Chapter 18: B1Ch17-Rest, My Little Moon

The wind carried a briny sting as the vessel carved its way across the dark waters, its sails full and strained against the rising gusts. Salt clung to the air like a second skin. Foam curled along the edges of the wooden hull, hissing quietly before slipping back into the sea’s gray maw. Krysthalia stood near the prow, her cloak drawn tight against the morning chill. The world was subdued in the dim pre-dawn light — waves glinted like dull glass, and the horizon was painted in muted hues of ash and silver. Far ahead, the rugged coast of Greyclaw came into view: jagged cliffs veined with pale roots, rising like ancient, broken teeth from the sea. Cael leaned against the railing just behind her, arms crossed, eyes sharp beneath his tangled dark hair. He had remained mostly silent during the voyage, speaking only when necessary, watchful, respectful, but always scanning.

“You’ve been quiet,” Krysthalia said without turning, her voice barely louder than the wind.

“I’m not used to ships,” Cael replied. “Or open air, if I’m being honest.”

She let out a faint hum of acknowledgement, gaze fixed forward. “Greyclaw’s coastal path isn’t always kind. The sea tests all who come to her — but it’s the land that bites harder.”

Cael’s brow lifted slightly, unsure if it was a warning or simple wisdom. “And yet you return to it.”

“It’s home,” she said, soft, almost wistful.

A gull cried overhead. The silence that followed was not awkward, but contemplative. And then Cael straightened, squinting out to sea.

“There,” he said, pointing with a gloved hand.

Krysthalia’s gaze followed. A small island lay just to the north of their course — a dark humped shape that should have faded into the background. But from its center rose a thick plume of smoke, curling like a signal into the pale sky.

“It wasn’t burning yesterday,” Cael added, his voice sharpened by tension.

Krysthalia narrowed her eyes, expression tightening. “No. It wasn’t.”

The helmsman turned to her, awaiting instruction, but Krysthalia gave none. She stared at the island a moment longer, jaw clenched.

“Keep course,” she said finally. “We’ll send a scout wing once we make landfall.”

Cael hesitated, but said nothing. Still, his hand lingered near the hilt at his side. Krysthalia watched the smoke trail until it bent with the wind, its presence lingering like a bad omen.

Cael’s voice broke the silence again. “You think it’s them?”

She didn’t need to ask who he meant. “The Hollow Vows?”

He nodded.

Krysthalia’s eyes remained locked on the island. “I don’t know. But they’re moving again. The attack on the summit proved that much.”

Cael exhaled through his nose, gaze dark. “They don’t do things halfway. If it’s them, it’s not a signal. It’s a grave marker.”

She turned then, fixing him with a measured stare. “You said you’d tell me everything.”

“I meant it,” Cael replied. “But knowing and understanding aren’t the same.”

“Then start with what you understand.”

He leaned heavier on the railing, voice quiet. “The Hollow Vows don’t have one face. There are cells, factions. Each with their own purpose. Most of them don’t even know who gives the orders. They just follow the next glyph. That’s how they keep us obedient. Obedience, repetition, pain. Then… carving.”

Krysthalia’s jaw flexed. “And Ashanti?”

He paused. “She was an anomaly. Too strong, too fast, too quiet. Most break early. She didn’t. Not even after the first carving turned her silver hair black.” His tone dipped. “Some of them feared her. Not openly. But I saw it. She was something they didn’t understand.”

“She is still my little moon,” Krysthalia murmured, gaze distant.

Cael hesitated. “You call her that?”

“Ashanti,” she said, the name firm and full of weight. “That is who she is. Not a number. Not a title. Not what they made her into.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Right.”

The wind pressed against the ship, the scent of sea salt curling through the tension.

“So… Marrowvale,” Cael said, shifting topics. “What am I walking into?”

Krysthalia arched a brow. “Afraid?”

“Prepared,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

She allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch — not quite a smile, but close. “Marrowvale is Greyclaw’s oldest stronghold, buried into the cliffs. Old stone. Older oaths. You’ll find fewer smiles there than even on this ship. But it’s secure. Safe.”

