Chapter 20: B1Ch19-When the Moon Stirs

Ashanti hadn’t stirred. Two weeks had passed since the summit. Since the sky had bled silver and the world had held its breath. And still, the girl at the heart of it all lay still beneath layers of silk and healing spells, her black hair spread across the pillow like a shadow that refused to lift. Krysthalia sat by her bedside, eyes tracing the soft rise and fall of her daughter’s chest. She hadn't moved from this room for long. Even when duty called, her mind returned here, to this quiet, fragile moment suspended in time. Cael stood in the doorway. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched. In the Hollow Vows, silence had been survival. But here… it felt like reverence.

Krysthalia finally glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “You’re up early.”

“I don’t sleep much,” Cael said, stepping in. His black outfit had been replaced with a slate-gray tunic and travel boots. Simple. Clean. He didn’t recognize himself in the mirror these days.

“Still no change?” he asked softly.

Krysthalia looked back at the bed. “No. Not even a flutter.”

Cael’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, his eyes drawn to the pale girl swaddled in warmth and magic. “She looks like she’s dreaming.”

Krysthalia hummed faintly. “If she is, I hope they’re kind dreams.”

He hesitated. “I meant what I said, you know. In the chamber.”

Her gaze flicked to him, sharp but not hostile.

“I’d do anything for her,” he added. “She… she never deserved what happened. None of them did. But especially her.”

There was a long pause.

“You cared for her,” Krysthalia said.

Cael’s voice caught slightly. “Still do.”

Krysthalia leaned back in the chair, her shoulders heavy with fatigue. “You saw her when I couldn’t. Even protected her when I didn’t know where she was. That earns you something in my eyes.”

Cael gave a slow nod. His eyes didn’t leave Ashanti. “She’s stronger than any of us.”

Krysthalia said nothing, but her hand moved—slowly, carefully—to brush a strand of hair from her daughter’s face.

A knock came at the door. A steward entered, bowing low. “My Queen. A letter has arrived from Faeyren. It bears Prince Auren’s seal.”

Krysthalia rose, smoothing her cloak. She took the letter with a small frown. “Thank you.”

As the steward left, she opened it. Her eyes scanned quickly.

Cael waited.

“Well?” he asked.

Krysthalia handed him the parchment. “He’s asking if she’s stirred. If he should come. But… he also says there’s more movement near the Arborean Sea.”

Cael’s brow furrowed. “Stricken?”

Krysthalia nodded. “Not in droves. Not yet. But sightings—more and more—drifting in one direction.”

“Like something’s calling them,” he murmured.

Krysthalia folded the letter tightly. “We need to be ready.”

***

A month passed. Ashanti remained unchanged, still as marble, save for breath and pulse. Her skin was warm. Her heart was strong. But her eyes never opened. The castle adjusted around her. Guards rotated the watch outside her room in silent shifts. Wards were reinforced along the outer halls. Mages cast divinations and healing spells, none of which stirred her. Whatever she had done—whatever light she had summoned, it had taken more than anyone could yet understand. Beyond Marrowvale’s borders, the world darkened. Reports came from the south, across the Hollow Barrier. Scouts noted that for weeks, nothing had emerged. No corrupted beasts. No twisted men. No unnatural winds. Just silence. A silence too perfect to be comforting. From the north, the Velarun outposts sent another letter. Monsters—night beasts, husk-sworn, and vrellkin—were showing up in places they hadn’t been seen in centuries. Dama-scorched paths twisted toward settlements once protected. Veterans held the line, but raw recruits were suffering. Too many green soldiers. Too few commanders. A missive from the Order of the Verdant Flame noted that the wildergroves near Frostmere had grown unnaturally silent. Even birds avoided the tree lines now. It was as if something primal in the land itself had curled back in fear. The High Menders of Faeyren had begun arguing. Some wanted to send for Ashanti’s aid now. Others cautioned patience—that she needed time, and forcing her awake might shatter what remained of her soul.

