The Weaver of Shattered Moons

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Blood of the Sun

The workshop felt smaller as the darkness thickened. Lyra dipped her bone needle into the shallow cut on Alaric’s palm, the silver tip turning a deep, throbbing crimson. As she began to pull the shadows from the corners of the room, threading them through the Prince’s blood, the air began to hum with a heat that shouldn't exist in the cold Lowlands.

"Kaelen, hold the lamp closer," Lyra commanded, her brow slick with sweat.

As the needle pierced the blood-soaked shadow, a vision flared in her mind—not of the broken moon, but of a blinding, golden sphere. It was the Sun, a celestial body that was supposed to be a dead myth in Aethelgard.

She gasped, her hand jerking. The thread didn't behave like moonlight; it didn't flow like a river. It burned like a lash.

"You aren't just a child of the moon, Alaric," Lyra whispered, her eyes wide as she looked up at him. "The High Priests didn't just hollow you out to control you. They did it to hide what you are."

Alaric gripped the edge of the wooden table, his knuckles white. "What are you talking about? My lineage is as old as the Shattered Moon itself."

"No," Lyra shook her head, returning to the frantic stitching. "The violet in your eyes... it’s not moon-magic at its purest. It’s what happens when moonlight meets sunlight. You are a Solar-Born. You carry the blood of the Sun-Kings, the ones the Priests claimed were extinct."

Kaelen’s breath hitched. "If that’s true, his very existence invalidates the Temple’s right to rule. They claim only the Moon can provide magic. If the Sun still lives within him..."

"Then the Priests are usurpers," Alaric finished, his voice cold and sharp as a shard of glass.

Suddenly, the lead-lined walls of the workshop began to glow a sickly, pale green. A high-pitched whistling sound pierced the air—the sound of a Seeker-Bolt.

"They found us," Kaelen hissed, drawing his blade. "The glamor, Lyra! Is it done?"

"Almost!" Lyra made one final, jagged stitch, knotting the shadow-veil around Alaric’s neck.

As the knot tightened, the brilliant violet of his eyes faded, replaced by a dull, common brown. His starlight hair turned the color of wet coal, and his regal features softened into those of a tired laborer. The transformation was so complete that even Kaelen blinked in surprise.

The front door of the workshop exploded inward.

Two Arbiters, their white robes scorched and dirty, stepped through the smoke. They didn't look at the disguised Prince or the Captain. Their eyes locked onto Lyra.

"The Weaver has the blood of the Vessel on her hands," the lead Arbiter intoned, raising a glowing staff. "Kill the girl. Take the others for questioning."

Alaric stepped forward, his new, common face twisted in a snarl. Even without his violet eyes, the air around him began to shimmer with a heat that made the Arbiters' staves c***k. "You want the Weaver?" he asked, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "You'll have to go through the Sun first."