“For her?”

“For now,” Krysthalia said. “And for you, so long as you behave.”

Cael tilted his head, half-curious. “You think I’m still dangerous?”

“I think you’ve been raised by wolves who wear skin like masks,” she said coolly. “That doesn’t wash off easily.”

“Fair,” he murmured.

He looked out toward the drifting plume in the distance.

“You ever wonder what it would’ve been like?” he asked. “If things had gone differently?”

Krysthalia didn’t look at him. “I don’t make room for what-ifs. I only deal in what’s ahead.”

“Right. Warrior queen and all that,” he muttered.

He was quiet for a moment longer, then added, almost too softly to catch, “But just so you know… I would’ve followed Ashanti either way.”

Krysthalia said nothing, but her grip on the rail tightened. Cael shifted, his fingers brushing the torn edge of his sleeve. The black fabric was frayed near the shoulder, stained with soot and blood. A rip curled down one side of his tunic, exposing half-healed sigils carved long ago — scars etched with meaning only the Hollow Vows understood.

Krysthalia’s gaze dropped to the tattered cloth, then rose again to meet his eyes. “That outfit’s seen too many ghosts.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Subtle way of saying I look like hell.”

“You do,” she said bluntly. “And if you’re to stay by Ashanti’s side, you won’t wear the past like a badge.”

He glanced down, considering her words. “Not sure your tailors have anything in stock for a Hollow Vows stray.”

“We’ll find something,” she said. “You won’t be paraded through Marrowvale like a prisoner. Not if you’re loyal.”

He didn’t speak for a beat. Then: “I am.”

Krysthalia studied him. Not with suspicion, not anymore — but with something closer to measured respect.

“You stood between her and death,” she said. “Twice, if the reports are accurate. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”

“I wasn’t trying to be noticed,” Cael replied. “I was trying to keep her breathing.”

Krysthalia inclined her head. “Then, see you keep doing that.”

A silence fell between them — not hostile, but thoughtful. The sea wind picked up, cool and sharp.

Then Krysthalia turned to go. “Get cleaned up. You’ll be given new garments once we arrive. You are not a prisoner of Greyclaw.”

Cael blinked. “...And not quite a guest either, I suppose?”

“No,” she said without turning. “You’re something rarer.”

He frowned. “What’s that?”

Krysthalia paused at the stairwell, glancing over her shoulder.

“Trusted.”

And with that, she descended into the ship’s lower decks, leaving Cael alone with the sea wind and the slow-burning warmth of something he hadn’t felt in years. Hope.

***

The ship groaned as it docked, hull rocking gently against the wooden pylons of Caervallin, Greyclaw’s southeastern port and the closest tether to the inland capital of Marrowvale. The scent of brine and wet stone rolled in on the wind, mingling with the sharper tang of tar, fish, and coal smoke. Cael stepped onto the gangplank with stiff legs, the sun slanting just over the early morning mist. Merchants barked over crates, gulls wheeled above, and the city stirred like a half-woken beast. Everything felt louder here than the sea, grounded, real, and inescapably alive. The dockmaster was waiting, bowing low when Krysthalia descended. She carried Ashanti in her arms — pale, unmoving, her silver hair cascading over the queen’s pauldrons like falling light. No one dared to stop her. Cael trailed behind, uncertain of his place among soldiers and servants. His boots thudded against the planks, drawing the occasional glance, not all friendly. The black outfit he wore, still torn and stained from the summit, made him stand out more than he liked.

Stolen novel; please report.

At the edge of the dock, a Greyclaw steward with neat braids and a ledger stepped forward, offering Krysthalia a respectful nod. “The carriages are prepared, Your Majesty. Your rooms are readied at the Rivenhall en route to the capital. Shall I arrange for the envoy’s prisoner to be escorted?”

“He’s not a prisoner,” Krysthalia said, not slowing her pace. “He’s with us.”

