Chapter 4 - The Feast That Spoiled

Two years pass. And with them, innocence fades.

We are one now-bound not by blood, but by battle. By loss. By choice.

Jack. Ravensha. Flahera. My retainers. My shields. My mirrors.

Each bears scars that echo my own, though none of us ever speak of them. The silence between us has become its own kind of vow-unspoken, unbroken. We move together through war and aftermath, our steps guided by a single heartbeat. Not in perfect rhythm, but in endurance. Always endurance.

Moonhaven has grown quieter. Its laughter thinner, stretched like an old song half-remembered. The streets still glow beneath Verris and Sael, but their light feels brittle now-fragile, trembling at the edges of shadow. Even the air hums differently, as though the city itself has forgotten how to breathe without fear.

And yet the Queen still smiles when she speaks of hope.

Hope.

The word tastes distant now, like something half-faded on the tongue-a relic from another life. Once, I believed in it. Once, I thought it meant light.

But that was before the darkness learned my name.

---

The air tastes of salt and ruin.

Once, the coastal village of Sillia was a sanctuary-its glass towers rising from the sea like prisms, its people half of water and half of song. Fairies built nests in coral gardens. Merfolk sang lullabies to the moon.

Now, there is only silence.

The waters are gray. The scent of char and brine clings to the wind. Broken glass crunches beneath our boots as we ride across the dunes beneath the twin moons-Sael, crimson and low; Verris, pale and sharp. Their light fractures over the sand, catching on shattered shells that gleam like bone.

"Everyone ready?" I ask, my voice low.

Jack's hand tightens around his sword hilt. The moons' reflection gleams across his armor, painting the sigil of Moonhaven in ghostlight above his heart.

Ravensha nods once, the curve of her twin daggers glinting in quiet promise.

Flahera stands poised high on the cliffside, her bow drawn taut, elven eyes scanning the smoldering remains of the docks below.

A flicker of movement cuts through the mist. Shadows shifting where there should be none.

Figures emerge from the fog-soldiers in blackened steel, seawater streaming from their armor. Each breastplate bears a single crimson eye, its glow faint but pulsing with unnatural life.

"The Warlock's mark," Jack mutters.

"Two dozen," he adds under his breath.

Ravensha's gaze sharpens. "More beneath the docks," she whispers. "And something... bigger."

Her warning comes too late.

The roar splits the air-low, guttural, and wrong. The ground heaves beneath our feet as the wrecked wharf erupts outward, splinters raining down like shrapnel.

From the wreckage, a shape rises.

Once human. No longer.

Its flesh ripples with black veins that glow like cracks in molten stone. Each pulse sends tremors through the sand. Each breath distorts the air around it, bending heat and shadow alike.

The stench of rot and iron hits, thick enough to taste.

Jack lifts his blade. "By the moons..."

Ravensha steps forward, knives raised, her stance unflinching. "That's no soldier."

I feel it before I see it-the echo, the sickness, the call. The corruption in that thing's veins hums in time with my own.

The Warlock's shadow has found us.

And when the creature turns its face toward me, I recognize what remains beneath the ruin.

General Gregory Millstream.

Once, he was a hero of the Queen's army.Now, he stands as one of the Warlock's generals-reborn in ruin.

The axe in his hands hums with corrupted life, dark veins threading through the blade like roots seeking blood. When he grins, his teeth catch the red light-jagged, feral. His eyes burn with a crimson fire that no mortal flame could ever birth.

"Well, well..." His voice grates through the mist, half laughter, half snarl. "The moon's little heir returns to play soldier."

I step forward, blade raised, the weight of it steady in my grasp. "Last time you ran," I say. "Let's see if you've learned to stay dead."

His laugh is a sound that shouldn't exist-metal dragging against bone, joy warped into something cruel."The Dark Warlock sends his regards."

The temperature drops. Frost begins to bloom along the haft of his weapon, crawling outward in delicate, deadly veins. The wind sharpens, slicing through armor and breath alike. Even the sea recoils-the waves drawing back from the shore as if the ocean itself remembers the horror of his name.

And then, beneath the fractured light of the twin moons, the world goes still.

Verris gleams white as glass above, serene and distant.
Sael burns low and red on the horizon, bleeding into the mist.Between their lights, the ruins of Sillia lie silent-waiting.

Ravensha's daggers glint like twin shards of night.
Flahera's bow is drawn, her gaze unflinching.Jack stands beside me, sword lifted, the sigil of Moonhaven flickering faintly over his heart.

The frost cracks beneath our boots.For one fragile heartbeat, nothing moves.

And then-everything does.

The roar shatters the stillness. The ground heaves. The dunes explode into shards of glass and firelight.

The battle for Sillia begins.

---

The air trembles before the first strike.

