The moon had grown larger.
At least, that was how it looked to Elder Draven Noctis when he raised his eyes each night. The orb filled more of the sky than it had a season ago, its silver light pouring down like a river of cold fire. The villagers whispered about omens, but Draven said nothing. He simply watched. And waited.
The curse began on the seventh night after the wolf's death.
At first it was a tremor in his fingers, a shiver running beneath the skin. Then came the burning. Each time he guided the ember of cultivation through his veins, it left behind trails of pain, like frost searing flesh. When he looked in the mirror's cracked surface, he saw faint lines of silver spreading under his skin—delicate, like veins of quicksilver.
He knew at once: the moon had marked him.
Draven did not panic. He had suffered many torments in his long years, and fear was a tool, not a master. Instead, he recorded each symptom carefully on scraps of parchment, hiding them beneath the floorboards with his scroll.
By day, he remained the calm elder, guiding the village's new defenses. Watchtowers had risen on the hills, and boys who once chased goats now stood with bows in hand, eyes sharp, backs straight. He praised them, encouraged them, and in their eyes he became more than a man.
"Elder Noctis sees what we cannot," Mira whispered once to her friends. "He knows the moon's ways. He leads us, so we will not be lost."
Such whispers spread. Soon, some villagers began leaving small offerings at his door—candles, herbs, even scraps of silver coin. They called him not just Elder, but Moon-Guide.
Draven smiled kindly and accepted their gifts. Inside, he thought: Good. Faith binds stronger than rope.
Yet at night, when the village slept, his mask slipped.
The silver veins spread further with each attempt at cultivation. His breath grew ragged, his heart pounded as though it fought against unseen chains. And worse—sometimes, when the moonlight struck him directly, he felt something stir within his chest. A pull, faint but insistent, as though the moon itself was drinking from him.
On the ninth night, blood filled his mouth. He spat into a bowl and saw it shimmer faintly, laced with silver threads.
He whispered to the darkness:
"So. You curse me for stealing from your beasts.Then I shall curse you back."
The ruined Observatory became his refuge. Its black stones still whispered when he sat among them. Draven gathered herbs, bones, and the ashes left by the wolf's corpse. With careful hands he ground them, mixing with his own silver-laced blood.
He painted a circle on the stone floor, its pattern drawn from fragments of the forbidden scroll. Each line seemed to pulse faintly as though eager to awaken.
When he sat within the circle, cross-legged, he did not reach for cultivation. Instead, he forced his ember to stillness, caging its restless heat.
The curse fought him at once. The silver veins writhed beneath his skin, burning, pulling upward toward the moonlight streaming through the broken dome. His body shook. His teeth ground until his gums bled.
But Draven endured. He pressed two fingers into his chest, forcing the ember to contract.
"Mine," he hissed. "Not yours. Never yours."
The ground shuddered. The symbols flared once—then the pain dulled. The silver lines receded, faint but still there. The curse had not been broken, but it had been chained.
Draven collapsed, drenched in sweat, breath ragged. Yet his lips curved in a faint smile.
So the moon watches me. Then let it watch. I will not bow. Not now. Not ever.
On the twelfth night, strangers came again.
This time it was not merchants.
Two figures entered the village just before dawn: one a man in traveling robes the color of ash, the other a girl with a pack twice her size. Their steps were weary, but their eyes sharp.
The villagers, already wary of outsiders, gathered around them. Mira hurried to fetch Draven.
When the elder arrived, cane tapping on stone, the man bowed low.
"Forgive our intrusion," he said. His voice was gentle, but his gaze lingered too long on the watchtowers and the armed hunters. "I am Kaelen Umbra, a scholar of sect histories. This is my apprentice, Lira. We travel seeking remnants of the old world. Word reached me of… unusual events here."
Draven studied him. The scholar's robes were plain, but his hands bore faint calluses of one who had trained with blade or staff. His apprentice's eyes were sharper still, watching everything with suspicion.
"Unusual?" Draven repeated mildly.
Kaelen inclined his head. "They say moon-touched beasts roam these woods. I wished to see for myself. To study, to understand. And perhaps… to aid."
The villagers looked at Draven, waiting. In their minds, he would decide if the strangers were threat or blessing.
The elder smiled faintly, bowing his head in welcome. "Any who seek knowledge are welcome here. But know this: our home is small, and our food scarcer still. If you stay, you must work as we do."
Kaelen accepted without hesitation.
Draven's eyes lingered on the scholar a moment longer. Behind his calm expression, thoughts moved like knives. Scholar or spy? Aid or vulture?
He did not yet know. But he would find out.
That night, as the strangers settled into the old guesthouse, Draven returned alone to the Observatory.
The silver veins in his skin had begun to itch, a crawling sensation like insects beneath his flesh. The curse was patient, waiting. Testing him.
He touched the cold stone wall, gazing at the carvings.
Seal. Prison. Watcher.
Each night brought new fragments to his mind, hints from the whispers he could not yet translate. But one truth was clear: his curse was no accident. It was tied to the seal itself.
If he advanced further, the curse would tighten. If he did nothing, his lifespan would wither away.
Either way, death waited.
And so, Elder Draven Noctis smiled faintly at the moon, his teeth flashing in the pale light.
"You test me.Then let us play."
The silver veins pulsed in answer.
And somewhere in the forest beyond, something howled—a sound too deep, too human to belong to any mere beast.