Eduardo
Silvermoon keep
Silvercliff Hold,
Kingdom of Arcadia
Southern Continent
New World
April 19th 6415
We spent the rest of the day in the guest quarters the Lycans had given us, each of us retreating into the rooms reserved for our use. The hall smelled faintly of pinewood and smoke, the walls built of dark timber that carried the aura of wolf territory—strong, wild, untamed.
Lilith chose to share the same room with Ariella. She didn't explain why, and she didn't have to. I could see it in the way her eyes lingered on Ariella just a second longer, the subtle ease in her shoulders when they were near each other. A part of me understood the reason all too well, though the truth dug like a thorn beneath my skin. I forced myself not to let jealousy stain my thoughts. From the very beginning, I had known about the emotions shared between them—silent, unspoken, but present like a current running beneath the surface.
It was only a shame… that Lilith could not feel the same way toward me.
I closed my door quietly, shutting away the muffled sound of the others settling in, and sank into meditation. My breath evened out, and my awareness slipped inward, descending into the stillness of my soul realm.
The familiar sight greeted me—the cathedral's looming shadow, gothic arches climbing high into a sky of muted twilight. And behind the throne in the cathedral was the tree. Once withered and blackened, it had begun to change. Its bark still bore the char of darkness, but here and there, pale veins of light traced along its surface like faint constellations. New buds had sprouted along its branches, fragile but stubborn, pushing against the husk of decay.
One bud in particular had begun to swell, its tip loosening, petals trembling as though the soul of the tree itself struggled to be reborn. I stepped closer, feeling the pulse of energy thrumming through the roots, into the ground beneath my feet. The cathedral bells tolled faintly in the distance—an echo, not of sound, but of my soul resonating.
My heart stirred with anticipation. Just that single bud, on the verge of opening, was enough to make excitement coil hot and restless in my chest. For the first time in a long while, I felt the future holding promise.
When my eyes opened after the long stillness of meditation, the dim lantern-light of the guest quarters came back into focus. I let out a slow breath, then turned my gaze down to my right arm. The glove slid off with a practiced motion, revealing skin that should not have been whole.
The flesh was smooth now, pale under the light. Once, it had been a map of scars—an ugly lattice of burn marks and torn sinew that no salve or healer could mend. But after my return from death, the wounds had simply… vanished, erased as though they had never existed. I flexed my fingers, half-expecting the familiar stiffness or ache, but there was nothing. Just strength. Just silence.
And still, I pulled the glove back over it. The habit clung to me, even though the scars were gone. Maybe it was shame, maybe it was denial—or maybe I didn't want to forget what it once was. I didn't know.
Rising from the bed, I stretched the tension from my shoulders, then drew the enchanted firearms Greta had given me from the dimensional space where I kept them bound. The weight of them in my hands grounded me—solid, dependable, forged for survival.
I carried them to the desk by the wall, where a strip of moonlight cut across the wood. Laying the guns down, I began the ritual of disassembly: chamber, barrel, frame, each piece set with care. The oilcloth was ready, the brushes clean. My hands moved with mechanical precision, but my mind wandered as I studied the subtle gleam of the Resonance ammunition Greta had created.
The bullets hummed faintly with an inner vibration, attuned to the ebb of my mana. When I'd fired them against the Lunaris Wraithounds, I had felt the echo in my core—like my very spirit had reached into the shot. The mana hadn't just carried the round, it had become it, singing through the barrel with lethal harmony.
Now, as I held one between my fingers, I could feel that resonance again—stronger, steadier than before. My mana had sharpened, its density far greater than it had been. I knew why.
It was pain.
The memory of being torn down, of blood spilling, of my body breaking at the claws of the Lunaris. That agony had sunk deep, etched itself into the marrow of my being. Instead of fading, it had transmuted, burned into fuel. My near-death had forced my Divine protection to awaken further, absorbing pain as if it were nourishment.
I turned the bullet over slowly in my palm, the faint thrum of energy vibrating into my fingertips.
It seemed cruel, almost mocking—that every time I skirted death, every time my body or soul shattered, I rose stronger than before. But it was the truth. The more deaths I faced… the more powerful my Divine protection became.
