The Sylvania Forest always seemed to hold its breath when night descended. Among the ancient trees and the slow-falling mist, moonlight fractured through the fog, tracing pale scars across the damp earth. In that silence, a wooden cabin stood alone, its walls gnawed by time and memory.
Inside, a woman sat by a small hearth. Her hair was a washed shade of gold, her face kind yet worn by sleepless years. In her lap, a little girl with silver hair stared into the fire as if it might reveal its secrets to her. Her eyes, soft violet like the petals of a night-blooming flower, caught the light in a way that defied nature—not reflecting it, but absorbing it.
"Lyra, sweetheart, not too close to the fire," her mother said gently.
The girl turned, smiling, her cheeks flushed from the heat. "I just wanted to see the colors, Mom. They're beautiful."
Her mother chuckled softly, kneeling beside her. She studied her daughter's drawing—rings of violet and blue, strange but enchanting. "You like those colors, don't you?"
Lyra nodded. "They feel like they're calling to me."
Her mother hesitated. "Calling to you?"
Lyra blinked innocently. "Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I hear whispers. They tell me to draw the light."
Her voice was simple, unguarded—the voice of a child untouched by fear.
Her mother stared into the crackling fire, the shadows flickering across her face. "Don't listen to them, Lyra. The world is full of voices, but not all of them speak the truth."
"Why is the moon broken, Mom?" Lyra asked suddenly, her thoughts drifting as lightly as the smoke curling up the chimney.
Her mother smiled faintly and brushed a lock of silver hair from the girl's face. "Long ago, this world nearly fell apart. The gods turned on their own blood. The sky split open, and pieces of the moon crashed to the earth. From that shattered light, magic was born—and with it, life anew."
Lyra gazed at the window, her reflection mingling with the broken moon. "So the cracked moon isn't… bad?"
"Not always," her mother said. "Even from ruin, beauty can still grow."
Her smile lingered, but sorrow lived behind it—a quiet weight, like someone who knew her end had already begun.
The night deepened. The wind carried the hum of insects, the scent of wet soil, and a strange, low vibration from the woods. Sylvania was quiet, but never peaceful. There were whispers that came when the moon reached its highest point—voices not meant for human ears. Yet Lyra could hear them.
As the hours crawled by, the forest seemed to change. The air grew colder, sharper, laced with the faint scent of iron. The silence became too still, too watchful. Lyra lay awake, her small heart beating fast beneath her blanket.
"Mom," she whispered, "can I look at the moon?"
Her mother glanced out the window, uncertain, then nodded. "Just for a moment, sweetheart."
They stepped outside. The cold bit at their skin, but the night was breathtaking. Dew clung to the grass, and above them, the cracked moon gleamed—its shards spinning slowly in the darkness.
"Mom, the moon looks like it's crying," Lyra murmured, pointing upward.
Her mother looked down at her, this strange little child with eyes too wise for her age. "You can hear it too, can't you?"
"Hear what, Mom?"
"The moon. It speaks to those who listen. But don't let its words take root in you. Some voices come from the other side, and you must remember this, Lyra—you must never let any of them control your heart."
Lyra frowned, not understanding. "The other side?"
Her mother didn't answer. She only pulled her daughter close, holding her long enough for warmth to sink into memory. "Whatever happens, don't ever let anyone take your heart, Lyra. Magic without a heart becomes a curse."
Lyra nodded slowly. She didn't understand, but something in her mother's tone pressed like a weight inside her chest.
꧁𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ꧂
Midnight came. The wind died. Candles went out one by one. Somewhere in the dark, a bird cried out—and was silenced.
Lyra woke. The world outside her window was drowning in fog. Something shimmered beyond it, faint and silver, like a star that had lost its way.
"Mom?" she called softly. No answer.
She climbed from her bed, clutching the cloth doll her mother had sewn, and opened the door. The air bit at her skin. Then she heard it again—a soft, familiar song, drifting through the mist.
"Lyra… come to me. I'm waiting…"
Her small feet carried her to the old well behind the house. The water reflected the broken moon above, and in its surface, a woman's face appeared. Her eyes glowed violet, and her voice was sweet as a lullaby.
"Look upon your true self, child of the moon…"
Lyra leaned closer, entranced. The water stirred. Then black, skeletal hands burst from the surface and clamped around her wrist.
"Ah—!" Lyra cried, struggling. The grip was cold and slick, like ice come alive.
"Open your eyes, heir of the Veil…" The voice echoed inside her skull.
Then—light. A harsh, burning light.
"LET GO OF MY DAUGHTER!"
Her mother's voice split the night. She stood with her wand raised high, words of the old tongue cutting through the air. A violet blaze erupted, devouring the shadow's hands in a storm of fire and shrieks.
Lyra fell to the ground, trembling, tears streaking her cheeks. Her mother knelt, pulling her close.
"Listen to me, Lyra. If I say run, you run. Don't look back. Don't stop."
"Mom, I'm scared—"
"I know, I know. Just do as I say."
The earth shuddered. Branches snapped. Something was coming. From the trees, a shape emerged—tall, formless, cloaked in mist. Its eyes burned gold. Its voice crawled through their minds.
"The child… is the key."
Her mother stepped forward, her body trembling, but her eyes hard as steel. "No. She's just a little girl."
"You cannot protect her. The Veil has claimed her."
The shadow raised a hand. The air froze. Spears of ice formed midair. Her mother shouted, lifting her wand. "Lux Aeterna!"
Light exploded, blinding, divine. The ground split, the wind howled, the mist shattered beneath the force of it. But within the blaze, Lyra felt searing pain. She screamed, the world turning white.
When she opened her eyes, silence. The house was gone. Only ashes and faint blue embers remained. Her mother knelt among them, her body turning to stone, her face serene, her eyes still filled with love.
"Mom…" Lyra whispered. Her mother smiled faintly, her lips moving without sound.
"Don't… forget… what I told you…"
Then she crumbled—turning to silver dust, drifting away with the wind. Lyra screamed until her throat broke, but only the forest answered.
On the ground, a ring of light appeared—ancient runes swirling like living fire.
At its center, Lyra sat trembling, her silver hair glowing under the broken moon.
On her wrist, a mark burned into being—the symbol of the fractured moon.
That night was the beginning of everything. The night the Veil breathed again, and a child became the first witness to the rebirth of an ancient world.
But for her, the world had already ended. The only light she had ever known was gone.
"Mom…" she whispered into the empty dark.
꧁𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ꧂