The nights grew longer.
Not by hours, but by weight. Each evening, when the moon rose, the air pressed down heavier, the silence stretched further, and even the crickets seemed to hush their songs. Black Hollow lived by torches and fire, but no flame could push back the vastness of the silver glow.
Elder Draven Noctis moved slowly among his people. His cane tapped on the dirt, his breath was steady, his words always measured. To the villagers he was kindness and wisdom. To himself, he was a hunter casting nets in the dark.
The curse still marked him, silver veins crawling faintly beneath his skin, itching whenever the moonlight struck. He kept them hidden beneath long sleeves and careful posture. He told no one. Not yet.
But in secret, he began his work.
It started with Mira.
She was sixteen now, no longer the timid child who once clung to his robes. She had grown tall, her eyes bright, her hands steady. She worked harder than most, tending fires, carrying water, helping hunters with fletching. And she still looked at him with a mixture of devotion and fear, as though he were something more than mortal.
One evening, after the day's chores were done, Draven called her to his house.
She entered, wiping ash from her hands, and tilted her head. "Elder? Is something wrong?"
Draven's smile was warm, but his eyes were sharp. He motioned for her to sit.
"Wrong? No, child. But tell me… do you ever feel the moon watching you?"
Mira blinked. "Watching?"
"Yes." His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "When you sleep. When you walk home alone at night. Do you feel it? The pull?"
She hesitated. Her fingers tightened on her skirt. "…Sometimes."
Draven leaned closer, lowering his voice further. "That is not fear. That is strength. Few can sense it. Fewer still can endure it. Would you like to learn how to endure?"
Her eyes widened. Breath caught in her throat. Then, slowly, she nodded.
That night, Draven led Mira to the ruined Observatory. The broken stones glowed under the moonlight, shadows falling in strange patterns.
"Sit," he commanded.
She obeyed, though her hands trembled.
Draven placed before her a small bowl of water. He pricked his finger with a hidden knife, letting a drop of silver-laced blood fall into the bowl. The water shimmered, dark and strange.
"Look into it," he said.
Mira leaned over. Her reflection shimmered, twisted, fractured by silver lines. She gasped.
"Steady," Draven warned. "Breathe. Hold it. Let it pass through you."
At first she tried. She kept her gaze on the bowl, on the wrongness spreading across her reflection. But soon her body shook. Tears welled in her eyes. The silver lines seemed to crawl out of the water toward her skin.
"No more!" she cried, shoving the bowl away. Water splashed across the stone. She clutched her chest, breathing hard, eyes wild.
Draven studied her carefully. She had not fainted. She had not fled. She had broken—but not shattered.
"Good," he said softly. "That is enough."
Mira looked up at him, confused. "Good? I failed."
"You endured longer than most could," Draven replied, voice smooth. "And you lived. That is what matters."
In her eyes, he saw it: the first seed of reverence. She would not forget this night.
Mira was only the first.
Over the following weeks, Draven tested others, each in secret. A hunter named Garrick, whose anger was stronger than his fear. A widow named Selene, who carried bitterness like iron in her bones. Even young Bram, who had lost two brothers to the wolf pack.
Each was brought to the Observatory under one pretext or another. Each was shown the silver-tainted water. Each was commanded to endure.
Some lasted moments. Some screamed and fled. One fainted and did not wake until dawn, trembling and weeping.
Draven marked each result carefully. Strength, will, endurance, fear. He was not yet training them in cultivation—no, that would be foolish. The curse that gnawed at his body would devour them alive. But he could see who might serve, who might be sharpened into blades when the time came.
And the villagers never spoke of these tests. Out of fear, or shame, or devotion, they stayed silent. The secrecy bound them tighter than chains.
But not everyone was blind.
Kaelen Umbra, the scholar, watched.
The man spent his days scribbling in his journal, drawing maps of the forest, speaking politely to hunters about the strange beasts. Yet his eyes were too sharp, his questions too precise.
One afternoon, he approached Draven directly, bowing with careful respect.
"Elder Noctis," he said, "I must thank you for your hospitality. Your village is… unusual."
Draven's smile was mild. "Unusual?"
Kaelen's lips curved faintly. "The watchtowers. The discipline of your hunters. The reverence your people show you. For such a small place, you have built something rare."
Draven chuckled softly. "In troubled times, a village must be as stone, not sand. That is all."
"Perhaps," Kaelen said. He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "But tell me—do you not fear what you are building? Power invites eyes. And not all eyes are kind."
Draven's smile never wavered. "Fear is for those who have not lived as long as I."
Kaelen studied him for a long moment, then bowed again. "Forgive my impertinence. I speak only from concern."
Draven watched him walk away, thoughts moving like knives.
Scholar, hm? No. You smell of steel, not ink. I will learn what you truly seek.
The curse grew worse.
Each night when Draven tried to cultivate, the silver veins flared, burning like molten chains. His vision blurred, his breath faltered. The pull toward the moon grew stronger.
One night, he nearly collapsed entirely. His heart stopped for three breaths before lurching back to life. When he opened his eyes, he swore he saw the moon closer than ever—its surface scarred, cracked, as though straining against something unseen.
Seal, the whispers breathed in his mind. Prison. Watcher.
Draven laughed hoarsely. "If you are a prison, then I shall be your thief."
On the twenty-first night, betrayal came.
A boy, no more than twelve, stumbled into Draven's house, pale and shaking.
"E-Elder," he stammered. "I—I saw… Garrick. He—he told a stranger in the woods about you. About the water. About the moon."
Draven's hand stilled on his cane.
The boy wept, trembling. "I didn't know what to do. Please… don't be angry."
Draven stroked the boy's hair gently. "You did well to tell me, child. Very well."
When the boy left, Draven's smile faded. His eyes turned to the moon outside the window.
So. Already the seeds he had planted sprouted thorns.
And somewhere in the woods, a stranger now carried whispers of Black Hollow's secrets.
Draven tightened his grip on his cane. His veins burned silver in the moonlight.
"Very well," he whispered."If they wish to play with shadows—let us see who survives."