Krysthalia, for her part, refused all such talk. “She will rise when she’s ready,” she’d said. “Not before.”

***

And so the days passed. Letters continued. Another from Auren, this one shorter, tighter-scripted, concerns bleeding between the lines. He asked again how she fared. Asked if they needed more soldiers. Asked if she remembered him. No reply was sent. There was nothing to say—yet. Then, two nights before the next full moon, a courier arrived with a sealed vial, its contents a slow-shifting blend of amber and opal light. It came from the Verdant Coast, marked only by a wax insignia shaped like a weeping tree. Krysthalia broke the seal. A letter was folded beneath.

To the Silvermane Queen,

She will stir soon. When she does, be near. It will hurt—at first. But it must.

You will know the moment.

—Eryx

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Krysthalia held the vial up to the firelight.

The potion shimmered like trapped starlight, pulsing faintly.

“She’s coming back,” she whispered.

The castle apothecary, Master Olin, was summoned within the hour. A wiry elf with slate-blue eyes and a constant squint, he inspected the vial with reverence, as though afraid to breathe too hard lest the liquid vanish. After testing a drop on four different creatures—each carefully warded—he gave his report:

“No reaction,” he said at last, scratching his chin. “No adverse effects. No visible changes. One rabbit fell asleep faster than usual, but woke up hungry.”

Krysthalia arched a brow. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. Harmless, by every metric I know.” He paused. “Though I’ve never seen an alchemical mix like this. Not even in old elvish records. The balance is… eerie. As if it isn’t reacting because it already knows where it’s meant to go.”

Krysthalia dismissed him with a nod. “Keep the room guarded.”

***

That night, as soft rain traced lines down the windows, Krysthalia sat once more in the chair beside Ashanti’s bed. A small brazier warmed the chamber with a low glow, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The scent of lavender drifted from a nearby basin. The potion sat in a silver tray beside a folded cloth. Footsteps approached. Cael knocked once, then pushed the door open slightly. He carried two plates—one simple, one more ornate.

“I brought food,” he said, quieter than usual. “Figured you hadn’t eaten.”

Krysthalia blinked in mild surprise. “You didn’t have to.”

He stepped in, awkward but sincere. “Still did.”

She accepted the plate, setting it on a nearby table. He sat across from her on a small stool, casting a glance toward the still figure in the bed. For a while, neither spoke. The rain whispered between them. Then—

“Does she dream?” he said out loud, wondering to himself.

Krysthalia didn’t answer immediately. She looked at her daughter’s face, peaceful but pale.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “I hope they’re kind ones.”

Cael nodded. He poked at his food with the fork, then hesitated.

“She’s strong. Always was. But I’ve never seen her like that. At the summit… she didn’t just glow. She—" He stopped himself. “Sorry. You were there.”

Krysthalia glanced at him. “Speak freely. You care for her.”

“I do.” His voice was steady now. “She was the one good thing in that place. Even when she said nothing… she never gave in. Not really.”

Another silence.

Then Krysthalia gave a small breath of something like laughter. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Most people aren’t,” he said dryly.

She reached for the potion on the tray and turned it over once in her hand.

“Soon,” she murmured. “She’ll wake soon.”

Cael studied her expression—fierce and maternal, yet fragile at the edges.

“She’s lucky to have you,” he said.

Krysthalia looked at him, and—for just a heartbeat—her eyes softened.

“So are you,” she said.

Cael blinked.

“Lucky I haven’t thrown you in the dungeons yet,” she added with a wry smile.

He laughed quietly. “Fair.”

Their shared meal continued in silence, a quiet truce built on worry and mutual affection for the girl who lay between them, still, but not for long.

