Moonwroth Crown

Aren did not understand those words then. He was only a child. He knew · nothing of royal bloodlines, broken oaths, or the war that had begun before he · was born. He only knew that they were looking for him. · The blue light of their torches slid over the marsh water. It came close. Then · closer. · Aren pressed himself lower into the reeds. Mud soaked through his tunic. · Something cold moved against his ankle beneath the water, but he did not dare · move. Fear filled him so completely that he stopped feeling like a boy. He · became only breath, heartbeat, and terror. · For one terrible moment, he wished they would find him. · Waiting was worse than dying. · Then the dream shifted. · The marsh vanished beneath his feet, and Aren stood inside a vast hall of stone. · The ceiling rose high above him, lost in darkness. Great pillars carved with · dragons and crowned kings stretched in endless rows. Between them, iron · braziers burned with golden flames. Their light should have comforted him, but · the hall felt too silent, too empty, as if every living soul had fled long before he · arrived. · This was no village shrine. · It was the Sanctum of the First Crown, the forbidden temple where the old · kings of Eldoria had once sworn their blood oaths before battle. · Aren looked down. · His feet were bare. Mud still clung to his skin, leaving dark marks across the · polished black floor. Each step echoed like a confession. · At the far end of the hall, a white light shone. · There, before an altar of pale stone, knelt a woman in silver robes. Around her · lay offerings of black roses, broken swords, and fresh green branches from the · sacred ash tree. Her long hair fell down her back like a river of midnight. Her · face was turned away, but even from behind, she seemed too graceful to be · mortal. · Aren felt himself drawn toward her. · Not by courage. · By something older. · Something that knew his name before he had spoken it. · “Mother?” he whispered. · The woman did not move. · The flames in the braziers bent toward her, though there was no wind. The silver · threads of her robe shimmered like moonlight on water. Aren took another step, · and then another. · But then he noticed something. · His own shadow stretched behind him, long and trembling across the floor. · The pillars had shadows. · The altar had a shadow. · Even the broken swords cast thin black lines beneath the light. · But the woman in silver had none. · Aren froze. · The warmth inside the hall vanished. The golden fire turned cold. He suddenly · understood that he had not escaped the hunters in the marsh. · He had only been led somewhere worse. · The woman slowly turned her head. · Before Aren could see her face, the blue witch-fire appeared again behind him. · A voice from the darkness whispered, · “The lost heir has finally come home.” · Aren opened his mouth to scream. · But the dream took his voice before the sound could rise. · And far away, beyond sleep, the war drums of Eldoria began to beat. · “Do not turn toward me,” Aren begged in silence. · His voice would not rise. His throat felt sealed by invisible hands. The woman in · silver robes knelt before the altar, still as a carved idol, her long black hair · flowing over her shoulders like a curtain of night. · He knew, without knowing how, that he must never see her face. · If she turned fully, something inside him would break. · “Please,” he pleaded soundlessly. “Do not look at me. The wolf-men will find · me. They will drag me back into the fire.” · But the woman began to move. · Slowly. · Her head turned inch by inch. The silver cloth over her shoulders shifted, though · there was no wind in the ancient hall. First Aren saw the pale edge of her cheek. · Then the curve of her lips. Then one eye, cold and bright as a winter moon. · And when her gaze finally touched him- · Aren woke with a violent gasp. · He sat upright in the darkness, his tunic damp with sweat. Cold night air brushed · against his face through the narrow window above his bed. Beyond it, a few · tired stars still burned in the western sky. · For a moment he did not know where he was. · The stone temple was gone. · The woman without a shadow was gone. · The blue witch-fire was gone. · He was back in the small wooden house at the edge of Brackenford, the village · that had raised him. · Beside the hearth, his foster father, Old Tovan, slept with his mouth open, · snoring like a broken war horn. On the other side of the room, Maera, the · woman Aren called mother, stirred beneath her blanket. · “Aren?” she murmured, half asleep. “Are you unwell?” · Aren forced his breathing to steady. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. · “No,” he whispered. “Only a dream.”