After finishing the maintenance of my weapons, I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes, sending out my internal sense for a quick scan of the quarters. Normally, I would have felt the faint pulse of the others—small flickers of life-force and mana threads to mark where they were, what they were doing.
But all I met was resistance. A dense, rippling distortion pressed back against me, like waves breaking against stone. Right. I had forgotten. The castle walls were forged with Moonglass, the Lycan specialty. Its crystalline density bent perception, scattering spiritual senses until they became nothing but static. No wonder my probe couldn't even catch a whisper.
I let out a sigh, the weight of futility leaving me restless. My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to my family—and to what their plans might be in this place.
The Mircalla house and the Lycan race had a long history, and not one written in peace. Strain had woven itself into every chapter of our dealings, sharpened by betrayals, blood feuds, and events that were better left buried in the decades past. I tried not to dwell on it. Thinking about the past was like reopening wounds that never truly healed. But the thought came anyway, cutting through me like a blade.
Alejandro.
My brother.
Here in Arcadia, his absence hung like a shadow over everything I touched. Every hallway, every familiar scent of wolf and iron—it all reminded me he should have been here, and he wasn't. That silence, that hollow space where his presence ought to be, gnawed at me more than any Moonglass distortion ever could. It was alarming. And I hated how much it unsettled me.
I moved to the window, letting the cool draft brush against my face as I stared outside. The sky was a sheet of black, empty of stars. No constellations guided the night here—only a single colossal presence loomed above. The Moon. Its silver glow dominated everything, a vast block of radiant stone suspended in the heavens, heavy and eternal.
Its light spilled over the jagged ridges of the mountain where the palace had been carved, a spectral sheen running down its surface. The mountain itself was a wonder, a crescent-shaped ridge of pale stone that seemed to cradle the sky. Silverhold Cliff, they called it. A place of both legend and dread.
From this vantage, the veins of Moonstone woven through the rock caught the light and shimmered faintly, like strands of silver blood running through flesh. The effect made the whole mountain look alive, its surface pulsing with the moon's radiance.
The city that sprawled across it was no less uncanny. Towers rose like fangs from the stone, their walls dusted with lunar crystal that caught and bent the light into a pale shimmer. It was fortress and palace both—a citadel sculpted to endure, to watch, to endure siege after siege if it came to that.
And yet, what held me transfixed was not the architecture, nor the size, but the light itself. Here, the moon did not shine like in other lands. Its glow pressed down with unnatural intensity, draping Silverhold Cliff in a mantle of argent fire. Shadows cut deeper, whites gleamed sharper, and the night itself seemed to breathe silver.
For a moment, I wondered if it was the moon that ruled here, and we who merely borrowed its ground. But as I stood there, my gaze fixed on the heavens, I noticed it—the slow descent of the moon. Its massive presence lowered inch by inch, silver radiance dimming as if the world itself were exhaling. The glow bled across the ridges of Silverhold Cliff, then thinned, then finally slipped beneath the horizon.
Its disappearance was not like an ordinary nightfall. It was heavier, final, as though some great curtain had been pulled across the sky. That single motion signaled the shift—the end of what passed for daytime here.
This place knew no sun. No Dome blazing with daylight to mark the hours. Instead, the cycle was reversed: the presence of the moon defined "day," and when it sank away, eternal night revealed itself in full.
And yet… even with the moon gone, its dominion lingered. The light did not abandon the land. The veins of Moonstone within the mountain walls began to gleam more fiercely, as though they had drunk deep of the silver radiance and now released it back into the world. Silverhold Cliff itself became a colossal lantern, the pale stone casting its glow over towers and bridges, streets and ramparts.
The city shimmered in that ghostly illumination, every wall outlined in argent fire. Even the shadows carried a faint sheen, as if soaked in silver. It was eerie, almost unreal—the way the mountain itself became the moon's proxy, keeping the darkness at bay. I realized then that in Arcadia, the moon never truly left. It only changed its vessel.
****
The next morning, we were led through the echoing corridors of Silverhold toward the palace dining hall. The air was cool, carrying the faint metallic tang of Moonstone that seemed to seep from the very walls.