***

Another month passed. And with it, peace grew uneasy. Whispers filtered in from outposts across the kingdom. The Hollow Barrier to the south—silent since the summit—remained unmoving. No scouts returned from its edge. No creatures emerged. For the first time in generations, nothing came from the Hollow Zone. But the quiet wasn’t comforting. Reports of the Stricken increased. Not just in number, but in intent. They weren’t attacking towns as they once had. They were moving—marching, some said—toward the Arborean Sea, cutting a crooked path through forgotten valleys and sacred woods. Wards were faltering where they had not before. Temples fell quiet. The old monsters—twisted hulks bound to forgotten magics—had begun appearing in lands they hadn’t touched in centuries. No full villages were lost. Not yet. But young patrols sent into the Duskmire returned limping. Veterans recounted old beasts growing bolder. Even the air felt different in places where the earth had once been scarred by war. Something was stirring. And beneath it all, at the heart of Marrowvale, Ashanti slept on. Until the morning, she didn’t.

It was a crisp dawn, the clouds having fled overnight to reveal a pale blue sky. A beam of light slipped through the arched window of her room, touching the folds of the blanket where she lay. A soft wind rustled the curtains. Krysthalia sat at her usual place, reading a letter from Auren—his third in as many weeks. His tone was hopeful, but worry clung to the ink like a shadow. Cael leaned against the wall, arms crossed, quiet as ever. Then, Ashanti’s fingers twitched. Krysthalia froze. Cael stepped forward, eyes wide. Another breath passed. And her fingers moved again—subtle, but certain.

Krysthalia was at her side instantly. “Ashanti?” Her voice cracked.

There was no answer yet. But her breathing deepened. The potion. It had sat in its silver tray, untouched since the apothecary gave his final confirmation weeks ago. The animals had lived. No poison. No side effects. Just… stillness. But now? Now, Krysthalia reached for it. Hands steady. Eyes burning. She uncorked the vial and pressed it gently to her daughter’s lips. Ashanti didn’t flinch—but the moment the liquid touched her tongue, her body accepted it, almost instinctively. Her throat moved. She drank. It was done.

Krysthalia pulled back. “Now we wait.”

Cael nodded slowly. But something in his posture had changed. Hope. Darkness clung to her like a second skin. It wasn’t cold or frightening—just deep. Endless. The kind of stillness found in the bones of the earth. No sound. No light. Only the weight of forgotten dreams pressing inward. Then— A whisper.

Wake up.

It wasn’t loud. Not even spoken. It slid through the folds of silence like silk brushing against a blade. It carried no urgency, no panic—only gentle insistence. Like a hand reaching into water, seeking something long lost.

Wake up, Little Moon.

Ashanti’s brow twitched. The air shifted. Krysthalia rose from her chair as if pulled by invisible strings, her hands trembling slightly. Cael stepped forward, too, heart pounding. He didn’t speak at first, afraid to break the moment. But when he saw her lips parting, he couldn’t hold it in.

“You’re really waking up,” he said, almost to himself. “I’m going to hear your voice again.”

Ashanti’s fingers curled. Her breathing deepened. Her legs stirred beneath the sheets, and her back arched faintly, as if her very bones were remembering how to live. And then— Her eyes opened. A single, choked breath left her lips. And she screamed. It wasn’t terror nor pain. It was something deeper, raw and involuntary. As if her body had been broken and rebuilt in an instant. The potion had done its work—not slowly, not gently. It had reknit what was torn, reforged what had cracked. Bones mended. Muscles stretched. Nerves fired anew. Her senses flooded in, too much, too fast. Sound, light, scent, touch—all crashing into her like a tidal wave. Her back arched violently. Krysthalia was there in a flash, clutching her hand, whispering calm through tears she didn’t notice had started falling.

“Shh, shh, you’re safe. You’re safe now, Ashanti—”

Ashanti’s scream faded to ragged breathing. Her eyes darted wildly—black fur damp with sweat, hair still ink-dark, plastered to her skin. Every nerve in her body pulsed. Her heart thundered in her chest, struggling to recalibrate after weeks of stillness. Cael had stepped back, hands clenched, watching with a mixture of guilt and awe. She saw him. Her eyes landed on his, then drifted to the woman beside her. Her breath hitched. A final word—barely more than a whisper—left her lips.

“...Mom.”

And the world felt whole again.