The blackwoods breathed like something alive.
Branches whispered in languages older than gods. Wind curled around trees like fingers. And somewhere within it all, a boy moved silently through the underbrush bow in hand, hood over silver eyes.
Riven.
Seventeen winters old. Raised in shadow. Taught to run before he could walk, to strike before he could speak. And even now, his heartbeat moved in rhythm with the forest.
Ahead, a deer stepped into the clearing. Alone. Unaware.
He inhaled.
Aimed.
Released.
The arrow flew swift and clean death wrapped in silence.
The deer fell.
He approached slowly, placing a hand on its flank as it stilled. He whispered something soft, in a tongue only he understood.
Not a prayer.
Not a thank you.
Just… goodbye.
Back at the hidden cottage, nestled between twisted roots and crumbling stone, the fire hissed low. Smoke curled toward the ceiling like spirits rising.
A hooded figure sat sharpening a blade beside it.
"You were followed," the swordmaster said.
Riven tossed something at his feet.
A single feather. Black. Curved.
The man stared at it for a long moment. "Crow feathers again."
"They're getting closer."
"We need to move soon."
"I know."
The forest groaned outside, as if listening.
That night, Riven climbed to the roof. He lay there in silence, staring at the sky.
And the stars... answered.
Not with words. Not like voices in his head. But with something deeper vibrations that hummed through his bones, like the earth itself was speaking.
He could never explain it.
He only knew one thing:
The stars were never this loud unless something was coming.
And deep in his chest, beneath skin and scar, the star-shaped mark began to burn.
Meanwhile, in the palace...
Lyra stumbled into her chamber, heart pounding. A candle flickered in her hand, wax dripping between her fingers. She slammed the door and bolted it shut.
She wasn't supposed to be in the war room. But something had pulled her there. A whisper. A weight.
And beneath the floorboard, hidden in dust and shadow, she found a letter.
Sealed with her father's crest.
Written in ink that hadn't faded.
"Find the Moonborn. He is the last key."
"If the red moon rises, the world will break. Do not trust the council. Do not trust the crown."
Her fingers trembled.
Moonborn? That was a myth. A curse told to scare children.
But something inside her deep and wild told her it wasn't just real…
It was waiting.
And somewhere, far from the palace walls,
A boy lay beneath the stars
And they were whispering his name.