🌕 Moonblood: The Curse of Arodan
Chapter Seventeen: 17
Draven sat still as stone at the banquet table.
Before him, silver plates filled with red fruit, meat carved into perfect spirals, and a wine so black it shone blue.
But no one was eating.
Not even the Hollow Duke.
"You dream of her, don't you?" the Duke asked softly. "The girl with moon-eyes. Syrien."
Draven said nothing.
The Duke chuckled. "She used to live here, you know. In the mirror wing. Her cries still echo through the halls… if you know how to listen."
Callen stood.
"We should go."
But the doors had closed behind them.
No guards moved.
No guests blinked.
It was as if time had stopped.
Elira's hand moved beneath the table.
She was drawing a symbol in ash across her thigh. Old magic. Dangerous magic.
"Draven," she whispered, "hold on to something real."
He barely had time to reach for Callen's wrist before Elira slammed her hand to the floor and whispered a word in a language the wind had forgotten.
"Kytheren."
The spell shattered the air.
The room ripped in half.
Reality fractured like broken glass. Walls bent sideways. Light twisted. The ceiling split open into stars.
And the mirrors lining the hall sucked them inward—not physically, but spiritually.
One moment Draven held Callen's arm.
The next—he was alone.
In a world of mirrors.
He stood in a wide white hallway that stretched forever, lined with glass on every side. But the glass didn't reflect his face.
It reflected other versions of him.
One burned.
One bled.
One wore a crown.
One wore chains.
And ahead… a girl.
She stood barefoot, wrapped in white cloth, her eyes glowing silver. She held a black blade in one hand and a mirror shard in the other.
"You found me," she said.
Draven stepped forward.
"You're Syrien."
She nodded. "The last name. The bound flame."
He noticed her wrists were wrapped in silver threads that moved like snakes.
"Why are you here?"
"I bound myself to the prophecy," she said. "To keep it from breaking. To keep the Queen from becoming more than mortal."
She raised the blade.
"Only one of you can carry me forward."
Meanwhile, Callen awoke in darkness.
He was in a black hallway, where the mirrors reflected only Draven.
Over and over again.
Draven's face.
Draven's voice.
Draven's fire.
And in the stillness, a voice spoke—not Syrien's, but older. Colder.
"You are the shadow of the prophecy," it whispered.
"You were never meant to carry the name."
But Callen gritted his teeth. "Then I'll rewrite it."
The crescent on his chest blazed, and the mirrors cracked.
Back in the white corridor, Draven stepped closer to Syrien.
"I need your help," he said.
"You'll have it," she replied. "But know this, Draven—once my name binds to you, the Queen will feel it. She will know. And she will release what even she fears."
Draven nodded. "Then let her come."
Syrien smiled sadly.
"You're braver than most. But bravery won't save you."
She stepped forward and placed the mirror shard into his hand.
It cut him.
But the blood glowed silver.
And the name whispered itself into his heart:
Syrien
Third of three.
Bound in silence.
Unbroken flame.
In the real world, the banquet hall shook.
Mirrors exploded outward. Wind howled.
And in the flash of moonlight, all three of them—Draven, Callen, and Elira—were thrown back into reality.
They hit the ground hard as the Hollow Duke screamed.
"You've awakened her!"
He raised his hand—
But Draven was already on his feet, locket glowing with all three names now.
Arilyn. Kaelen. Syrien.
The prophecy was whole.
Draven stepped forward.
And the Hollow Duke took one look at his eyes and ran.