Moonwroth Crown

Maera turned slightly toward him. Even in the dark, Aren could feel the weight · of her concern. · “The same one?” · Aren’s fingers tightened around the edge of his blanket. · “No,” he lied quickly. “Not that one.” · Maera said nothing more. Sleep pulled her back gently, and soon her breathing · became soft and even again. · Aren lay down, but he did not close his eyes. · He had told that lie many times. · When he was younger, the nightmare had torn screams from him. He would · wake shaking, crying so hard that Maera had to hold him against her chest until · dawn. Over the years, he had learned to wake silently. He had learned to · swallow fear before it could become sound. · But the dream had not faded. · It had grown sharper. · The burning village. The marsh. The five hunters with wolf-shaped masks. The · temple of the First Crown. The woman who cast no shadow. · Every year, the dream became clearer, as though something buried deep inside · him was clawing its way back into memory. · Aren hated it. · It was the only shadow in his peaceful life. · Brackenford was quiet, protected by forested hills and silver streams. Its people · knew little of palace wars, royal murders, or blood-oaths broken beneath · moonlit banners. They planted barley, raised goats, sang at festivals, and · thanked the gods when winter passed without famine. · But Aren was not born there. · Everyone knew it, though few spoke of it openly. · Old Tovan and Maera were not his blood parents. They loved him, fed him, · clothed him, and called him son, but they had found him years ago half-dead in the northern hills. He had been a small child then, fevered and starving, with · mud on his feet and smoke in his hair. · The fever had stolen much from him. · His first home. · His true name, perhaps. · The faces of the people who had held him before fire destroyed everything. · He had been told that he must have fled from the eastern war, where the old · mountain clans still resisted the rule of the Sun Throne. The lords of the Sun · Throne claimed their emperor was chosen by the Light Above All, and that his · children carried divine fire in their blood. Their armies had marched east for · years, crushing every village that refused to kneel. · Aren knew the stories. Everyone did. · But they felt distant, like tales told beside winter fires. · The war belonged to other lands, other people, other graves. · Brackenford had accepted the Sun Throne three generations ago. A shrine had · been built beyond the cedar grove, and within it stood a polished golden shield · said to hold the blessing of the Light. Since then, no army had entered the · valley. No famine had ruined their fields. No raiders had crossed the river. · The villagers believed they were protected. · Aren wanted to believe it too. · He turned onto his side and stared toward the window. · The boy in the dream was not him, he told himself. · He was not the child hiding in the marsh. · He was Aren of Brackenford. Son of Tovan and Maera. Fifteen years old. Strong · enough to carry grain sacks, mend fences, and stand beside the other youths at · the coming spring festival. · He would grow older here. · He would choose a trade. · Perhaps he would marry one of the village girls after the Moonfire Gathering, · when songs were exchanged beneath the hill flame and promises were made · before the gods. · That was his life. · Not wolves. · Not crowns. · Not war. · And yet, deep inside, a colder truth whispered to him. · As long as the child in the dream kept running, Aren would never truly stop. · By morning, the nightmare had loosened its grip. · Mist rose from the river in pale ribbons, drifting between the reeds before · melting into the blue sky. Sunlight scattered across the water, flashing over · smooth stones and shards of white quartz beneath the current. · The girls and boys of the village had gathered by the riverbank with baskets of · clothes, laughing and calling to one another as they worked. Though most still · wore thick winter-dyed tunics of brown, rust, and deep blue, spring had already · touched the valley. Across the river, wild redflowers burned along the cliffside, · and the first green leaves had opened on the branches. · Aren came down the bank carrying a bundle of wet cloth over one shoulder. · “You look like a man walking to his own execution,” called Mira, the miller’s · daughter. · She stood ankle-deep in the shallows, her sleeves rolled up and her dark braid · tied carelessly with a strip of red cloth. · Aren blinked at her. “What?” · Beside her, Lysa, who lived near Tovan’s house, grinned. “She means your · face. You look as if a ghost kissed you in your sleep.” · The others laughed. · Aren lowered his basket beside the river and knelt to rinse a shirt in the cold · water. “It was only a bad dream.”