Moonwroth Crown

A life of burning banners, wolf-masked soldiers, forgotten crowns, and a silver · robed woman without a shadow. · Aren lowered his hands into the cold river and watched the current pull between · his fingers. · “If no one answers my song,” he said, trying to make it sound like a joke, · “perhaps I will ask the temple keeper to take me as a servant.” · Mira frowned. “You? In the shrine?” · Kael laughed. “You would be thrown out before sunrise.” · “Why?” Aren asked. · “Because you ask too many questions,” Lysa said. · Aren smiled, but his gaze drifted across the river. · High above the opposite cliff, the raven still circled. · And this time, as it turned beneath the sun, Aren saw the silver cloth tied to its · leg flash like a tiny blade. · For reasons he could not explain, his heart began to beat faster. · The dream was not finished with him. · The remark brought another round of laughter from the riverbank. · “What has happened to Aren this morning?” Mira teased, wringing water from a · blue tunic. “First he dreams of princesses, then he speaks of temples. He sounds · like a man already wounded by love.” · “Or cursed,” Kael said. “That would explain his face.” · Aren picked up a wet cloth and threw it at him. · Before Kael could answer, a sharp voice came from farther downstream, where · the older women were beating clothes against flat stones. · “Enough chatter!” one of them called. “Are your hands only for gossip? Look · there! One of you has let something drift away.” · Everyone turned. · A narrow strip of crimson cloth was sliding through the shallow water, twisting · and gleaming beneath the sun like a wounded serpent. · Aren’s eyes widened. · “My festival sash!” · Without thinking, he sprang to his feet. · The crimson sash had been woven by Maera herself for the Moonfire Gathering. · It was not rich, not fine enough for nobles or knights, but to Aren it was · precious. The red thread had been dyed with crushed mountain berries, and · Maera had spent three winter evenings working small golden patterns along its · edge. · He could not lose it. · “Aren, wait!” Lysa called. · But he was already moving. · He splashed into the river, lifting the hem of his tunic above his knees as he · chased the sash downstream. The older women gasped in disapproval as he · rushed past them, water flashing around his legs. · Kael burst into laughter. “There goes our future temple servant!” · Mira called after him, “Careful, prince of mud!” · Aren ignored them. · The water was shallow, but the riverbed was treacherous. Loose stones shifted · beneath his feet. Sharp pebbles pressed into his soles. One wrong step would · send him crashing into the stream, but Aren moved quickly, almost gracefully, · as if his body understood the river better than his mind did. · The sash stayed just ahead of him. · Each time he reached for it, the current pulled it away. · It slipped past rocks, curled around reeds, and glided through the water as · though guided by some invisible hand. · Aren frowned. · No cloth should move like that. · Still, he followed. · The laughter of his friends faded behind him. The voices of the women · disappeared. Soon the river curved around a wall of dark stone, where wild roots · hung over the bank like tangled hair. Beyond that bend, the village could no · longer be seen. · Aren slowed. · He had come farther than he meant to. · The air felt colder here. The river narrowed, feeding into an old ford lined with · moss-covered stepping-stones. Reeds grew thick along both banks, whispering · in the wind. This place was rarely used now. The elders said the road beyond it · had once led toward the eastern kingdoms, before war swallowed the old trade · paths. · Aren’s sash had stopped in the middle of the ford. · But it was no longer floating. · Someone had caught it. · A boy knelt on one of the stones, pulling the crimson cloth from the water with · quick, careful fingers. · He looked younger than Aren by two or three years, though it was difficult to · tell. He was small and thin, dressed in faded black garments patched at the · shoulders and knees. Fur wrappings covered his calves. His sandals were made · of rough leather, and a hood of woven reeds hung loosely at his back. · But around his neck rested something that did not belong to a beggar or a · wandering child. · A necklace of dark red stones. · Bloodstones. · They gleamed against his throat like drops of frozen fire. · Aren stopped in the water. · He had never seen anyone like him in Brackenford. · The boy rose, holding the dripping sash in one hand. His hair was wild, his face · sharp, his eyes bright with a boldness that did not suit his age. He looked at Aren · as though he had been waiting for him. · Then he smiled. · “Is this yours?” · Aren stiffened. “Give it back.” · The boy lifted the sash higher and tilted his head. “Come and take it.” · Aren’s irritation flared at once. “I said give it back.” · “And I said come and take it.” · Before Aren could answer, the boy sprang across the stepping-stones with the · quickness of a fox. His bare hand touched each rock lightly, and in a heartbeat · he was on the far bank. · Aren cursed under his breath and climbed onto the nearest stone. · “Stop!” · The boy only laughed and vanished between the reeds. · Fury pushed aside caution. · Aren chased him. · He crossed the ford, nearly slipping twice, then scrambled up the muddy bank · and plunged into the narrow path beyond. Branches scraped his arms. Wet grass · slapped against his legs. Ahead, the boy moved like a shadow, always visible for · a moment, then gone again. · “Thief!” Aren shouted. · The boy glanced back, grinning. “Too slow, village prince!” · The word struck Aren strangely. · Prince. · For one moment, the dream flashed before his eyes. · Blue torches. Wolf masks. A voice whispering, “The lost heir has come home.” · Aren faltered. · The boy saw him slow and stopped beneath an old ash tree. Its trunk was split · by lightning, blackened down the middle, but new green leaves still grew from · its branches. · The boy no longer smiled. · He held the crimson sash out in front of him. · “You really do not remember, do you?” he said. · Aren’s anger cooled into unease. · “Remember what?” · The boy looked past him, toward the hidden village beyond the bend in the river. · “They told me you were dead.” · Aren felt the world grow quiet. · The river, the birds, the wind in the reeds-all of it seemed to fall away. · “Who are you?” he asked. · The boy’s fingers tightened around the sash. · “My name is Riven,” he said. “And if the wolf-men find you before nightfall, · your peaceful village will burn exactly like the first one.” · “Give it back!” Aren snapped, reaching for the crimson sash. “What game are · you playing?” · He lunged for Riven’s shoulder, but the boy slipped away as easily as smoke. He · spun beyond Aren’s reach and stood facing him with a crooked smile, the wet · sash dangling from his hand. · Aren clenched his fists. · Riven seemed to enjoy his anger. He did not look frightened. He did not even · look concerned. There was a wildness in him, the same wildness Aren had once · seen in fox cubs near the grain fields-small, quick, and impossible to corner. · Aren had been a difficult child himself. He knew the look of trouble when it · stood before him. · But before he could move again, the reeds behind Riven parted. · Three men stepped into view. · Aren’s anger died at once. · They were dressed in the same dark travel-worn clothes as Riven, with fur · wrapped around their legs and black cloaks fastened at the shoulder. They · carried no banners, but they did not need any. Their silence alone felt like a · warning. · Aren took one step back. · These were not village men. They were not farmers, traders, or temple guards. · They belonged to roads where blood had dried into the dust. · For one terrifying moment, Aren thought of the wolf-masked hunters from his · dream. His body stiffened, ready to run. He could still hear the river behind him. · If he turned quickly, he might reach the ford before they caught him. · But the men did not move. · They only watched. · Their stillness frightened him more than any shout would have. · Aren swallowed and forced himself to look back at Riven. His voice came lower · this time. · “Please,” he said, holding out his hand. “That sash is mine.” · Riven studied him for a moment, as if searching for something in his face. · Then a thin, aged voice spoke from behind the men. · “Enough, Riven. Return it.”