It was the kind of morning that made you question the calendar. It was colder than usual for spring. The air felt thin. Almost artificial.
The sky was clear. No wind. No birds. Just the sound of boots on the cracked stone of the old street. People were walking with their heads down. No one smiled. Conversations died in throats. The shuffling of the line was rattling, momentarily breaking the silence. The news from the night before had changed everything.
The Moon had begun to glow.
Not the whole thing. Just a single sharp green light from its dark side, visible to astronomers first, then cityscopes, then ordinary people with night-grade lenses. The light pulsed once every few hours like a heartbeat. No one knew what it meant. No one claimed responsibility. That was the problem.
The governments gave no answers. The Central Authority issued a statement that the phenomenon was "under review." The Lunar Relay Network had gone dark hours before the glow began, but no one in power spoke about that either.
The World Council, usually loud and proud in the inner districts, had not appeared publicly since the night it started. A few lower ministers made confused statements, contradicting each other within minutes. Rumors swelled. Some claimed the glow was a solar weapon. Others said it was a signal—maybe alien, maybe divine. Official data streams were altered or deleted. Entire threads were wiped from the net overnight.
Something was wrong, and people could feel it.
Trust in the central government, already thin in the outer boroughs, was collapsing. Local councils locked their doors. Industry quotas were raised with no explanation. Food distribution slowed. Permits for travel between sectors were suddenly required. The implant program, long resisted in rural zones, was now enforced without compromise. Drones no longer scanned—they hunted.
People whispered that Humanity had lost control.
That someone else was watching.
Arlin waited outside the designated clinic with hundreds of others. The line wrapped around the block, past rusted rails and broken lamp posts. The clinic was just a flat building in an empty lot—no signs or color, no welcoming smiles. A small black drone floated above, buzzing softly, scanning the crowd every few seconds. No one dared to leave. The implant procedure was mandatory. It had been for years, but enforcement had grown harsh this week. Miss your summons and you vanished.
He kept his hands in his coat pockets. His ID chip had already been scanned when he arrived. He was registered as Arlin Dae. Just a common name. Just another twenty-year-old from the outer boroughs. But the chip was a lie. He was not a simple commoner. At least, not anymore.
In truth, he had another name. A name buried long ago.
Five hundred years had passed since King Aetherion built the city. The walls of the inner dome still carried his symbol—an eight-pointed star with a deep spiral in the center. The public was told he died without heirs. The ruling families, each with a seat in the World Council, claimed to be relatives. They built statues in his honor. Swore oaths in his name. But Arlin knew something different. Something he was never supposed to know.
His mother had told him once, during one of her fever spells. She whispered it in the dark when she thought she was dying. That he came from the king's blood. That his existence was hidden on purpose. That people had died to make sure it stayed that way.
Then she got better and never spoke of it again.
When he asked later, she told him it was just a dream.
She went quiet for good last year. Buried with no headstone. Arlin hadn't told anyone. Not even his closest friend. The secret sat inside his chest like a locked box. Heavy. Growing colder with time.
The line moved.
A loudspeaker above the clinic entrance crackled to life. A bored voice sputtered out the same instructions it had repeated many times.
"Remain in line. Prepare for implant integration. Do not bring weapons or unregistered devices. Activation will occur within 24 hours of the procedure."
The people around Arlin looked nervous. Most of them were his age or younger. A few parents stood beside their children, holding their arms close. Some wore simple work coats or faded uniforms from the lower industries. Others looked like they hadn't slept. A few glanced up at the sky every few minutes.
You couldn't see the Moon from here. But people said it was glowing green. Bright enough to be seen without magnification. Many blamed it on their enemies. Others said the End Times had come. There were dozens of rumors, and more each hour.
None of the news channels knew what to say, spouting off anything that might draw interest.
They were all showing reruns. Warnings. Messages from officials saying to stay calm and obey orders.
The people were not calm.
Arlin noticed more security drones than usual. Not just ones for scanning, but red-flagged ones with rotating lenses and exposed taser pods. They hovered near rooftops and floated down alleys. Occasionally, they paused menacingly near groups of people speaking too loudly.
One of them buzzed a man who was holding up a small sign. Something about the stars falling. No one stopped to read it. The man dropped it when a drone pulsed a warning light in his face.
Arlin shifted on his feet. The ache in his legs had started to spread up his spine. He had been standing for nearly two hours. The people in line barely moved, each step forward followed by long waits. Still, no one left. Not now. The government had been quiet for too long. Too much was happening at once.
The boy in front of Arlin turned around, clearly tired of waiting in the brisk morning air. He had short black hair and a pale scar running down his jaw.
"You hear about the royal families?" he asked in a low voice.
Arlin didn't respond right away. "What about them?"
"They're in hiding. Some of them left the inner-city last night. Military's locking down the west gate. My brother works near the wall. Says something big is coming."
Arlin nodded. "Maybe it's just a drill."
"Not with the Moon lighting up," the boy muttered. "Not after what the old books say."
He talks like everyone else now—like he knows something's coming but has no idea what it is. Just fragments. Rumors. Fear. But I know better than to believe in panic. Fear makes people loud. It makes them forget to look closely.The Moon glowing? That's not just some glitch or foreign tech. It's not a message. It's a warning.
Or maybe… an invitation?
I shouldn't even be here. I should've run the second my name showed up in the summons. But that would've raised flags.The implant isn't optional anymore. Not after what happened last week. Not after they started using the drones to pull people from their beds.
Still, this is the price of hiding in plain sight. Play the part. Don't blink too fast. Don't react when someone mentions bloodlines.You're not a prince. You're a body in a coat. That's it.
But if this is the moment everything breaks open… I need to be ready.
Arlin kept his expression blank. "You believe in that stuff?"
"I didn't. Now... I don't know."
The boy turned around and the line moved again. Arlin followed, a dull sense of dread forming in his gut.
Inside the clinic, everything was white. The walls, the floors, even the uniforms. A tall worker with a smooth mask stepped out and motioned to the next five people in line. Arlin was among them. They were led down a long corridor that smelled like disinfectants. No one spoke.
They passed a waiting room filled with blank-eyed patients staring at a muted screen. Another hallway led them into a chamber shaped like a half-circle, lined with padded chairs and strange silver rigs hanging from the ceiling.
"Sit," said the masked worker.
They obeyed.
The rig above Arlin's chair lowered until it hovered just above his head. It began to hum softly. He could feel the vibration in his teeth.
"The implant is painless," the worker said. "You may feel pressure. Remain still."
A soft hiss followed.
Then pain.
Not sharp pain. Not even deep pain. It was a spreading kind of pressure, like someone pressing a finger into his skull from the inside. His ears popped. His eyes twitched. He gripped the armrests and tasted peanut butter.
It was over in seconds.
The rig lifted away, and a faint blue glow hovered just in front of his eyes. A shape. A symbol. It faded quickly.
"Your Heads-Up Display will activate by tomorrow," the worker said curtly. "You are cleared to leave."
Arlin stood, feeling unsteady.
When he stepped back onto the street, the sky looked wrong. The light was pale. Off. He squinted at the sky but couldn't say what had changed. It wasn't darker—just distant, like the sun had backed away.