Long before cities carved the earth with light, when gods still listened to the breath of mortals, there was a sisterhood of priestesses who served Metztli, goddess of the night and the moon.
They lived deep within the Valley of Mists, where the stars touched the water and silence itself felt holy. Among them was Xochitl—the youngest, brightest, and most beloved. Her laughter could stir the fireflies, and her prayers were said to make the moon linger longer in the sky.
One twilight, while gathering flowers for Metztli's altar, Xochitl heard a groan from beyond the temple's sacred barrier. A man lay wounded beneath the silvered trees—blood glinting like molten obsidian on his skin.
"You're hurt," she whispered, kneeling beside him. "I know healing spells. Let me help."
The man's eyes fluttered open—gray as storm clouds. "Come closer," he rasped. "I can't breathe…"
She leaned in—and in that instant, his hand shot out, dragging her beyond the holy boundary.
The air around them changed. The warmth of Metztli's light vanished.
He stood upright now, laughter slithering through the dark. His wounds were gone.
"What are you doing?" Xochitl gasped. "Who are you?"
He smiled with teeth too sharp for man. "I am Tzitzimen—servant of the Dark Lord who devours light. You should be honored, little flower. I have watched you for moons."
"Watched me?" she whispered. "Why?"
"Because you are young. Untouched. And your heart shines brighter than any offering."
Her voice trembled. "All of us are virgins of the moon. Why me?"
"Because the youngest heart is the purest flame," he said. "And the sweeter the light, the richer the darkness when it's swallowed."
He seized her. She struggled, but her strength wilted like petals in frost. His eyes glowed red as he chanted words no human tongue should form. A dagger shimmered into being, carved from black stone and lunar bone.
"Please," Xochitl begged, "Metztli will see you—she will—"
He silenced her with a gag of woven nightshade, painted her skin in symbols of decay, and drove the blade into her heart. Her cry was brief. Her body hollowed. Her soul—consumed.
When it was done, Tzitzimen whispered, almost tenderly, "The younger they are, the brighter they taste."
Then he vanished into the trees, leaving her body among the flowers she once loved.
---
At dawn, the priestesses found her. The garden that had always bloomed with moon lilies was now gray and withered.
They fell to their knees, weeping. One, her closest friend, sang Xochitl's favorite song while others joined, their voices trembling like wind through bone. They buried her where she had fallen, believing a beast had done the deed.
But the Head Priestess, Tonalnan, saw the truth—the dagger wound, clean and deliberate.
That night, she gathered her sisters in the temple.
"She was not taken by beast or chance," Tonalnan said. "She was sacrificed."
A silence thicker than grief filled the chamber.
"Who would do such a thing?" one asked.
"I do not know," Tonalnan replied. "But I will ask Metztli herself."
---
Under the full moon, Tonalnan drank the sacred ololiuhqui—the seeds of dream. The world folded away, and she fell into a trance.
In her vision, the sky was torn open.
Metztli appeared, cradling Xochitl's spirit—her form pale as starlight, her heart missing. The goddess's tears became meteors.
"Who did this, my lady?" Tonalnan pleaded.
Metztli's voice echoed like song through water:
"He was tall, his skin gray like stone. A shapeshifter. A servant of the void.
Find the amulet he left behind—it will call his shadow back to me."
Then the vision shattered, and Tonalnan awoke.
---
At dawn, she told the others.
"Xochitl was slain by a creature of deception," she said. "Metztli showed me an amulet hidden nearby. It will lead us to her killer."
They searched the temple grounds until Tonalnan's steps carried her to an old ruin half-swallowed by vines. Inside, torchlight revealed stairs descending into the earth.
The deeper she went, the colder the air grew. The walls whispered—names of the dead, of gods forgotten.
At the end, she found it: a small obsidian amulet, pulsing faintly with lunar light.
When she touched it, visions flared behind her eyes—Xochitl's face, her final breath, the dagger, the laughter.
And a promise:
"From this sorrow, I will forge vengeance. From her blood, a guardian will rise.
One who walks between shadow and light—neither god nor mortal.
The first Moonveil."
The torch went out.
Tonalnan knelt in darkness, tears streaming down her face, whispering a prayer that would echo across centuries.
When she emerged, dawn had broken—but the moon still lingered, pale and watchful.
---
Thus was born the first oath.
Thus began the legacy of Moonveil—born not of glory, but of grief; not of conquest, but of the moon's quiet promise:
So long as darkness takes the innocent,
my light will find them.