The third night since Elder Draven had reopened the scroll was darker than most.Not because the moon was dimmer—no, it shone as endlessly as ever, swollen and silver—but because clouds of shadow drifted beneath it, veiling parts of the light. It gave the impression of an eye half-blinded, a gaze blinking.
The villagers muttered uneasily. Black Hollow did not know change well; the moon had always been constant.
Draven felt it too. His ember of cultivation pulsed, reacting to something outside the village. The air smelled faintly metallic, like iron blood.
He sat in his crooked house, Mira asleep in the corner, and listened. Every sound was sharp now: the shift of chickens in their coops, the clatter of a loose shutter, the steady breath of the girl. Beneath it all, a low vibration hummed, faint but undeniable. Something heavy moved beyond the forest's edge.
The ember flared, pulling at him like a tether.
So… it comes.
He rose slowly, picking up his cane. His body still protested, joints stiff, lungs weak, but the ember steadied him, lending weight to every step.
The first scream split the night.
By the time Draven reached the square, half the village was awake. Hunters rushed to the gate with spears, women herded children inside, torches flared against the dark.
The forest shifted. Branches broke with cracks like bones snapping. From the treeline, something emerged—something twisted.
It was shaped like a wolf, but wrong. Its body was stretched too long, ribs pushing against its skin. Its eyes glowed pale silver, and its mouth dripped thick saliva that hissed when it struck the ground. Worst of all, its back was marked by claw scars that pulsed faintly with light—as if the moon itself had written runes into its flesh.
The hunters froze. One whispered, "Moon-touched…"
The beast snarled. The sound rattled through the bones of all who heard.
Draven stood at the back of the crowd, leaning on his cane, eyes calm. Inside, his ember burned, whispering to be fed. He watched the beast, and for a brief instant, he did not see danger—he saw opportunity.
The wolf lunged.
Spears met it, but the creature swiped them aside with unnatural strength. One hunter was thrown into the dirt, ribs shattered by the force. Another fell screaming, arm caught in the beast's jaws.
Panic spread like fire.
Draven's cane tapped once. His voice carried, steady and commanding, though he did not shout.
"Hold the torches higher. Circle it. Do not scatter."
The villagers, desperate, obeyed. They formed a ring of fire, torches trembling in their hands. The beast snapped at the flames but hesitated to pass through them.
Draven stepped forward, his shadow stretching long in the moonlight. He looked frail—an old man leaning on wood—but his eyes were sharp, reflecting the silver glow of the beast's own gaze.
Inside, his ember pulsed. He could feel the lunar essence flooding from the creature, wild and unstable. To slay it would be dangerous. But to harness it…
He drew in a slow breath, subtle enough no one noticed, and let his body sip at the essence bleeding into the air. Pain lanced through his veins, but he welcomed it.
The beast snarled, sensing him. Its eyes locked on his, ignoring the torches. For a moment, the crowd thought it would leap upon the elder.
Instead, it froze.
Draven's lips curved faintly. His gaze held it, not with kindness but with quiet, predatory force.
Yes, he thought. Even beasts bow when they recognize what lies beneath.
A hunter lunged then, spearing the creature's flank. It howled, the spell broken, and chaos erupted again.
Draven did not move. He simply absorbed. Every spray of silver blood, every howl, every flare of moonlit essence spilled from the beast's wounds flowed into him, unseen by the others. His ember swelled, flaring brighter, though the pain nearly buckled his knees.
At last, with a dozen spears in its body, the wolf collapsed. Its silver eyes dimmed, its breaths rattled, then stilled.
The square fell silent but for sobs and the crackle of torches. Two hunters lay dead. Another groaned, bleeding heavily. The beast's corpse twitched faintly, silver ichor seeping into the dirt.
The villagers turned, eyes seeking the elder.
Draven stood at the edge of the firelight, cane in hand, calm as the moon.
"It is slain," he said simply. "But this is only the first."
Fear rippled through them. His words were not comfort—they were warning. But in their fear, they looked at him not with doubt, but with reverence. If the elder said so, then it must be true.
Draven watched them bow their heads, and behind his faint smile, the ember within him roared, stronger than before.
When the crowd dispersed and the dead were carried to the shrine, Draven lingered. He knelt by the beast's body, Mira beside him holding a lantern.
"Elder, what was it?" she whispered, voice trembling.
"Moon-touched," he answered softly. "A beast too long under the moon's eye. It changes them. Makes them servants of hunger."
Her eyes widened. "Will more come?"
"Yes."
She shivered, clutching the lantern tighter.
Draven studied the corpse. He reached out, fingers brushing the runes carved into its flesh. They were not natural. They pulsed faintly still, as though tied to something greater.
The ember inside him flared greedily. He pressed his palm against the wound. Mira looked away, thinking he prayed.
But he was feeding. The last threads of lunar essence clung to the beast, and he drew them in, ignoring the stinging pain as they scorched through his brittle veins. His ember swelled again, almost doubling. His body trembled with strain, but he forced the power to settle in his core.
When he pulled his hand back, his palm was seared with faint silver lines. He quickly covered them with his sleeve.
To Mira, he only gave a tired smile. "The moon watches. We must watch back."
The following days were restless. Hunters refused to go far into the woods. Women hung charms on every doorway. Children whispered about silver-eyed wolves in the dark.
But through the fear, one thing became clear: everyone looked to Draven. His calm words, his steady presence, his guidance—they clung to him as if he were the only anchor left.
And he used it.
He suggested patrols. He advised offerings at the shrine. He spoke of strengthening the village's defenses. Each measure, he shaped carefully, not only to protect them but to channel resources subtly into his hands: herbs, metals, even fragments of strange stones the hunters found.
Mira watched him with admiration. The villagers whispered blessings. And only the Nameless Beggar laughed.
He sat by the well, rocking back and forth, cackling whenever someone passed. "You bow to him, yes, yes, but do you see? Do you see his shadow? It's longer than the moon's! Ha!"
Few listened. Fewer dared.
But Draven, passing by, allowed the faintest curl of his lips.
The beggar saw too much—but sometimes it was useful to let a fool speak, so long as no one believed him.
That night, Draven climbed the hill again. The Observatory Ruins waited, silver light pooling in its cracks.
He sat among the stones, cross-legged, and let the ember flare. He guided the essence he had stolen from the beast, shaping it, hardening it. Pain wracked him, every vein screaming, but he endured. Always, he endured.
Hours passed. His body swayed. His breath slowed. And then—
The ember blazed.
It was no longer a flicker. It had grown, stabilizing, a small flame burning steadily in his core.
Draven opened his eyes. His vision was sharper. His limbs felt steadier. The wrinkles on his hands looked the same, but his strength was subtly deeper, his breath firmer.
The first step of the path had become a stride.
He was still frail, still dying. But no longer powerless.
He stood beneath the broken dome of the Observatory, gazing at the moon. It loomed vast above him, silver and silent.
For a moment, he felt as though it gazed back.
And in that silent communion, Elder Draven Noctis smiled.
"Yes… watch me. Watch closely. I will not fade quietly."
The ruins seemed to hum, faint and low, as if answering.
And far below, in the village, the corpse of the moon-touched beast twitched once more before finally rotting into silver ash.