Secrets in the Hall
672 Words
The castle of Astravale had never seemed so large.
Its endless corridors, once filled with warmth and laughter, now pressed in with quiet suspicion. Servants walked softer; guards lingered longer at their posts. Serenity felt the weight of eyes that looked and then quickly looked away.
A week had passed since the night of the Blood Moon. The pendant still hung heavy at her neck, its crescent dulled to a colorless sheen. She had not been allowed beyond the library or her private garden—“for rest,” her mother said, though her mother’s hands trembled whenever she brushed Serenity’s hair.
Rest, Serenity thought, watching the clouds drift past her window. Rest was what the dead did.
She needed answers.
It began with a whisper.
At first, Serenity thought it was the wind playing games again. But when she leaned closer to the door, she heard it clearly: two voices, low and urgent, carrying through the hallway.
“—too dangerous, Alaric,” one said. It was Eryndra’s voice.
“She’s a child,” came her father’s reply.
“A child born of three bloodlines that were never meant to mix. Do you know how many kingdoms would kill for her power? Or fear it enough to destroy her outright?”
Serenity froze. Her pulse quickened, echoing against the walls. She pressed her ear closer.
“I will not let them have her,” Alaric said, voice firm.
“Then you must hide her truth even from herself,” Eryndra replied. “If she awakens before she’s ready, she will not control what she becomes.”
The footsteps drew nearer. Serenity darted back, slipping behind the velvet curtain beside her window. The door creaked open.
“Serenity?” her father called.
She held her breath, heart pounding.
After a moment, the door closed again. The footsteps faded down the hall, and the whispers vanished with them.
Serenity stepped out from the curtain, trembling.
Born of three bloodlines.
She didn’t fully understand the words, but they felt heavy, dangerous—like touching the edge of a blade.
That night, while the castle slept, Serenity lit a single candle and crept from her bed. Barefoot, she moved through the quiet corridors, past the gallery of ancestors whose portraits watched her with painted suspicion.
The door she sought stood at the end of the northern wing: the king’s private study. A place she was never allowed.
Her hand hesitated on the latch. She remembered her father’s kindness, his laughter—but also the fear in his eyes when she’d asked what happened on the Blood Moon.
She pushed the door open.
The room smelled of cedar and old paper. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, painting silver patterns across the floor. Scrolls and tomes lined the shelves, some so ancient they looked ready to crumble.
On the desk lay a book bound in dark leather, its cover etched with a symbol she recognized instantly—the same crescent as her pendant, encircled by a ring of thorns.
She reached for it.
The moment her fingers touched the cover, the air shifted. The candle guttered, though there was no wind. A faint hum rose beneath her skin, familiar and wrong all at once.
The book opened itself.
Inside, the ink shimmered faintly, as though still wet. Drawings filled the first page: a wolf with eyes like molten gold, a woman cloaked in moonlight, and beneath them both, a crown broken into three pieces.
Words scrawled beneath in a script she could not read—until she could. The letters moved, reshaping themselves into something alive.
The Triad Blood. Born of moon, shadow, and flame. Fated to bring balance—or ruin—to the realms of night.
Serenity’s throat tightened. The pendant at her chest began to glow faintly, answering the light from the page.
The latch clicked behind her.
“Serenity.”
Her father’s voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut through the air.
She turned, the book still open in her hands.
- Writer
