Chapter 7- The Broken Moon-Part 2

The morning sun crept weakly through the inn's cracked shutters, its light pale and uncertain, filtered through the slow drift of gray clouds. The world beyond was muted - the kind of quiet that felt less like peace and more like something holding its breath. The smell of spiced oats and fresh bread hung in the air, warm and inviting, but none of us seemed to have much appetite. The room carried a heaviness that food couldn't dispel - the weight of unspoken things, of dreams that clung too close to waking.

Danny sat across from me, his cup cradled between his hands as though the warmth might steady him. He stared at its rim with exaggerated focus, pretending not to notice me. But every few moments, his eyes lifted - quick, searching glances that never lasted long enough to be caught. He always did that when he thought I wasn't looking: studying me, curious and uncertain, maybe even a little afraid. I didn't blame him. Some mornings, I wasn't entirely sure what I was, either.

I tore off a piece of bread, the crust soft and still steaming. "Eat," I murmured, my voice breaking the uneasy silence. "You'll need your strength."

He startled slightly, as though I'd caught him in a secret, then nodded and obeyed, lowering his gaze.

At the far end of the table, Flahera sat with her back straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her silver hair shimmered faintly in the dull light, and her pointed ears twitched once - a sign I'd learned meant she was listening to something beyond what the rest of us could hear.

"The air feels... unbalanced," she said at last, her voice as smooth and cool as riverstone, though edged with quiet unease. "Something stirs beyond the veil."

Ravensha gave a tired half-smile, her dark eyes half-lidded with sleep. "You always say that when the weather changes."

Flahera's gaze didn't waver. "And I am rarely wrong."

The air in the room seemed to tighten, the warmth from the fire turning stale, fragile. The only sounds were the groan of the old timbers and the sighing of wind against the shutters - the kind of wind that carried whispers if you let yourself listen too long.

Then Ravensha froze.

Her words cut off mid-breath, and a strange stillness overtook her. Her pupils vanished beneath her lids as her eyes rolled white. Her fingers curled around the table's edge, tendons taut, knuckles bone-pale. A shiver crawled down my spine.

"Ravensha?" I started, but the name felt hollow in the heavy air.

When she spoke again, her voice wasn't hers.

"The souls... they have been angered," she said - or something inside her said. The sound was fractured, layered, as though many voices fought to speak through one mouth. "The gateway is now open... and my people wish to feed."

The air seemed to die with the words. The hearthfire flickered and shrank, its glow fading to a thin, unnatural blue. Shadows lengthened across the walls, bending toward her like they were listening.

I rose too fast, the chair crashing to the floor behind me. "Ravensha," I whispered, stepping closer. "Look at me."

She didn't blink. Her body trembled, and when her lips parted again, the words that came out were slower, deliberate - like an invocation.

"A soul for a soul, an eye for an eye.

Vengeance shall reign, and vengeance shall die.

The world will burn, as the souls decay-

None shall live to see the day."

When the final word left her mouth, the light seemed to drain from her entirely. Her head dropped forward, and she went still.

Jack was already on his feet, his sword half-drawn. Danny pushed back from the table, eyes wide, glancing between us. "What-what just happened?"

Before I could answer, agony tore through my skull. A white-hot lance of pain pierced behind my eyes, spreading like wildfire through every vein. The world tilted. I grabbed the table to steady myself, breath ragged.

And beneath the ringing in my ears, I heard it - a whisper, distant and wrong, curling like smoke inside my mind.

Come home, cursed child... come home...

The words slithered through me, too familiar to be imagined. My stomach turned.

"Luna?" Flahera's voice - her real voice this time - broke through the fog. Her cool hand found my shoulder, grounding me. "You're pale. What's wrong?"

"I heard it," I forced out, my voice barely more than a rasp. "Didn't you?"

But the others only stared, confusion and fear mixing in their eyes. None of them had heard it.

Danny's face drained of color. "Luna-your nose..."

I reached up, fingertips brushing the warmth beneath my nose. Blood. Just a thin line, but enough. My magic was shifting again - fracturing, unstable.

"I'm fine," I said, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me. I straightened, forcing strength I didn't feel. "But Ravensha's words... they weren't random."

