The night in Black Hollow never truly changed.
There was no dawn, no rising sun, no blaze of day to warm the earth. Above the endless sky hung only a single moon—vast, pale, eternal. Its silver glow drowned the world in cold light, so steady that villagers sometimes forgot what shadows were meant to look like.
In Black Hollow, the moon was god, judge, and jailer all at once.
And under its gaze, life went on.
The crooked houses of the village huddled together, roofs patched with straw and wood. Chickens dozed in coops, dogs growled at empty air, and the weary hunters returned from the forest carrying game and weariness alike. A few children still played in the square, chasing one another through the shadows, their laughter brittle against the stillness of night. The rest of the villagers gathered in whispers at the inn or in front of fires, muttering prayers to the moon above.
At the edge of the village, in the oldest house with beams so warped they looked ready to fall, lived Elder Draven Noctis.
By day, he was a pillar of calm. He settled disputes between farmers, blessed newborns, gave counsel to hunters, and lit incense in memory of the dead. The villagers bowed when he passed, not because he demanded it but because he was simply there—steady as the ancient trees, patient as the moonlight.
But by night, when his door was closed and his candle flickered low, Draven sat alone, his withered hands cupping a porcelain cup of bitter tea. His reflection on the tea's surface was not that of a kindly elder, but of a man who measured each breath like a miser counting coins.
The pulse in his wrist was faint, almost mockingly so. He could feel it, more keenly than any villager doctor could: the weight of years pressing down. His body was betraying him. His bones ached with every shift, his spine bent, his teeth dulled.
He was nearing his end. Perhaps a handful of winters left. Perhaps less.
Draven set the teacup down on the table, its crack running deeper each day. He stared at the flame of the candle before him, his eyes reflecting fire, but his thoughts went far beyond this small room.
I have endured too much to die here, he thought.I have seen the rise and fall of sects, the ruin of clans, the silence of generations. I will not let the earth swallow me like some forgotten farmer.
A knock disturbed his thoughts.
"Elder?" a young girl's voice came from beyond the door.
Draven's eyes softened, though not from tenderness. He knew the voice well.
It was Mira Ashveil, the orphan girl he had taken in years ago, after her parents had vanished in the forest. She was sixteen now, with eyes the color of dusk and a voice that carried both hesitation and sincerity. She was useful—bright, loyal, and dependent on him.
Draven rose, leaning heavily on his cane, and opened the door. Mira stood there with a basket of herbs, her face pale under the silver moonlight.
"The hunters returned late," she said, clutching the basket tighter. "They found claw marks on the trees. Deep ones. And…" She hesitated, lowering her voice. "And the marks glowed faintly, as if moonlight clung to them."
Her fear was genuine. Draven, with his decades of hidden knowledge, knew this was no simple omen.
But his face showed only calm. He placed a wrinkled hand gently on her shoulder, the touch of a kind elder.
"Fear is like smoke, child," he said softly. "If you fan it, it fills the house. If you let it drift, the air clears on its own."
Mira relaxed slightly, reassured by his words, though her eyes still darted to the forest beyond the village. She bowed her head and excused herself, leaving the elder alone once more.
The door shut. The smile faded.
Draven leaned against the wall, his hand still trembling—not with weakness, but with hunger.
He had heard rumors before. Strange lights in the forest. Whispers of beasts twisted by the moon. Villagers thought them superstitions. He knew better.
Slowly, he moved to the far corner of the room. He pushed aside a loose board in the floor, revealing a hollow cavity. From within, he pulled out an old wooden box, its lacquer cracked and peeling. Inside lay a bundle of faded silk, wrapped tight, smelling faintly of smoke and dust.
He hesitated. His hands, though old, did not shake now. They were steady, reverent.
Unwrapping the silk revealed a scroll—blackened, edges charred as though fire had tried and failed to consume it. Strange symbols crawled across the parchment, refusing to stay still, twisting like worms in the moonlight.
Draven's breath hitched. Memories long buried rose unbidden: blood-soaked nights, sect halls burned to ashes, the desperate hunger of cultivators clawing for one more breath of power.
He had sworn never to touch this scroll again.
But time, and death, made promises fragile things.
The title written across the scroll glowed faintly.
"The First Step of the Sealed Moon."
Draven's lips curled—not in kindness, but in something sharper. His frail face, lined with age, suddenly looked wolfish under the candlelight.
"Even if I have only a few years left," he whispered to the empty room, "I will drag more from this cursed world."
He traced a symbol on the scroll, and it pulsed, as if alive. A faint chill spread through the air. The candle guttered, its flame shrinking, as if afraid.
Draven closed his eyes.
And for the first time in decades, he opened himself to the path of cultivation.