When the doors swung open, the hall revealed itself in silver splendor. Tall banners of the Sterling house draped from the rafters, each embroidered with the crest of the crescent moon and wolf's fang, their threads catching the light so they shimmered faintly as if alive. The long table in the center gleamed under chandeliers of crystal, already laden with dishes that sent waves of fragrance through the air—roasted meats seasoned with herbs, bowls of fresh fruit that glistened like jewels, and dark breads steaming as if they had only just been pulled from the oven. The scents mingled, rich and intoxicating, making my stomach tighten with hunger despite myself.
Fortunately, the room was not crowded. Only a handful of servers moved silently about, their silver-trimmed uniforms glinting as they placed goblets and platters with practiced ease. Their movements were precise, almost ritualistic, as though serving at this table demanded the discipline of a ceremony.
At the far end of the table sat the King. His posture alone commanded the hall—broad shoulders straight, hands resting with measured calm against the carved arms of his chair. His gaze was steady, sharp, the weight of authority rolling from him like the pressure of the moonlight outside.
Two of the princes were already present. Prince Gawain, the Crown Prince, sat nearest to him. His resemblance to the King was undeniable: the same strong jaw, the same piercing silver eyes, though sharpened by youth and ambition. He leaned slightly toward his father, speaking in low, clipped tones that carried the edge of strategy rather than idle conversation.
The moment we entered, both sets of eyes—King and Crown Prince alike—turned toward us. The shift of their attention was subtle but heavy, like the turning of a tide.
Prince Erik was the first to acknowledge us, rising slightly from his seat with a courteous smile. It was a warm expression on the surface, but I knew better. His eyes held the glint of restraint, the kind reserved for someone tolerating an unwelcome guest. That friendliness was a mask, and I could feel the edge beneath it.
"I take it your night was refreshing," the King said, his voice deep and measured. The words rolled across the hall like a command disguised as courtesy.
We moved to our seats, the scrape of chairs echoing against the vaulted ceiling. Lilith sat beside me, her gaze briefly drifting toward the silver banners before turning back to the King.
"I'm surprised I managed to sleep at all," she said, her tone polite but carrying a hint of honesty. "The rhythm of this land is… very different compared to Ashtarium."
She wasn't wrong. Here, time did not follow the simple dance of sunrise and sunset. In Ashtarium, light and dark were measured by the Dome's cycle—a clear boundary that separated day from night. But in Arcadia, the moon reigned supreme. When it hung above the mountains, its silver glow signified what they called 'day.' When it descended, the true night began, thick and eternal.
That meant our sense of hours was already unmoored. A single evening here could stretch like two in Ashtarium, and what felt like morning to us might still be considered the latter half of the night to them. Even the body struggled against it, caught between familiarity and the pull of Arcadia's unnatural cycle.
I noticed Lilith rub the corner of her eye, still heavy with the weight of that strange fatigue, though her voice gave none of it away. The moonlight that spilled through the crystalline windows seemed to glare brighter in response, as if reminding us that we were no longer under the artificial sun's dominion.
"Well, I'm sure with some breakfast, you should be revitalized," King Alexander said, his tone carrying the weight of authority even in something as simple as hospitality.
"Thank you very much, your Highness," Ella replied softly, her hands folded neatly in her lap before she reached for the goblet set before her.
But before anyone could lift a fork, the calm was fractured. Muffled shouting bled through the heavy doors of the dining hall, followed by the clatter of armored boots and a swell of voices rising in agitation. The sound was familiar to me—not the words themselves, but the cadence, the sharpness of command mixed with protest. My ears sharpened, body tensing before I even realized it.
The King exhaled slowly, as though the disturbance were less surprising than it was inevitable. His gaze turned toward the doors, lined with silver filigree, and for a moment his expression hardened with something between irritation and resignation.
"It seems your sister has caught on," he said at last, his voice steady, though the flicker in his eyes betrayed annoyance.
"I'll go and calm her down," Prince Erik offered quickly, already pushing back his chair. The scrape of wood against stone echoed through the hall.
