The Moon That Devours Gods

Long before young Vesper had the words to name her fear, her world already trembled. She was huddled on the frigid marble floor of the eastern corridor, her own arms hugged against her body in an effort to stem the searing agony that coursed through her limbs. The palace surrounding her had been a grand testament to King Varick's wealth-gilded columns, polished statues, walls painted with scenes from the hunt. All that opulence meant nothing when her heartbeat shook her ears, and her bones writhed under her skin.

Looking up, she saw a maid cowering behind a fallen tapestry stand. The maid's face appeared ghostly, pale and carved by fear in the flickering lamplight. Vesper struggled to push a word of reassurance past her lips, but it emerged only a hoarse gasp. A further jolt shook through her muscles. It seemed like every single bone wanted to reform itself, and she couldn't help the shaking in her hands."

A pressure wave formed inside her ribs. Claws itched to burst from her fingernails, and a thick growl curled behind the tongue. Tears welling in her eyes, she battled it, struggling to protect the cowering maid from her monstrous self. But the unstoppable force barreled forward. Her vision steadied, then blurred again, and she snarled up an angry inferno that ricocheted the length of the corridor. She loathed the sound of it, raw and vicious, but the body she had turned against in that first instant no longer listened to her pleading mind.

Draven, an acolyte of the temple barely sixteen summers old, ran into the corridor. He was lanky, wearing plain robes with hair trimmed and bound, as he became a devotee of the temple. He had been searching for a missing scroll when he heard the panicked screams that brought him here. His soft footsteps stopped in shock at the sight of the half-bent figure. But instead of revulsion, pity flickered in his eyes.

"Stop," he said, though it was clearly a halfhearted plea. "She's just a girl. Don't run." His heart beat heavily in his chest as he moved towards Vesper and the shaking maid. He had read of curses, had heard the whispers of the king's hidden daughter, but he never expected to see the sound of rumor breathing and clawing before his eyes.

Vesper lifted her head, and tears mingled with the feral light in her eye. She wanted to beg him not to leave, but her teeth stretched, and instead, a guttural bark broke loose. She bucked against the beast; she trembled, scorching beneath the flickering torches that lined the corridor's walls. A pained expression crossed Draven's face.

He extended trembling hands as if to soothe an injured beast. The maid scrambled back in panic, but Draven could not tear his gaze from Vesper's eyes."She's hurting," he said, as if to no one in particular. He steeled himself, sensing the tension in the air. Vesper rocked, fists clenched, knuckles gleaming as though he were holding back a tidal wave of violence.

Light from a shattered lantern flashed across her face, and I saw a single tear running down her cheek. Her jaw split open, a momentary display of fangs, and then a last, terrible cry tore from her throat. Her transformation exploded outward with one last shudder, leaving Draven reeling in horror and pity.

Draven glimpsed that tearful glimmer in her eyes before the scream broke off. And one instant later, everything seemed to fold into darkness, and his heart raced with a dread that would follow him for years. Then and there, he understood this was not a rumour. A curse had taken form, one that called on compassion surfeiting his years.

Hours ticked until dawn murmurs growing in the palace corridors. Draven woke with a shudder, sweaty and tangled in the sheets. The dream was back - Vesper's wet, frightened eyes, her little half-formed claws, and the sound of his own voice trembling in that hallway. His heart pounded as he stared at the walls of his quarters. Outside, servants rushed past, arms filled with black draperies for King Varick's funeral.

He splashed cold water on his face to fend off the recollection of the tears streaking down her face. And yet the image lingered like fog. Today demanded composure. He was the new High Priest, an unexpected appointment following his predecessor's abrupt decline. The burden had been placed on him by tradition, and rumours of his youth hounded his every step.

He stepped out into the hallway and felt eyes upon him. A pair of footmen whispered "Untested" and stared at him warily." Draven grasped at the silver crescent pendant at his neck, refusing to cower. He was unable to shake thoughts of Vesper, that terrifying combination of fear and power.

He turned a corner and found himself in a hall covered in heavy velvet. Torches flickering and light dappling stone pillars, shadows moving like silent witnesses. He paused at a tall window, looking into the courtyard, where courtiers in mourning clothes mingled. Rumours swirled that the princess was cursed, that the king's death had been unnatural. Every discreet remark stung like a knife.

Chin up, Draven went for the chapel. Attendants opened ornate doors to rows of pews and a polished coffin surrounded by lilies. Sunkissed patterns of coloured light from the stained glass washed across the floor. Draven came near to give prayers that the late king might find peace, but his presence only deepened the hush. Some courtiers averted their eyes and skedaddled around him as if afraid of being infected by his perceived deficit.

