POV: Arken
The sigil burned out.
Arken felt it the instant the blood-call collapsed.
His throne of black crystal shuddered, veins of violet fire cracking through the obsidian floor as the severed thread lashed back into his core like a snapped whip.
He rose slowly.
Tall. Inhuman. Cloaked in shadow that breathed as if alive.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
The moons hung frozen beyond the shattered spires of his fortress, distorted through the veil that separated his prison-realm from the living world. For centuries, the Moon-Born line had been hidden from him—masked behind wards, lies, and sacrifice.
Until now.
A child.
Born of royal blood.
Marked by ancient law.
Protected by maternal override.
He laughed—low and terrible.
“So the queens have birthed their shield,” he said silent
