The village bells tolled at dusk.
Their sound was dull, carried by wind rather than metal, for Black Hollow's bell was cracked long ago and never repaired. The villagers did not mind; they believed the cracked bell carried their prayers better to the moon.
But this night it tolled not for prayer, but for mourning.
Three bodies lay on wooden stretchers in the square, wrapped in linen and herbs. Hunters bowed their heads. Wives wept quietly. Children peered from doorways, too frightened to cry.
The corpses were pale, drained not only of life but of warmth, as if the moon itself had stolen their breath. Beside them lay a pile of silver ash—the remnants of the beast that had slain them. Its flesh had dissolved within a day, leaving only that eerie dust.
Elder Draven stood among them, cane in hand. His eyes were lowered, but his presence was enough to still the crowd.
"Moon-touched," he said softly, his voice carrying despite its quiet. "A beast not born but remade, marked by her light. This will not be the last."
Gasps spread. Someone muttered a prayer.
Draven lifted his cane and tapped it once on the stone. "Do not despair. Fear is a chain, but chains can bind strength if used well. We will not scatter, we will not hide. We will stand, together. Tonight we bury the dead. Tomorrow we begin to live wiser."
The villagers nodded, some with tears, some with steel in their eyes. To them, their elder was the calm in the storm. To Draven, they were seeds waiting for his hand to shape them.
The burials ended under the silver gaze of the moon. Draven watched each body lowered into the earth, lips moving in solemn prayers. But his thoughts were elsewhere.
They are afraid. Fear makes men malleable. A soft clay, ready to be shaped. The more the moon-touched come, the more they will lean on me. Yes… with patience, this village will no longer be a flock of sheep, but the foundation of my own force.
When the last grave was filled, Mira came to his side. Her face was streaked with ash from the incense smoke, her eyes weary.
"Elder," she said, voice trembling, "if more beasts come, what will we do? The hunters are already afraid to step into the woods."
Draven placed a hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm, though his heart was cold.
"Then we will make them hunters of another kind," he said. "Fear can sharpen the blade. But first, they must learn to hold it."
Mira did not fully understand, but she nodded. She trusted him. They all did.
The next morning, Draven gathered the villagers in the square. He leaned on his cane, looking every part the frail elder. But his voice, steady and deliberate, wove itself into every ear.
"Too long we have lived as prey. Too long we have trusted chance and prayer to keep us safe. No longer."
He paused, letting his words settle.
"We will build watchtowers on the hills. We will sharpen every blade, mend every bow. The hunters will no longer hunt only deer—they will learn to hunt shadows. And those too old or too young will carry the torches and guard the gates. None will stand idle. Every hand will have purpose."
The villagers shifted uneasily, but no one argued. His calm gaze silenced doubts before they could rise.
Draven tapped his cane again. "This is not punishment. This is survival. The moon watches. We must watch back."
Cheers did not rise—but nods did. Heads bowed. The first stone of discipline had been laid.
That night, as the village slept, Draven climbed the hill to the ruined Observatory once more. The wind cut sharp, but the stones hummed faintly under the moon's light.
He traced a finger across the cracked carvings. They were older than the village, older than memory. Strange symbols curved across the black stone, fragments of forgotten knowledge. He could not yet read them, but he felt their weight pressing on his ember of cultivation.
He sat cross-legged among the ruins, closing his eyes. His body still ached from the strain of absorbing the beast's essence, but he did not allow weakness to stop him. Pain was familiar. Pain was proof of progress.
The ember within him pulsed. He guided it carefully, spreading thin threads through his veins, strengthening what was brittle, knitting what was weak. His breath slowed, his mind sharpened.
In the silence, he almost heard whispers—faint, ancient, woven into the stone around him. Words too old to be understood. Yet they carried weight, a sense of warning… or promise.
He opened his eyes and gazed at the moon.
Seal, he thought. The word came unbidden. You are not only giver, but gaoler.
The thought chilled him, but it also made him smile. Secrets meant power. And he had always thrived on secrets.
Two days later, a caravan arrived at Black Hollow.
It was rare for outsiders to come. The road to the village was long and often avoided. Yet here came three wagons, creaking under the weight of goods, drawn by tired horses.
At their head was a man with a thin smile and sharper eyes: Veyron Duskfang, a merchant known for appearing where profit was least expected.
"Ah, Elder Noctis," Veyron greeted, bowing low with exaggerated grace. "Even the moon seems brighter where you stand. I come with wares, news, and perhaps… warnings."
Draven studied him. Veyron's words dripped honey, but his eyes never stopped measuring. A dangerous man—but useful, perhaps.
"What warning?" Draven asked, voice mild.
Veyron lowered his tone. "I hear whispers. Beasts touched by the moon, men gone mad in silver light. Other villages have burned. Sects stir, sending scouts. They say the land is… changing."
Draven's cane tapped once. "And what do you believe?"
Veyron's smile widened. "I believe where there is fear, there is profit. And where there is profit, there is power."
The villagers busied themselves with trading, eager for salt, tools, and cloth. But Draven kept his eyes on the merchant.
Yes… this one was dangerous. But danger could be bent, if handled carefully.
That night, as the villagers slept, Draven met Veyron quietly at the shrine. The moon cast both their shadows long.
"You seek profit," Draven said. "I seek survival. Perhaps our paths align."
Veyron's smile glimmered. "Perhaps. The question, Elder, is whether you are the man everyone thinks you are… or something more."
Draven did not answer with words. He only let his gaze linger—calm, unreadable, carrying the faint edge of something sharper.
Veyron chuckled, bowing again. "Then I shall watch with interest. And perhaps… loyalty."
When the merchant left, Draven turned back to the shrine.
The moon glared down, vast and unblinking.
Step by step, he thought. I will gather my pieces. One day, this board will belong to me.
In the days that followed, the village changed. Watchtowers rose. Children carried torches. Hunters trained with grim resolve.
They did not know it, but they were becoming soldiers.
And at their center stood Elder Draven Noctis—frail, smiling, harmless in their eyes.
But in the shadows of the ruined Observatory, under the eternal gaze of the moon, his ember of cultivation burned brighter, fed by fear, fed by secrets, fed by the quiet hunger of a man who would not die quietly.
The seeds had been planted.
And in the cold soil of Black Hollow, seeds always grew strong.