When the Blood Moon Rises

Prologue

In the year 3010 AE, during Elyris, the month of Frostveil, Etias teetered on the edge of collapse. Magic, once the lifeblood of the world, faltered. Verdant meadows, once brimming with arcane vitality, now stretched as barren fields shrouded in ash. Rivers dulled by soot flowed sluggishly beneath a sky cloaked in fire, while forests that had stood as eternal sentinels of the Eternal Cycle were reduced to skeletal ruins. The land seemed caught in grim stillness—a world holding its breath before an inevitable descent.

At the heart of this unraveling stood Dreizhar, the Reaper King. From Castle Mortis, his shadowy citadel perched above the capital city of Dragonsbreak, Dreizhar had ruled for millennia with necromantic mastery. His greatest triumph, the Equinox Concordant, had subdued the chaos of the Age of Emergence, binding the dragons beneath molten prisons deep within the Veilspire Mountains. For centuries, the Concordant tethered Etias to the Eternal Cycle of life and death.

But no spell, not even one forged by the Reaper King, could endure forever.

The first signs of decay came subtly. Tremors quaked beneath frostbitten peaks. Steam hissed from cracks in glaciers where cold had reigned unbroken. Then came the roar—a shattering cry that fractured the silence of the north. One dragon tore free from its molten chains. Then another. Each escape unraveled the fragile equilibrium Dreizhar had labored to maintain.

Fire followed.

The dragons did not descend as an uncoordinated horde but as an unrelenting plague. In Velwynd, the sweep of a crimson wing turned cobbled streets to molten slag. In Amberfall, golden fields meant to feed kingdoms became charred desolation. Forests, resilient through epochs of storms and invaders, now burned, their ash drifting into skies painted with blood and smoke. Etias fell not in an instant but in fragments, each flame and scream tearing another piece from its soul.

The survivors fled toward Dragonsbreak, the last bastion against annihilation. Caravans of refugees trudged through the Verdant Expanse, their faces hollowed by grief and terror. They carried bundled children, tarnished heirlooms, and fragile hope. For every caravan that reached the city’s gates, another vanished beneath talons or into consuming flames. The dragons hunted with cruel precision, their monstrous shadows blotting out the light and heralding despair.

Dragonsbreak endured. Its ancient walls, inscribed with Dreizhar’s wards, held firm against the inferno. Once a glittering metropolis of spires and scheming noble houses, it now swelled with desperation. Refugees pressed against its gates in a cacophony of fear and fury, their voices rising in futile pleas. Guards, their polished armor smeared with soot, held their posts with wavering resolve. Beyond the walls, the horizon burned—a harbinger of ruin drawing closer with each shattering of the Concordant.

Above it all loomed Castle Mortis, a jagged monolith of obsidian rising from the cliffs of Veylarin. Its spires clawed at the heavens, shrouded in perpetual shadow. Within its ancient halls, wards flickered, their once-constant light now fragile, like embers struggling against an encroaching darkness.

In the throne room, Dreizhar sat unmoving. His skeletal form, wrapped in robes darker than the void, rested as if carved from the onyx throne itself. Hollow eyes glowed faintly, fixed on the unraveling threads of the Eternal Cycle. Shadows twisted around him, reflections of the chaos outside. The cries of refugees, the roars of dragons, and the hiss of fire against stone echoed faintly through the ancient halls. Yet the Reaper King did not stir.

The Eternal Cycle must endure.

For centuries, Dreizhar had maintained the balance, his necromantic art preserving Etias against the ambitions of mortals and the capriciousness of gods. Through him, the dead labored, the living thrived, and the Cycle persisted. But now, even Dreizhar could feel the weight of the Concordant’s collapse. The dragons were not its only prisoners. Something far older and far more malevolent lay bound within the spell’s failing magic—a force that, if released, would not merely shatter Etias but unmake existence itself.

Outside the castle walls, hope curdled into fury. Refugees cursed Dreizhar’s name, their voices raw with despair. Others knelt in fervent prayer, pleading for the Reaper King to act. "He bound the dragons once," they whispered. "He will save us again."

But Dreizhar—the Reaper King, Keeper of the Eternal Cycle—did not move.

The cries shifted. Desperation gave way to murmurs, then to a rising chorus. If the Reaper King would not act, they reasoned, then perhaps his heir would. The name of Prince Kyvan Andurth began to ripple through the crowds. Younger, more vibrant, and untainted by centuries of grim detachment, the people saw him as a glimmer of salvation in a world darkened by despair.

"He is the blood of the Reaper," they said. "But his heart is not stone. He will fight for us."

Within Dragonsbreak, the name Kyvan Andurth echoed through narrow streets and crowded halls. Noble houses, once entangled in ceaseless rivalries, began to align their whispers. A new savior. A new hope. From the ashes of despair, the people turned their eyes to the grandson of the Reaper King—a light against the encroaching shadow.

But as the city murmured of salvation, another council convened far from the hopeful cries of the populace. In the sanctity of Castle Mortis, the Elders of Etias met in secret. These twelve representatives, chosen from the kingdom’s diverse regions and races, served as the bridge between the Reaper King and his realm. They were tasked not only with voicing the needs of their people but also with shaping the kingdom’s course alongside Dreizhar, a balance long upheld but now faltering in the face of crisis.

