The moon had not risen in three nights.
In the hill village of Fennhollow, where moss crept up every stone and stories wrapped around the chimney smoke like vines, people began to whisper. Old ones with gnarled hands and foggy eyes spoke of the Sky Veil—a time that came once every five centuries when the moon vanished, and the world beneath it stirred from ancient sleep.
Twelve-year-old Aeren Valewind didn't believe in stories. Not really. He liked books, yes, but the ones filled with facts—herb names, weather signs, constellations. Magic, to him, was as distant as the stars. But that was before the stream behind his cottage whispered his name. Before the trees began glowing from within. Before he found the well had vanished—and in its place, a staircase spiraled into the roots of the world.
He had gone to fetch water.
The bucket in his hand now hung forgotten, spinning slightly on its rope. The ground where the Moonwell should have been was cracked open like a shell, revealing a spiral path of smooth stone, lit with a soft, silvery glow. No torch. No sound. Just the pull.
Aeren hesitated at the edge, heart thumping like a wild drum. The air smelled like rain and memory. A voice inside him, not his own, said, Go.
He took a step.
Each footfall made the spiral brighter. The deeper he went, the quieter the world became. The last of the crickets' song faded above. Aeren's breath felt loud in the silence.
At the bottom, he stepped into a cavern. A great pool of silver light shimmered before him, glowing as though the moon had sunk into the earth itself. Around it, roots coiled like guardians, thick as tree trunks, humming softly.
And there—standing beside the pool—was a woman made of bark and stars.
Her hair was a tangle of night sky. Her eyes reflected moons Aeren had never seen. She didn't speak with lips but with wind in his bones.
> "You are a Keeper," she said. "And the Pact is broken."
Aeren opened his mouth to reply—but no sound came. He wasn't sure he even understood her. But somehow, he knew she spoke truth.
The pool stirred. From its center rose a shard of crystal, no larger than a plum, glowing gently like moonlight on water. The woman touched Aeren's hand, and the shard sank into his palm, vanishing beneath the skin without pain.
Suddenly, the cavern trembled.
Roots above twisted and groaned. The pool flared white. The woman turned, eyes narrowing.
> "They are coming. Run."
Aeren stumbled back toward the stairs. The spiral path shifted under his feet. Somehow, he made it out.
When he emerged into the night, the moonless sky had turned dark as coal, and the air was thick with ash.
He ran home.
But the world had already begun to burn.
---
The next morning, Elders of the village found Aeren collapsed beside the old stream, his eyes glowing faintly. They shook him, but he could only whisper one word:
> "Moonwell."
By sundown, the Hollowborn had arrived.
To be continued in Chapter 2: Hollowborn