As he straightened, his gaze slid toward me. Not a casual glance, but sharp, deliberate—an unspoken warning carried in the subtle narrowing of his eyes. His polite mask from earlier cracked just enough for me to see the steel beneath. I held his look, unflinching, the silence between us as loud as the commotion outside. Then he turned, cloak flaring behind him as he strode toward the doors.
Beside me, Lilith shifted ever so slightly, her sharp eyes catching the exchange. She said nothing, though the faint crease of her brow told me she hadn't missed the current of tension running beneath the surface. The meal resumed after a beat, though the weight of that unspoken clash lingered in the air like a second presence at the table.
With time, the noises from outside began to fade—first the muffled shouts, then the sharp rhythm of boots against stone. Soon, silence settled over the hall once more, the commotion as if it had never been. Conversation and cutlery filled the gap, the air heavy with the scents of roasted meat and spiced bread.
As we ate, I noticed the King's gaze shift down the table. His eyes, sharp and searching, lingered on Ben with a kind of calculating curiosity. It wasn't the casual glance of a ruler at his guest; it was the look of a man dissecting, measuring, as if searching for something familiar hidden beneath the surface.
"You are a Chimera, aren't you?" King Alexander said at last, his voice low but cutting enough to still the room.
The effect was immediate. Forks paused midair. All eyes turned to Ben. Confusion flickered across faces, a ripple of unease traveling around the table. Chimera was not a word used lightly.
They were spoken of as the tenth Manaborn race—born from the mingling of two or more Manaborn bloodlines until something altogether different emerged. Not human, not purely of one lineage, but something new. Unpredictable. Rare.
Ben set his utensils down carefully, his jaw tightening for a brief moment before he inclined his head. "Yes, Your Highness." His tone was steady, but the weight of the room pressed on him all the same.
The King hummed, the sound thoughtful, as if his suspicion had been confirmed. "Hmm. The Navajo tribe, from Thornhill, if I'm not mistaken. The Werefolk tribe." His silver eyes never left Ben, watching for the smallest flicker of denial.
Lilith's brow furrowed, her gaze snapping toward Ben. "Wait… Ben is a Lycan?" The disbelief in her voice was clear, a note of surprise cutting through the silence.
The King answered for him. "Yes. But only half."
His words carried no judgment, only fact—but their weight hung in the air, thick and unyielding. Half-Lycan. Half something else.
Ben said nothing, but his shoulders squared subtly, as though bracing against invisible pressure.
"Your Lycan bloodline hasn't fully manifested yet," King Alexander said, his voice calm but observant, like a physician stating a diagnosis. "You've yet to unlock the Lycan Physique as well."
Ben froze for a second. His fork hovered above his plate before he slowly lowered it. "I haven't," he admitted, eyes focused on a spot somewhere beyond the table.
"Wait... but we've seen you transform," Lilith interjected, brows knitting together in confusion.
"The Navajo tribe..." Ella's voice trailed off as realization dawned in her eyes. "Then it wasn't Lycanthropy—it was shapeshifting magic, wasn't it?"
Ben stiffened. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he didn't meet anyone's gaze. That reaction said more than words. He looked like someone who didn't want to peel back that part of himself—who had carried the truth in silence for too long.
King Alexander noticed. He studied Ben like a wolf circling a puzzle, tone still smooth, but eyes too sharp. "Are you interested in unlocking it?"
"I..." Ben hesitated, his voice faltering. The question clearly rattled him. Uncertainty flooded his expression—eyebrows drawn together, mouth slightly open, shoulders tensed. It was the look of someone teetering between two worlds, not sure which one would demand the greater price.
The King gave a dry chuckle, more thoughtful than mocking. "I suppose you're still clinging to the old tale—the belief that the only way to awaken the Lycan Physique is through violence. Through the hunt."
A hush fell over the table.
"Yes, traditionally, it involves the act of killing and devouring the heart of your prey," the King continued, his tone neutral, though the imagery hung thick in the air. "It's a primal rite, one older than Arcadia itself. But that is not the only path."
Ben's eyes lifted, uncertain but drawn. "There's another way?"
King Alexander nodded once. "A Moonstone."
"A Moonstone?" Ben echoed, the word barely above a whisper.