"Positions," I command, voice low enough to be swallowed by the wind.

Flahera moves before the echo fades. Her arrow whistles through the mist, clean and sure - it finds a throat before the enemy can even draw breath. The body falls soundlessly into the surf.

Ravensha slips past me like a wraith, twin daggers flashing once, twice, then vanishing into the fog.Jack plants his boots in the sand, shield raised, the sigil of Moonhaven gleaming faintly across his chestplate.

The corrupted soldiers charge. Black steel, black eyes, the Warlock's mark burning crimson in the fog.

The clang of metal splits the night.

I thrust my staff into the sand.
"Thgilnoom, tsrif dna enut!"

Moonlight answers.

A burst of silver erupts from the ground - blinding, pure - sweeping across the beach in a wave that makes the very air hum. The light sears through the Warlock's thralls, their armor melting, their screams dissolving beneath the brilliance of its radiance.

And through that storm of light, he comes.

The ground trembles. His axe cleaves through a fallen mast, splinters exploding into the night. I meet him halfway, my staff catching the strike with a shock that burns up my arms. Each impact sends ripples of force across the sand, each clash bright enough to make the horizon tremble.

Jack surges in beside me, raising his shield. Gregory's next blow shatters it like glass. The shockwave drives him to one knee.

Ravensha moves in from behind, daggers flashing in twin arcs - but Gregory twists with impossible speed, seizing her wrist mid-strike.

"Not fast enough," he snarls.

I react before I can think. Power surges up from the ground - wild, white, alive.

"Strength of my enemy - decrease!"

The runes along my staff ignite. White light lashes out, wrapping around Gregory like a snare. He roars, muscles locking, the corruption within him straining to break free.

For a heartbeat, I see it - dark veins crawling from him into me, threading up my arm like living ink. The burn is immediate. My pulse falters.

The moonlight flickers.

For one breath, the world dims to gray.

Then a streak of silver splits the fog - Flahera's arrow.

It strikes the Warlock's mark on Gregory's chest. The symbol flares - crimson, violet, white - and then bursts.

The explosion rips through the night. A scream - hollow, endless - rolls over the shore as darkness shatters, scattering into ash and smoke. The shockwave scatters what's left of the corrupted soldiers, their bodies dissolving before they hit the ground.

And then - quiet.

Only the tide remains, whispering against the sand as moonlight spills across the ruin. The wind sighs through the wreckage of the docks. Waves lap at the shore, dragging what's left of the battle - the blackened ash, the shattered glass - back into the sea.

Jack lowers his sword, shoulders rising and falling with each breath. Ravensha kneels beside him, blood streaking her sleeve but eyes sharp and steady. High above, Flahera stands silhouetted against the red moon, her bow lowered, the string trembling in the fading light.

I stare at the place where Gregory fell. Nothing remains - no bone, no steel. Only a smear of black glass fused into the sand, still faintly glowing, as though something inside it refuses to die.

The Warlock's magic lingers - a heartbeat in the earth, slow and patient.

I can feel it beneath my boots, pulsing through the ley lines like a sickness. It's weaker now, but alive. Always alive.

And as the twin moons hang heavy over the ruined coast, I feel it stir again - quiet, deliberate, inevitable.

The rot beneath the light.

Waiting for me.

---

The sea is still again.

Too still.

The wind has died, the waves retreating into a fragile hush. The shore smells of salt and smoke - of things half-alive and half-remembered.

We move among the wreckage, tending to the wounded, gathering what remains of the fallen. The sand is dark with ash, streaked silver where the moonlight touches it. The only sound is the soft creak of ruined boats shifting with the tide.

From the shallows, eyes watch us.

The surviving merfolk hover just below the surface - beautiful, wary, alien. Their scales shimmer faintly, catching what little light remains. One drifts closer, her hair trailing behind her like ink in water.

"You burn with both light and shadow," she says, her voice a ripple more felt than heard. "Be careful, Moonchild. The sea forgets nothing."

Before I can reply, she slips beneath the surface. Only a faint circle of ripples marks where she was.

Jack finds me staring after her. His armor is scuffed, one pauldron cracked, but his eyes hold that steady calm that never wavers.

"Milady?"

"Nothing," I murmur. "Just... listening."

We work until the moons sink low and the horizon bleeds with the first hint of dawn. Together, we help the survivors rebuild what little remains - propping fallen beams, re-lighting wardstones, whispering small prayers that the wind might carry home.

By the time I finally rest, the sea is quiet once more.

But the quiet feels wrong.

Beneath my skin, the magic hums - low, restless, alive. It pulses like a heartbeat that doesn't belong to me.

And in the distance, the waves begin to whisper.

-

Days later

We return to Moonhaven at dawn.