He kneeled at the altar and clasped his hands together. A slight rustle of movement behind him made him more acutely aware that he was the centre of attention. A cursed princess imprisoned, a freshly ordained High Priest with a heart that could be softened with pity, the rumour mill churned. The memory of Vesper's tears made his jaw tighten. Was compassion a vulnerability, or would it lead him to truth?

He got up and looked around the chapel. Black draped from pillars and incense wafted up from the sharp pangs of uncertainty. A wave of low murmurs passed through the crowd. He heard snippets of conversation. "The princess... her father died..." Draven balled his fists and pressed them against his robe to keep calm. He longs to know the truth behind the whispers.

In his wake, an old priest brushed against him with a curt nod. "Your responsibility is great," the priest said in a low voice. Draven swallowed and tilted his head in return. He steadied himself, remembering a vow he had made to serve the kingdom with an open heart." But in his mind, Vesper's face loomed a silent plea.

As he walked toward the exit, he sensed the hush stalking him, a reminder that every step he took could lead him to a truth he wasn't sure he could handle. The spectral memory of that hallway gnawed at his conscience, sparking questions about a monstrous metamorphosis and that rift, which was a thread between hidden pain. Wondering whether soon he'd find himself at another crossroads, as a keeper of temple law, or beneath the trembling impulse of empathy in his chest.

Outside, the morning sun flooded the courtyard, where black-clad figures waited for the funeral procession. Draven took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was coming. He was torn between doubt and curiosity, each breath a reminder that one choice could make them all the same; one choice could make everything different. In his chest, his heart was hammering, not being sure but determined.

The morning shadows stretched across the palace courtyard as the preparations for King Varick's funeral fell almost to completion. Servants arranged towering arrangements of flowers in the corners next to the entrance archways, and soldiers in dark uniforms stood at attention. A strained silence draped over every path, the air thick with the rumour that cast every muttered conversation in a paranoid light. Draven stood at the edge, next to a marble column, hands clasped as he battled to project calm.

Nocturnal royalty, a minor noble in black lace and scintillating silver. Her voice quaked when she spoke to him. "My Lord High Priest," she said, "is it really true that the princess is cursed?" He kept his face even when the pulse rose through his body. "She undergoes afflictions beyond common understanding," he said gently. "We need to lead her, not vilify her."

The noble's eyes darted toward the spires rising behind them. "They say her father's end was no natural passing." Draven's chest squeezed, remembering how suspicion stuck to Vesper. He kept his tone measured. "We don't have proof," he said, repressing the twist in his gut. "The temple seeks truth."

Nearby, Rhyker Frostbane, resplendent in a tailored black tunic, conferred with an officer. Tall and battle-scarred, he wore his experience as armour. A quick look at Draven showed no kindness in his gaze. "The realm needs to be strong," he said in a low voice, his officer nodding in agreement.

Across the courtyard, Kaelen Shadowpelt snagged the arm of a fidgeting courtier and, with a silken smile, delicately steered him aside. "Tell me all of it," he urged, piecing together bits about King Varick's fall. Kaelen's piercing gaze hoarded each morsel of rumour for future use.

Draven could feel the tension getting wound tighter in his chest. Every whispered word, every sideways glance, threatened to render Vesper a monster. Refusing to feed the gossip beast, he left his apartment through archways draped with black, walking down toward the emerging funeral procession. Mourners queued up to the rear of the king's ornate casket, the confusion and aura of uncertainty as obvious as the slight nip in the air.

He hesitated as he spotted the tower where the princess had lived. Clouds floated over a pale sky, casting brief shadows over the palace grounds. Silence pulled tighter when a herald cleared his throat to announce the beginning of the funeral march.

Draven stepped closer and heard snippets of conversation. Somebody muttered about a hidden curse. One said the princess had never been seen in daylight. His heart raced, remembering Vesper's haunted look. He wanted to protect her from the burden of these accusations, but an uneasy feeling warned him that those unscrupulous fucking bastards-Rhyker and Kaelen among them-would turn the rumblings to their advantage if they could.

He followed the others to his position by the chapel door, the robe trailing over the cold stone steps. The soldiers were rigid, their eyes staring straight ahead. Lilies and dark roses covered the walls, a mixture of grief and uncomfortable speculation. The moment seemed fragile; all it would take was one spark to set it ablaze.

Footfalls sounded on polished floors inside the chapel, a sign that the ceremony was about to begin. Draven took a breath, raising his chin. If the kingdom was hanging in the balance of fear, he would not push it over the edge. Yet he could not shake his worry for the princess locked above, her secrets rife with peril. A jittery swirl of possibility flashed in his mind.

He clutched the pendant at his throat, vowing silently to learn the truth of King Varick's ending days. There was tension in the morning and he felt once the funeral ended even darker questions would come. Was compassion a force that could protect Vesper from the conspiracy tightening its coils around her, or would grim determination be his only weapon?