The steward faltered, then bowed lower. “Of course.”

Cael blinked. That word again. With.

Not against. Not under.

With.

As Krysthalia moved toward the carriages, a junior attendant stepped into Cael’s path, holding a bundle of neatly folded garments — dark gray travel robes with Greyclaw’s crest stitched in muted silver thread. “Your clothes, sir. Her Majesty’s request.”

Cael took them slowly, fingers brushing the soft, clean linen. He hadn’t worn anything this new in… ever. He opened his mouth to say something — a joke maybe — but stopped. His gaze had landed on Ashanti again. She was nestled in Krysthalia’s arms, head resting lightly against the queen’s shoulder. Her expression was peaceful, almost too still. The rise and fall of her chest was there, but so faint that each breath felt like a prayer answered. She looked like a story trapped between turning pages. As if the wrong breeze might scatter her away.

Krysthalia turned her head as they reached the first carriage. “You’ve been quiet.”

Cael looked up. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You can speak. You’re not a ghost.”

He hesitated, then asked, “Has there been any change?”

Krysthalia’s grip tightened slightly around Ashanti. “No. Still no signs of waking.”

“She…” Cael cleared his throat. “Is she dreaming, do you think?”

A long pause. Then: “If she is, I hope it’s kinder than what she left behind.”

She stepped into the carriage, laying Ashanti gently on the cushioned bench before sitting beside her.

Cael lingered outside the door.

“When…” he started, then stopped himself. “When do you think she’ll wake?”

Krysthalia looked at him. Her eyes — sharp, regal, and lined with something much older than grief — didn’t flinch.

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “But when she does, I intend to be here. And I expect you to be as well.”

Cael nodded, swallowing the knot in his throat. “Always.”

She held his gaze a moment longer, then looked down at her daughter, brushing a strand of silver from Ashanti’s brow.

“Then get in. We have miles to go.”

***

The road to Marrowvale curved through lowlands of ochre and gold, past wind-brushed meadows and stone-walled farms slumbering beneath the weight of late autumn. As the sun dipped low, staining the sky in copper and mauve, their convoy veered toward a secluded rise where the manor-inn of Rivenhall waited. It was a Greyclaw waystation — not for nobles or royalty, but trusted military captains and honored guests. Solid stone walls, ivy-wrapped pillars, and hearthlight flickering behind tall glass windows. It smelled of pine smoke and baked bread long before they reached the courtyard. They were met with reverence but not ceremony. The queen’s presence silenced any questions. Ashanti was carried in without a word, attended to by a pair of discreet healers. Cael was left standing in the hall, fingers tightening over his new sleeves, unsure what to do with clean clothes and no chains. An attendant led him to his room without so much as a scoff or sideways glance. The door closed behind him with a soft click. Silence. Cael turned in a slow circle, staring at the modest chamber. A single bed — wide enough for one — neatly made. Woolen sheets. A carved chest at the foot. A small basin of warm water. And on the bedside table… a plate of food. Hot. Fresh. Stew, thick with meat and root vegetables. A cut of seasoned bread. Even a small bottle of pale wine with a carved cork. Nothing extravagant. But it might as well have been a banquet. Cael sat slowly on the edge of the mattress, bouncing once, then again, just to be sure. No straw. No stone. Just warmth. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the bread. It broke with a soft crackle. The scent made his stomach clench like it hadn’t known hunger until now. He ate in silence, slowly at first, then with mounting hunger. And when he finished, every bite, every drop, he leaned back on the bed, sinking into the wool and down like a man falling into a dream. No metal shackles. No alarms. No orders.Just… quiet.

His gaze drifted to the ceiling. Timber beams overhead. No glyphs. No hooks. No echoing screams. Just the creak of settling wood and the distant whisper of wind beyond shuttered windows. It was too much. Too strange. But not unwelcome. He turned to his side, tucking the pillow under his arm. His thoughts returned — as they always did — to her. Ashanti. Not Shade. Not the girl of black hair and silent pain. But the silver thread in the storm. The one whose light still echoed behind his eyes. He’d die for her without hesitation. But here, in this strange calm, he allowed himself something rarer. He allowed himself to live. Even if only for the night.

