Moonwroth Crown

In his dreams, Aren was always seven years old. · The night never began with screams. It began with warmth. · A clay lamp was glowing beside his mother’s loom. The smell of barley bread · cooling near the hearth. His father’s heavy cloak hung by the door, still carrying · the scent of rain and horse leather. The small bronze cup belonged only to him. · His mother’s hand was resting over his hair as she whispered old songs of the · River Kingdom. · Then the sky turned red. · Fire climbed the walls of their village like a living beast. It swallowed the roofs · first, then the watchtowers, then the banners of House Vaelthorn that had once · promised protection. Sparks flew upward like dying stars. The same fire that had · warmed his family now roared like a conqueror claiming its throne. · Aren did not remember running. · He only remembered waking inside the black marsh beyond the village, his · knees buried in cold mud, his small hands gripping dead reeds as if they were · swords. Smoke scratched his throat. His chest hurt from holding back sobs. He · wanted to call for his mother, but some deep instinct told him that a single sound · would bring death. · Across the marsh, men were searching for him. · Not demons, though a child could have mistaken them for such. · They wore iron masks shaped like wolves, and their torches burned with blue · witch-fire. Five of them moved between the twisted trees, their armour dark · beneath the moon. One was tall and thin, another broad as a gate, and the · smallest carried a curved blade that dragged through the mud with a wet · whisper. · “Find the prince’s blood,” one of them growled.