Chapter Five
The Moonstone Glade
Mist clung to Lira's cloak like silver lace as she and Marek stepped beyond the last bend of the winding path. The Wildwood here seemed ancient beyond reckoning—towering oaks and ash trees knitted their branches high overhead, filtering dawn to a cool, ghostly green. Every breath felt charged, as if the air itself hummed with memory.
Marek paused at the forest's edge, hand raised. "Ahead lies the Moonstone Glade," he whispered. "Few have returned from its heart. Stay close."
Lira's pulse fluttered, but she drew strength from the scroll at her side. The first verse slept within its parchment folds:
"When shadows weave upon the moor,
And wolves sing low at twilight's door,
Let mortal voice the chorus swell—
To wake the queen who in darkness fell."
She swallowed. This was the beginning of everything—of magic reborn in her voice, and of the quest that would change the fate of Aedern.
They advanced along a narrow trail, roots snaking beneath their boots like ancient serpents. A low chant of wind through the leaves rose to greet them—a susurration that might have been the glade itself whispering her name. Lira's heart trembled.
A half-hour later, the trees parted to reveal a circular clearing. Moonstones—hundreds of pale quartz discs—were set into the earth in concentric rings. Moss and ferns curled around them; sunlight, sparse and pale, glinted off their polished surfaces like fallen stars. In the center stood a solitary standing stone carved with musical staves and lupine iconography: the Queen's emblem.
Lira dismounted, every limb tingling with anticipation. She knelt before the central stone, brushing its smooth surface. It was cool to the touch, almost warm—alive, as though breathing. She traced the carved staves with a fingertip, feeling their faint resonance in her palm.
Marek placed a pack of supplies a few paces back. "Make yourself ready," he said softly. "No interruptions—no fear. The glade demands purity of heart."
Lira nodded and unfolded the scroll. Her fingers trembled as she read the verse again under the moonstones' ghostly glow. She closed her eyes, drawing a slow breath, steadying herself.
Far off, a single wolf howled—a low, mournful note that echoed through the trees, rippling across the quartz. Lira's breath caught. The glade had answered her presence.
She lifted her harp from its case, set it on a carved wooden stand, and plucked a single, clear A. The stone's glyphs thrummed in response. A second note followed, and the quartz discs vibrated softly, releasing a pale luminescence that spread outward in a gentle wave.
Lira began to sing, voice low and sure:
"When shadows weave upon the moor…"
Her harmony wove around the glade, weaving through the air like tendrils of silver mist. Each word carried weight—not just syllables, but echoes of loss and longing. The moonstones brightened.
"…And wolves sing low at twilight's door…"
As she sang, the lone howling wolf's call undertook a chorus—a dozen voices joining in unison from unseen throats. The sound rose, pulsing in the forest. Lira's heart pounded; she pressed on.
"…Let mortal voice the chorus swell…"
The central standing stone glowed from its base to its summit, carved glyphs gleaming like molten light. Tiny motes of dust lifted into the air, swirling around Lira like fireflies.
"…To wake the queen who in darkness fell."
At the last word, the glade held its breath. The quartz discs flared, then dimmed—revealing a figure within the central stone: a spectral visage of Queen Albael, half-woman, half-wolf, her eyes reflecting fathomless sorrow and fierce resolve.
Lira's knees weakened. She sank into a curtsy, hands clasped. The air around her vibrated with the Queen's presence.
Marek approached, sword sheathed, eyes shining. "You have done it," he breathed. "You called her back."
The spectral Queen regarded Lira in silence. Then the glade shuddered: the outer moonstone ring lifted like a tide, rising from the earth in undulating arcs. Roots clutched at the discs, but the light bore them upward as though the ground bowed to Albael's will.
Lira's voice trembled. "Your Majesty…" she whispered.
The Queen's form solidified, stepping faintly from the standing stone. Her feet did not touch the earth; she hovered inches above the moss. Her lupine ears flicked; her silver-edged hair drifted like smoke. She studied Lira, then Marek, with an inscrutable expression.