Jack frowned. "You recognized them?"

I nodded, swallowing the taste of copper. "The rhyme she spoke - it's an old tale. One witches and demons used to whisper to children in the dark."

The room was utterly still. Even the fire dared not crackle.

Danny frowned, his voice barely above a whisper. "A... fairy tale?"

"The prophecy of the Bleeding Moon," I said softly, my words hanging heavy in the air. "The one that ends with the fall of light itself."

Flahera's gaze met mine across the table - calm, ancient, unshaken. In her eyes flickered something older than fear, something that had seen ages rise and crumble. "If the souls are stirred, Luna," she said quietly, "then something has disturbed their rest. It would take more than mortal hands to do that."

I nodded once, the truth settling cold and certain in my chest. "The witches' resting grounds," I murmured. "They're calling. Their peace has been broken."

No one spoke after that. The silence stretched long and thin, filled only by the soft sigh of wind against the shutters. It sounded almost like a breath - the inn itself listening, waiting for us to decide what came next.

At last, I drew in a slow breath and straightened. "Pack what you need," I said. "We're splitting up."

Jack's head snapped up. "You can't be serious-"

"I am." My tone cut through his protest like steel. "Flahera, you'll take Ravensha and Jack back to Moonhaven. Warn the Queen what's happening. Tell her to strengthen the border wards and ready the healers. If the curse has already awakened, it'll spread faster than fire."

Flahera's jaw tightened - not from defiance, but from understanding. "And you?"

"Danny and I will head east," I said, the words tasting of ash and memory. "To the ruins of my home. That's where the veil was first broken. I can feel it calling."

Danny blinked, caught off guard. "Wait - me? Why me?"

I turned toward him, letting the silence speak first. The firelight painted him in gold and shadow - too human, too foreign for a world like this. "Because you don't belong to this world," I said finally. "The curse is bound to our lands - to our blood, our magic. It may not touch you the same way. That makes you valuable."

He looked like he wanted to argue, to tell me I was wrong, but the set of my voice left no space for doubt.

"Two days," I said. "If we don't return by then, assume we're gone."

The words fell like a blade between us - clean, irreversible. For a moment, no one moved. The fire hissed softly, as if exhaling its last breath.

Then Jack gave a single, silent nod. His jaw was hard, his eyes darker than before. "Understood."

Flahera rose without another word, already reaching for her cloak. Ravensha stirred weakly in her chair, the last echo of the spirits still clinging to her skin. Danny only sat there, still staring at me - part disbelief, part something else.

The storm hadn't yet begun, but I could feel it gathering - in the wind, in my bones, and in the hollow pull of the moon above.

---

The road east unspooled before us in long, broken ribbons - a scar cutting through the land.

We rode for hours beneath a sky the color of ash, through fields where nothing dared to grow. The earth was brittle, dusted with frost that clung to the grass like the last breath of winter. The air stank of iron and ruin - that bitter mix of blood and smoke that never truly fades from a battlefield. Even the wind carried it, whispering through the emptiness as though reluctant to disturb the dead.

Once, we passed the skeleton of a farmhouse, its roof caved inward, its door swinging gently on rusted hinges. It creaked with every gust, a sound too measured, too mournful, as if the ghosts inside hadn't yet decided whether to stay or go.

Snow began to fall - light at first, then thicker, flakes drifting down like silent ash. The world dimmed around us, muffled and strange. Every hoofbeat struck the frozen ground like a heartbeat in a tomb.

Danny rode behind me, his posture tense but steady, the faint clink of his borrowed armor the only sound that reminded me I wasn't entirely alone. When we crossed a narrow stream glazed with ice, he broke the silence at last.

"It's so quiet," he said softly, his breath misting in the cold.

"Too quiet," I murmured. My voice sounded foreign in the still air. "The Warlock's magic poisons the land. Even sound dies here."

He said nothing after that. He didn't have to. The silence itself was answer enough.

We rode on - through fields turned gray with decay, through a wind that carried no birdsong, no life. And somewhere in the distance, beyond the veil of snow and shadow, I thought I heard something stir. Not loud. Not near. Just a breath.

Something waiting.