🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan
Chapter Fourteen: 14
The wheatfields of Kareth blazed with silver fire.
Draven stood at the center, his arms outstretched, the Moonblood mark on his wrist glowing like a second sun. Behind him, Elira spun her staff in circles, casting wave after wave of shimmering barriers between the village and the approaching nightmare.
The Scarred One moved like fog—silent, cruel, tireless.
He raised a hand, and the sky cracked open. Black lightning struck the ground, burning through runes and roots alike. The very air twisted as if choking.
But Draven didn't move.
He let the fire build in his chest—deep, slow, controlled.
"I won't run," he said softly. "Not anymore."
Callen stood in the temple doorway, villagers behind him, huddled and shaking.
He gripped a carved blade—old, dull, but still strong.
One of the villagers, the gray-cloaked woman, looked at his face.
"You… you look like him," she whispered.
Callen blinked. "Like who?"
She pointed to the temple wall.
To the carved face of Kaelen, the second name—the Watcher of Stars.
Callen stepped back. "That can't be me."
But even as he said it… his hand drifted to his chest.
And beneath his shirt, he felt a heat he had never felt before.
A flicker.
A glow.
The blood in him was waking.
In the field, Draven charged.
He moved faster than he ever had before. Not out of fear—but purpose.
The Scarred One struck with chains of shadow and rune-light, but Draven deflected them, sending them crackling through the sky.
"You cannot win," the Scarred One rasped. "You are only half of what you could be."
Draven slid to a stop, eyes burning.
"I don't need to be whole," he said.
"I just need to be enough."
And he was.
The blast that erupted from his palm was pure moonlight—no flame, no fury—just truth.
The Scarred One screamed as the light wrapped around him, peeling back the runes, unraveling the chains.
Elira cast her staff into the earth, and a ring of light erupted around the village, sealing the field.
"NOW, DRAVEN!"
With one final breath, Draven whispered, "For those who still believe."
He hurled the light.
The Scarred One vanished in a burst of smoke and wind.
Not dead.
Not broken.
But banished.
For now.
Silence fell over the fields.
The fire dimmed. The sky calmed.
And the villagers began to breathe again.
Callen ran into the field, nearly tripping over his own feet. "You did it. You actually did it."
Draven fell to his knees, exhausted. "I think… we both did."
Callen helped him up.
Then, almost afraid, he pulled down the collar of his shirt.
Draven's breath caught.
A faint crescent mark glowed there—high on Callen's chest.
"Elira," Draven called. "Come look."
She hurried over, then froze. Her eyes widened.
"That's a Moonblood crest," she whispered.
Callen blinked. "But… I'm not like Draven."
"No," she said. "You're not. But you're connected. Blood doesn't lie."
Draven met his friend's eyes.
"Kaelen," he said. "Watcher of Stars."
Callen shook his head. "I'm not a legend."
"You don't have to be," Draven said. "You just have to stay."
Callen smiled weakly. "Fine. But if I turn into a glowing moon-spirit, I expect snacks."
Far away, Queen Valessa stood in her mirror hall, eyes blazing.
The Scarred One had failed.
And worse—another Moonblood had awakened.
Her hand trembled as she touched the ancient seal carved into the blackstone floor.
"Open it," she said.
The guards hesitated.
"Now."
The seal cracked open.
From beneath the palace, a low roar trembled through the earth.
Something ancient was waking.
Something buried in the first war.
Something with no name at all.
That night in Kareth, Elira lit a silver flame in the temple. Villagers brought bread and tea. For the first time in weeks, Draven and Callen laughed again.
But under the stars, Draven stepped away.
He looked at the moon—full, bright, watching.
"You're leading me somewhere," he whispered. "And I'll follow. But tell me one thing…"
He opened the locket.
Inside, the two names now pulsed in time: Arilyn. Kaelen.
He traced the edge of the moonstone.
"Who am I, really?"
The moon offered no answer.
But somewhere in the hills beyond, the third name whispered.
Waiting.