The King leaned back slightly, as if concluding one matter and preparing for another. His gaze slid down the table until it landed on Lilith.
"And now, to you, Miss Kain," he said, the air shifting again. "I've made my decision regarding the incident at Arcas Forest."
Lilith straightened, but said nothing.
"Every full moon, once in a year," the King continued, "the nation of Arcadia hosts a martial tournament. A sacred rite of strength and honor, held under the Silver Eclipse. It is our way of honoring the constellation of Lupus, the Celestial Wolf—and the Moon Wolf Goddess, Lykiaos."
His voice was ceremonial now, as though reciting scripture.
"And I have decided that you will compete," King Alexander declared.
He stood with regal finality, the silvery light from the high windows casting sharp edges across his armor and wolf-cloak. His eyes swept across the room, heavy with judgment, pausing on each of us as if to imprint the decree in stone.
"If you win," he continued, "your freedom is ensured. But if you lose... You will fall under servitude to the Moon Church."
With that, he turned and exited the hall, his footsteps echoing behind him like the toll of a distant bell. No discussion. No chance for rebuttal. Just a royal decree hanging over us like a blade suspended by a thread.
Lilith's jaw clenched, her eyes narrowing as a low, audible growl vibrated in her throat. There was a wild gleam in her eyes, the kind that said she was half a breath away from storming after him. But before she could move, Ariella gently placed a hand over hers. The touch was quiet but grounding. It pulled the tension from Lilith's shoulders like a pressure valve releasing steam. She didn't speak, but the fury in her eyes simmered instead of boiled.
A polite cough broke the silence.
Prince Gawain, still seated at the far end of the table, cleared his throat. "Well," he said, drumming his fingers thoughtfully against the polished surface. "It's been an interesting breakfast."
He rose from his seat with grace, his cloak folding around him like a shadow. "Since you are now official guests of the Sterling Court, you are free to explore the palace grounds, tour the city below, and prepare for the tournament. It will take place this coming weekend beneath the Silver Eclipse. I'll have someone assigned to guide you to the ceremonial grounds."
He gave a shallow bow, more ceremonial than sincere, and then strode out of the room, leaving behind the tension, the questions, and the weight of the King's ultimatum.
The silence he left was shattered by Lilith, who spun toward Ben, her voice sharp.
"You're a Chimera?"
Ben winced, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't really like that term," he said quietly. "But… yes. I'm part Lycan."
He exhaled through his nose and looked away, almost ashamed. "My mother was part of the Navajo tribe. We're shapeshifters. Spirit mediums who can commune with nature and the moon's flow. But I left that life. I wanted something else. I became a Dungeon raider."
He looked back at us, guilt in his eyes. "I'm sorry for keeping it from you all."
"No," Ariella said softly, her expression warm. "You don't have to apologize. You had your reasons. I know I did… when I hid the truth about my identity."
Ben chuckled, a bit of his usual grin returning. "Oh, yes. You definitely did that."
A small laugh passed between them, brief but genuine.
Greta, who had been quiet until now, folded her arms and spoke with her usual gravitas. "So. About this tournament. We need to take this seriously. The Lycans don't throw punches for show. I've witnessed this event before—it's not some fairground spectacle. It's sacred."
Lilith crossed her arms. "We're not seriously considering this, right? That tone the King used—"
"Lilith," I interrupted, "this is serious. I've attended one of the Grand Tournaments before—decades ago. It's not just tradition; it's a pillar of their culture. Refusing would be seen as disrespect. And we cannot afford to insult the Emperor."
"I'm not some showpiece," Lilith snapped, rising halfway from her chair. "I won't be paraded around like a beast in a pit for others to gawk at."
"You won't be," Greta said firmly. "Because the Grand Tournament is not just a spectacle—it's a ritual."
She stepped closer, her eyes locking onto Lilith's. "It's a rite of combat and spirit. A way to honor the Moon Goddess Lykiaos, reaffirm the Emperor's divine authority, and decide future leaders, priests, and champions of Arcadia. For many noble houses, it's a trial of succession. For others, it's a chance to be recognized. And for you…"
She paused, her gaze softening.
"It's a chance to choose your fate on your own terms."