Morning filtered gently through the curtains of Ashanti’s chamber. The hearth’s glow cast a soft warmth over the room, flickering across stone walls and polished wood. Ashanti lay still, unmoving beneath layered blankets, her breaths slow and even. Her hair, black as the void, framed her face like a shadow, and her fur, once silver, now matched in hue. The silver had only returned during the incident — a fleeting, terrible moment of power that had left them all in awe. But now, her body had quieted. Krysthalia sat at her bedside, posture sharp but eyes weary. She hadn’t left the room except to pace. One gloved hand occasionally brushed strands from Ashanti’s brow, a quiet habit that betrayed the tension she held in her spine. A knock came.

“Enter,” she said without looking.

Cael stepped inside. His new clothes — dark linen and clean wool — fit better than the worn garb he had arrived in. Still modest, but presentable. He carried a tray: two bowls, two cups of steam-touched tea, and a plate of dark bread with berry preserves. He moved quietly. Set the tray down. Hesitated.

“Sit,” Krysthalia said, gesturing to the nearby chair.

They ate in silence. The clink of spoons, the low crackle of firewood, the occasional creak of the wind outside — it was almost peaceful. Almost.

Krysthalia finally broke the quiet. “The Hollow Vows. Tell me everything you know.”

Cael set his spoon down. His gaze shifted to Ashanti for a moment, not pitying, not worshipful. Simply present.

“I’ll tell you what I can,” he said. “But I was never one of the Shadows or the Hounds. I got most of this from overhearing Hounds. Maybe I asked a question on a good day, and it’s answered as I was beaten. I didn’t see the full map.”

She didn’t interrupt.

He continued, “There’s one beneath Containe. That was my origin. Old catacombs from a forgotten era. The foundation is cracked — built on bones.”

He sipped his tea.

“There’s another in the Hollow Zone. South of the Flats, near the sulfur springs. The place stinks of burnt stone. The halls were... alive. Or felt that way. The deeper you went, the more you forgot who you were.”

Krysthalia remained expressionless, but her fingers tensed slightly.

Cael leaned forward, elbows on knees. “One in Velarun lands. Hidden in the pine-cloaks near Windscar. Snow drowns the scent of blood. That one was quiet. Too quiet. They trained whisperers there — illusionists, infiltrators.”

“Anywhere else of note?” she asked.

He nodded. “A moving outpost in the marshlands. Once a monastery. Now it floats like a rotted vessel through the mire. Covered in spell-woven tarps. It can vanish beneath the water with a single breath.”

Her gaze drifted to Ashanti again.

“She fought alone in that world. With no name.”

Cael swallowed. “Her hair was silver once. When they first dragged her in. A moon-glow in that pit of black stone.”

His tone changed. “After the first carving — the crystal embedding — it turned black. Darker than the shadows. I remember... I felt something twist when I saw it. Like something sacred had been sullied.”

“She still bears it,” Krysthalia said quietly. “Black fur. Black hair. Until the summit.”

He nodded. “That wasn’t her Hollow Vows training. That light— That wasn’t ours. We carved her. Branded her. Broke her. But we didn’t give her that.”

Krysthalia stood and moved to pour another cup of tea.

“When she awoke, she burned the dark away,” Cael said softly. “Just for a moment. The silver came back.”

Krysthalia’s hand paused mid-pour. She stared at the ripple of steam.

“She is still in there,” she whispered. “The girl I lost.”

“She never left,” Cael replied. “They just tried to bury her.”

The fire cracked. The tray sat nearly empty.

Krysthalia turned to him. “You’ve seen the places she was taken. I want them all razed.”

“I’ll help you,” Cael said. “I want them gone, too.”

“Why?”

He glanced at Ashanti. “Because they broke something sacred. And because I couldn’t stop it.”

