The village of Ravenholt slept quietly beneath the pale glow of the first moon.
Wooden houses leaned together along narrow dirt paths, their roofs covered in frost from the long northern winter.
Thin columns of smoke rose slowly from stone chimneys, drifting into the cold night air before disappearing into the dark sky above.
Ravenholt had always been a quiet settlement.
Merchants rarely passed through it, and few travelers ever had reason to stop here.
Most maps of the northern lands did not even mark its existence.
Yet the people of Ravenholt had lived here for generations, farming the frozen soil, hunting the forests, and enduring winters that sometimes lasted half the year.
On this particular night, however, the sky carried an uneasy silence.
The Pale Moon hung low above the distant mountain ridges, casting a dim silver light across the valley.
To the villagers it looked like any other night.
But far above the clouds, the heavens had already begun to move in ways unseen for centuries.
As Caelan stepped through the wooden gates of the village, several lanterns flickered along the main road.
A few villagers glanced toward the stranger with quiet curiosity.
Travelers were rare here, especially during the cold season.
Caelan kept his hood low as he walked.
He had grown used to cautious eyes watching him in every place he visited.
It was easier not to answer questions.
The sword on his back remained wrapped in dark cloth, though faint traces of pale blue light still seeped through the fabric when the wind moved it aside.
At the center of the village stood a small stone chapel.
Its walls were older than any other structure in Ravenholt, built from weathered grey blocks that had likely stood there long before the current villagers were born.
A single lantern burned beside its wooden door.
Inside the chapel lived an old monk named Brother Aldren, the keeper of Ravenholt's small library of forgotten texts.
While most villagers concerned themselves with crops and survival, Aldren spent his days reading ancient manuscripts that few others could understand.
Some said the monk knew more about the past than the kings who ruled the distant cities of the south.
On that night Aldren was awake long after the village had fallen silent.
A candle flickered beside a large book resting on the wooden table before him.
The pages were old and fragile, their ink faded with time.
Across the parchment were drawn symbols of moons, swords, crowns, and strange creatures with twisted shapes that did not belong to any natural beast.
Aldren studied one particular page carefully.
At the center of the drawing were three circles representing the three moons of Aethera.
Around them were thirteen smaller symbols arranged like a ring.
The monk whispered softly to himself.
"The Thirteen Artifacts…"
He had read about them countless times during his life.
Relics forged during the War of Creation, each carrying divine power capable of opposing the darkness of the ancient demons.
But like most scholars, Aldren had always believed the artifacts were lost forever.
Legends rarely survived the passage of centuries.
Yet something tonight made him uneasy.
The sky outside seemed heavier than usual, as if the world itself waited for something to begin.
A sudden sound from outside the chapel interrupted his thoughts.
Footsteps on frozen ground.
Slow.
Careful.
Aldren closed the book and lifted the lantern beside him.
When he opened the chapel door, the cold air rushed in like a warning.
Standing a few steps away was the hooded traveler who had entered the village earlier that night.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Aldren noticed the faint glow beneath the cloth wrapped around the traveler's sword.
The monk's eyes widened slightly.
"That blade," Aldren said quietly.
"Where did you find it?"
Caelan hesitated before answering.
"It was given to me."
"By whom?"
"A knight."
The monk stepped closer, raising the lantern so the light fell upon the sword's wrapping.
Even through the cloth he could see the faint runic patterns shining from the metal beneath.
Ancient runes.
Runes Aldren had seen only in books written hundreds of years ago.
His voice became almost a whisper.
"You should not carry such a weapon openly."
Caelan frowned slightly.
"I do not even know what it truly is."
Aldren looked up toward the night sky above the chapel roof.
At that exact moment a faint blue glow appeared along the far horizon.
The Blue Moon had begun to rise.
The monk felt a chill run down his spine.
"The sky is changing," Aldren said quietly.
"The alignment has begun."
Caelan followed his gaze upward.
Two moons now hung above the world.
The Pale Moon.
And the rising Blue Moon.
For the first time in centuries, the heavens were moving toward the ancient prophecy.
Neither man realized that far beneath the northern mountains, deep within a cavern sealed for a thousand years, cracks had begun to form in ancient stone.
Something within the darkness was stirring.
The first prison was weakening.