Each Elder brought to the council a unique perspective, forged by the culture and geography of their homeland—from the sun-scorched dunes of the Scorched Crescent to the frostbound Veilspire Mountains. Together, they embodied Etias’s diversity and fragility, a delicate harmony threatened by the dragons' unrelenting fury and the Reaper King’s silence.

The chamber of the Elders, carved deep into the fortress’s heart, stood in stark contrast to Dreizhar’s shadowed throne room. Here, simplicity reigned, its cold elegance a reminder of purpose over grandeur. Enchanted crystal sconces cast pale, flickering light across twelve obsidian chairs, each etched with the sigil of its region—a jagged peak, a golden sheaf, a flowing river. The polished table at the chamber’s center mirrored the strained faces of those seated around it. Shadows from the sconces danced restlessly on the walls, as if reflecting the unease within the room.

The Elders had come to deliberate, their voices heavy with the weight of a fractured kingdom.

Elder Lirath Velmyr of the Veilspire Mountains was the first to speak, her sharp voice cutting through the low hum of silence. The silver shards braided into her hair glimmered like frost under the sconces’ glow, a crown of ice befitting the chill in her tone.

“This cannot continue,” she said, her hands gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles whitened. “Entire villages in my region have been obliterated. The dragons sweep down like storms, leaving nothing but ash in their wake. And Dreizhar does nothing.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber, though not all faces betrayed their thoughts. Elder Torvark Stonegrip of the Ironhold Mines slammed his gauntleted fist onto the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber.

“Damn near lost half my tunnels when that fire-spewing beast tore through the mountain!” His auburn beard bristled with frustration, his broad shoulders tense. “My people barely drove it back. We can’t wait on Castle Mortis while the flames take everything. The Reaper was supposed to protect us. What’s he waiting for?”

“Watch your words, Torvark,” snapped Elder Naetis Solnaris, the Sun Elf of the Scorched Crescent. Her amber eyes glowed with restrained fire. “Dreizhar has ruled for millennia. Without him, there would be no Etias. We owe him our patience.”

“Patience?” The voice of Marus, Elder of Amberfall and the only human on the council, rang out in defiance. Unlike the others, Marus’s presence was plain—his brown tunic and unadorned chair stark against the finery of his peers. “You speak of patience while thousands die? While refugees flood Dragonsbreak with nothing but the clothes on their backs? They curse Dreizhar’s name and beg for action. If he will not act, who will?”

Naetis’s lips curled in disdain. “What would you know of patience, human? Your kind measures time in decades, not centuries. You speak now as if wisdom were the privilege of short lives.”

Marus leaned forward, his gaze unflinching. “And perhaps it’s our short lives that give us urgency, Naetis. Perhaps you’ve lived so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to see your people suffer while their leaders sit in silence.”

The tension in the room thickened, the faint hum of the crystals the only sound until Elder Sireltha of the Verdant Expanse tilted her head, breaking the silence with a soft, almost melodic voice.

“The people are restless,” she said, toying with the vine-shaped silver circlet atop her hair. Her emerald eyes sparkled with curiosity. “They whisper of Dreizhar’s inaction, yes—but they also whisper of his heir.”

Twelve pairs of eyes turned toward her, expressions ranging from intrigue to suspicion. Sireltha allowed herself a knowing smile as she continued.

“Prince Kyvan,” she said, her voice silk over steel. “Have you not heard? Among the refugees, his name is spoken with hope. He is young, strong, unburdened by centuries of detachment. The people see him as a savior.”

“Rumors,” Naetis interjected sharply. “Nothing more.”

“And yet,” rumbled Elder Drenvor of the Shadowed Depths, his voice like the growl of a distant avalanche, “rumors have a way of becoming movements. The people see Kyvan as a spark of hope. And in desperate times, hope can be as powerful as any dragon.”

Torvark snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Hope won’t slay a dragon. The lad’s got power, aye, but no strategy. No leadership.”

“And yet,” Sireltha murmured, “he would act.”

The chamber erupted into a cacophony of voices—sharp and unyielding, accusations and counterarguments flying across the table. Some Elders lauded Dreizhar’s patience and centuries of deliberate rule. Others argued that inaction had bred chaos and that boldness—not eternal contemplation—was now Etias’s only salvation.

“Enough!” Lirath’s voice cut through the noise like a winter gale. The room fell silent as she rose, her frost-blue eyes sweeping across the table with icy authority.

“Whether or not Kyvan is capable of leadership is irrelevant,” she said. “What matters is the will of the people. If they lose faith in Dreizhar, we are left with nothing. Order will crumble. Etias will fall.”

“And what do you propose?” Marus asked, his voice steady despite the mounting tension. “We cannot simply wait while the kingdom burns.”

Lirath hesitated, doubt flickering for a moment across her resolute expression. “We must... prepare. For all possibilities.”

“Dangerous words,” Naetis said coldly. “You speak of treason.”

“I speak of survival,” Lirath retorted. “The dragons do not wait. Nor will the people. We must decide—will we stand with Dreizhar to the end, or consider what comes after?”

The chamber fell into heavy silence. The flickering light of the sconces cast restless shadows across the obsidian table, mirroring the uncertainty etched into the Elders’ faces.

Far above, in the cold solitude of his throne room, Dreizhar remained still, his hollow gaze fixed on the fraying threads of the Eternal Cycle.

And in the streets below, the whispers of hope—whispers of Kyvan—continued to grow.