He woke with a sharp gasp, chest heaving as his hand clutched his temple. The echo of the nightmare still throbbed in his mind, a lingering pulse of fear that crawled beneath his skin. Slowly, he focused on the ceiling above him, its familiar cracks and lines barely visible in the dim light. The shadows were where they should be. He was home.
A figure stood nearby, dressed in a brown suit, his posture relaxed and his expression calm in a way that felt almost unreal. It was his brother, Luchian Nox Pvolae.
Luchian was a painter. He did not earn much, yet he somehow managed to provide for both of them. Clyde had never questioned it aloud. They had no parents to rely on, or at least, that was what Luchian always said. It was a truth Clyde accepted, even if it never fully made sense to him.
"Did you have another nightmare?" Luchian asked softly.
Clyde nodded. The words refused to come, weighed down by images he could not name.
"I will be leaving for work," Luchian said, adjusting his coat.
"May the moon goddess bless you," Clyde replied quietly.
After Luchian left, Clyde dressed in his finest clothes. The fabric brushed against his skin, a reminder of a normal life he felt increasingly distant from. He stepped out into the streets of Porins, where damp stone and faint chimney smoke hung heavy in the air. Every step felt deliberate, cautious, as though the shadows themselves were watching him, waiting to drag the dream back into waking thought.
By the time he reached Cristae Academy, the unease had settled into a dull weight.
He no longer walked its halls as a student, but as a teacher. His income, four pounds a month, far exceeded Luchian's single pound, and the difference had reshaped his life in small but meaningful ways. He could afford fresh, warm bread instead of stale loaves. He could imagine, faintly, that if he saved enough, he and Luchian might one day own a proper home instead of renting the decaying one they lived in.
During one of his classes, Clyde overheard a student whispering about the fallen moon goddess.
The words struck him sharply, dragging his thoughts back to the nightmare. The blood-red moon. The countless eyes. The name that refused to fade.
"Noxella."
When lessons ended, Clyde went to the library. He told himself it was curiosity, but his heartbeat betrayed him, echoing too loudly with every step along the stone corridors.
He pushed open the doors, and a gentle hush of air washed over him. The scent of old pages and dust filled his lungs, tinged with something faintly metallic. The hall stretched impossibly high, walls of books rising beyond sight. Their spines were cracked with age, their stories waiting in silence. Dust drifted through the lamplight like slow-falling snow.
After signing the registry, Clyde walked deeper into the library, past countless shelves, until he reached its farthest corner.
There, hidden among broken volumes, he found a book titled The Cataclysm.
He opened it carefully.
The first page showed ancient humans kneeling beneath the moon. Their faces glowed with reverence as they reached toward a gentle figure depicted above them.
Noxella, the Moon Goddess.
The text described her as merciful and kind, a deity who loved humanity so deeply that she gifted them a single drop of her divine blood. That drop, the book claimed, could cure any illness, even those thought incurable. It could restore life where none should remain.
Clyde traced the illustration with his finger, imagining warmth, light, and compassion. It felt impossibly distant from the horror that haunted his sleep.
As he turned the pages, the tone shifted.
Humanity grew greedy. They took more than they were given. They hunted the goddess's blood, worshipping the miracle while forgetting its source. Fallen gods whispered into Noxella's ears, twisting her grief into rage. When she opened her eyes again, she no longer saw children in need, only thieves.
The Cataclysm followed.
Moonlight burned cities to ash. Civilizations vanished. An entire age was erased, leaving only whispers, ruins, and bloodstained history.
Clyde closed his eyes, the weight of it pressing down on him. The world he lived in was not shaped by chance or time, but by sorrow, betrayal, and divine wrath.
And somewhere within that truth, something was still watching.