She watched him, judging. Measuring.

Then she nodded once. “Then help me tear them down.”

**

The rest of the journey passed in quiet intervals. The road from Rivenhall wound through rolling hills and painted woods, trees tinged with the final hues of autumn — gold, rust, and fire-red leaves falling like fragile prayers. Guarded carriages moved at a steady pace, flanked by Greyclaw outriders bearing the sigils of the Silvermane line: a wolf’s fang beneath a crescent moon. Cael rode in the lead carriage with Krysthalia and Ashanti, who remained motionless and silent within layers of velvet and linen. The pulse of her breath, slow and distant, was the only proof she still remained in this world. He had never seen this much sky before. Not freely. Not without stone and chains pressing in from all sides. Even in silence, even with the ache of uncertainty, it felt strange to breathe air that wasn’t stale or cold or veiled in someone else’s will.

By the second day, the mountain pass widened and then narrowed again, curving between slate-colored ridges. The trees thinned. The light shifted. And there it was. Marrowvale. To most, it might not have looked like much. The city is nestled within the bones of a massive ridgeline, walled in by steep cliffs and fortified ridges. No towering spires like Faeyren. No gilded rooftops or radiant glass. Just dark stone and subtle craft. But Cael saw it for what it was. Power. Not ostentatious — rooted. Deep magic slept in those wards, visible only to trained eyes: glowing lines of dama etched like veins through the city’s foundation, flowing with layered protections that pulsed gently beneath the cobbled ground. It didn’t shimmer. It didn’t flaunt. It endured. To others, it may have seemed quiet. Even humble. But to someone like Cael — someone who had grown up in an empire of hidden knives and false lights — Marrowvale felt like the safest place on the continent. He didn’t say it aloud. But the thought lingered as he looked toward the arched gates slowly opening to greet their arrival.

Here, he thought, maybe here... she’ll have a chance to heal.

And so will I.

***

The gates of Marrowvale closed behind them with a deep, echoing thud, and the convoy moved through the quiet, warded streets. Locals peeked from windows and balconies, their curiosity tempered by reverence. They knew the Silvermanes had returned. And with them, something ancient. The castle itself was carved directly into the cliffside — not built, but grown, as if shaped by will rather than mortar. Dama stones lined every corridor, humming softly beneath the surface, singing silent songs of protection, memory, and oath. Few places in the world were as old or as shielded.

Krysthalia stepped from the carriage before any servant could reach her. She moved with purpose, cradling Ashanti in her arms, careful not to jostle her. Cael stepped aside instinctively, saying nothing, though his gaze lingered on the girl—no, the goddess—who had shattered his world and made him want to protect it. They passed through the outer halls, past arched windows and flame-lit corridors, until they reached a chamber guarded by an ornately carved double door — one etched with the silver vines of Greyclaw’s crest. Krysthalia paused here. She looked at the door for a long moment. A shadow passed through her eyes.

"This is where she vanished," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Ten years ago. One breath she was here, the next... gone."

She opened the door with her shoulder and carried Ashanti inside. The room was modest by royal standards—warm stone walls, a tall arched window, pale-blue drapery, and a four-post bed dressed in wolf-fur blankets and soft linen. Everything untouched, preserved. As if waiting. Krysthalia crossed the room and gently lowered Ashanti into the bed closest to her own chambers — not the place she vanished from, but one of safety, of closeness. She pulled the covers to Ashanti’s shoulders and tucked her in like she had when Ashanti was still small enough to climb into her arms during storms. A long moment passed. Krysthalia brushed a strand of dark hair from Ashanti’s brow, her fingers trembling just slightly.

“You’ve wandered long enough, little one,” she whispered, voice tight with emotion. “No one will take you from here. Not again.”

Her hand lingered at Ashanti’s temple.

“You’re safe now. Until you wake… rest well, my little moon.”

The dama stones in the walls pulsed once, gently, steadily, as if echoing the promise. The room fell into silence. And the door closed behind her.