may be spared."
Draven blinked. "She wants me to come willingly?"
Elira nodded. "Or she's drawing you out. Either way, it's a trap."
Draven stared at the words.
For the first time, the Queen had spoken to him, not about him.
That night, in the coldest part of the city, the assassin climbed the walls of a forgotten bell tower. He crouched in the dark, blades in hand, watching the streets.
He would wait.
Watch.
Strike before the moon rose full.
Because the boy was not just cursed.
He was dangerous.
And the Queen had ordered that danger buriedâforever.