The city rises from the mist like a dream reborn - spires glimmering with dew, banners unfurling in the pale wind. The air smells of bread and iron and morning rain. Bells toll from the chapel towers, their notes rolling through streets that have not known joy in too long.

At the gates, the Queen waits.

Her silver crown catches the new light, scattering it into a thousand tiny stars. Behind her, the court stands in ceremonial silence, eyes bright with awe and relief.

"This victory," the Queen declares, her voice carrying over the gathered crowd, "belongs to Moonhaven - and to those who fight in its name."

She pauses, her gaze sweeping across the soldiers, the villagers, and finally, to me.

"Tonight," she says, "we feast."

The cheer that follows is like thunder.

The city awakens in full splendor - banners blooming with color against the white stone, ribbons unfurling from balconies, children racing through the streets with garlands of moonflowers. Musicians tune their strings, laughter spills from open windows, and for the first time in years, joy echoes through Moonhaven without fear.

Even the air feels lighter, as though the darkness itself has stepped back to breathe.

And yet, beneath the celebration, something in me remains still.

The light feels too bright.

The silence between the bells feels too long.

And the pulse in my chest - that foreign rhythm - does not stop.

--

The evening begins with opulence.

Moonhaven's great hall is transformed - chandeliers strung with crystal moonlight, banners of violet and white draping the marble pillars, and long tables heavy with silver platters and crystal goblets. The nobles of every province fill the chamber, their laughter echoing like music too practiced to be sincere.

I sit beside the Queen beneath the high dome of stained glass, its pattern tracing the story of the twin moons. Verris glows white above, Sael a faint red below - an omen, if one knows how to read it.

The court buzzes with talk of alliances and trade, of the victory at Sillia and whispers of the Warlock's retreat. But beneath the chatter, I feel the tension - the nobles' smiles a little too bright, their eyes flicking to me with both admiration and unease.

Flahera stands behind my chair, vigilant and unreadable. Jack laughs with a baron from the western coast, though his hand never leaves the hilt of his sword. Ravensha remains near the pillars, more shadow than courtier. We are the Queen's blades, but tonight, we are also her masks.

A lord with gold-stitched sleeves leans toward me. "Tell us, Princess, how fares the battlefront? Surely the Warlock's creatures cannot match Moonhaven steel."

I offer him a smile sharp as glass. "Creatures have many shapes, my lord. Some hide behind armor. Others behind words."

He flinches, the color draining from his face. The table laughs uneasily, and the Queen hides her amusement behind a sip of wine.

Politics - another kind of war. One I still haven't learned to enjoy.

---

Later, when the hall grows warm with laughter and the wine flows too freely, I slip away to the balcony for air. The music dulls behind the doors, replaced by the quiet breath of night. From here, I can see the whole city - its towers glowing faintly under the twin moons, the rivers reflecting ribbons of silver light.

The Queen joins me, her steps soft but sure. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

"Do you ever tire of their games?" she asks at last.

"Every night," I admit. "They celebrate victories they didn't earn and grieve losses they'll never understand."

Her eyes soften. "You speak like one twice your age."

"Maybe I am," I say quietly. "War doesn't count the years the same way peace does."

The Queen studies me, her expression unreadable. "Your power grows, Luna. Too quickly, perhaps. I see it in the way the runes react to you - they hum when you pass."

"Is that... bad?"

"It is dangerous," she answers. "Moonlight answers only those it trusts. If it begins to fear you, it will turn against you."

Her words sink into me like frost. "And if I begin to fear myself?"

"Then you must remember who you are," she says simply. "You are not his shadow. You are my heir. And one day, the moons will rise at your command - not to destroy, but to heal."

I look out at the horizon. "Sometimes I wonder if healing is even possible anymore."

She touches my arm gently. "It must be. Otherwise, all of this is for nothing."

-

When we return to the banquet, the night feels lighter - laughter louder, music faster, the scent of honey and spice thick in the air. Jack raises a toast with Ravensha; Flahera joins a group of elven envoys in song. For the first time in months, Moonhaven feels alive.

Then the music falters.

The candles flicker once... twice.

A faint hum ripples through the air - the sound of magic bending out of tune.

I glance toward the Queen. She frowns, setting her cup aside. Across the hall, I catch sight of my reflection in a goblet of wine - pale hair, violet streak catching the candlelight - and something else. A shimmer of black coiling beneath my skin, faint but real.

My heartbeat quickens.

I blink, and it's gone.

The Queen's voice cuts through the uneasy murmurs: "Luna. Are you well?"

"Yes," I manage, forcing steadiness. "Just the light."

But as the laughter resumes and the dancers spin once more, I can't shake the chill crawling up my spine. The air tastes wrong. The moons outside have shifted - Verris pale as bone, Sael burning crimson.

Something unseen watches from the dark between them.