Around them, the forest fell silent. No birds sang, no wind stirred. Even the wolf chorus paused.
Albael's voice—low, resonant, and tinged with ancient power—filled the glade. "Mortals dare awaken me." Her tone held neither anger nor warmth, but the weight of centuries.
Lira rose slowly. "I did not intend to disturb your rest, my Queen. I only wished to—"
"To remember," Albael finished. "To recall what was lost." She drifted closer, eyes never leaving Lira's face. "Why sing this song, child of Windvale?"
Lira drew a steadying breath. "Because magic was silenced, and with it hope. I heard a single note awaken within me—an echo of your final chorus. I chose to follow it, believing that in your song lay the power to restore balance."
Albael's gaze softened, but only slightly. "Balance… or chaos?" she asked quietly.
Marek knelt on one knee. "Your Majesty," he said respectfully, "this realm bleeds under fear of enchantment. We beg your mercy: teach us your song, that we might wield its power with wisdom, not tyranny."
The Queen's spectral lips curved in a half-smile. "Wisdom must be earned." She extended a translucent hand toward Lira. "Step forward."
Lira approached, trepidation and awe warring in her chest. When she stood before Albael, the Queen lowered her hand until her fingertips hovered above Lira's brow.
A warmth bloomed there—like a gentle flame—and a cascade of memories flooded Lira's mind: Albael's triumphs, her sacrifices, the moment the magic slipped away, the chorus of voices she silenced to spare thousands from war. Pain and love intertwined in those visions, each as vivid as Lira's beating heart.
Lira stumbled, and Albael's hand steadied her shoulder. The Queen's voice echoed in her mind: "You carry my melody, and with it the burden of choice. Will you use it to bind or to free?"
Lira's breath caught. She understood then: this quest was more than gathering verses. It was a test of her spirit. She bowed her head. "To free, my Queen."
Albael's form flickered. The moonstones pulsed around them, ringing like tiny bells. Then, as if satisfied, the Queen's visage began to wane—first her legs, then the lupine features, until only her eyes lingered in the stone.
"Remember," her voice whispered, "true song demands sacrifice." Then she vanished, leaving the glade in hushed darkness.
Lira exhaled, tears sliding down her cheeks—tears of relief, awe, and something like joy. Marek knelt beside her. "Are you well?"
She wiped her eyes. "I feel… changed." She looked at the standing stone, now dim once more. "I know what must come next."
Marek helped her to her feet. "You sang beautifully. The Queen's spirit hears truth in your voice."
Lira closed her eyes, letting the memory burn bright: Albael's form, the flood of memories, the final admonition. True song demands sacrifice. She understood her path with clarity now. Gathering the verses was only the beginning; she must embrace the weight of what she carried and be willing to give all for the realm's restoration.
They gathered their gear as dawn's light crept across the glade. The moonstones dimmed, and the forest recovered its chorus: birdsong, rustling leaves, the distant drip of dew. Yet nothing felt ordinary again.
Before departing, Lira knelt once more at the standing stone. She placed her palm on its cool surface. "Thank you," she whispered.
Marek mounted his horse, guiding her destrier beside him. "Tomorrow, we ride to Silverfen's mirror-lake," he said. "There you will learn to shape the power you have awakened."
Lira nodded, settling into her saddle. As they threaded back through the ancient trees, she carried within her a piece of Albael's soul—the first full communion with the Wolf Queen. Her voice had opened the glade's heart, and in turn, the Queen had opened a door within her.
Far off, a wolf howled—this time a solitary voice, clear and mournful. Lira whispered the first line again under her breath:
"When shadows weave upon the moor…"
She felt its truth in every fiber of her being. The path ahead would demand unwavering courage—and the final sacrifice. But for the first time, she felt ready.
The moonstone glow faded behind them, but its song lingered on Lira's lips, guiding her toward the next verse—and the destiny that awaited at the end of her melody.