Semua Bab Moonlit Secrets: Bab 111 - Bab 120

High above the village—where the pines thinned into toothpick silhouettes and the air stung with the first hints of snow—the world felt both closer to the heavens and farther from home. The overlook gave them a view of everything: the wide sprawl of Moonrise, the green fields fading into shadowed forests, and the silver curl of the river threading through the heart of their territory like a promise written in light.Aria stood at the cliff’s edge, her cloak pulled tight against the wind. Xander stood beside her, solid and silent, while their daughter danced between them—barefoot on the cold stone, her breath puffing clouds into the crisp air. Above them, clouds swirled in restless coils, as if the sky itself sensed what was coming.The whispers had begun at dawn.An elder’s dream. A spirit’s omen. A flicker in the sky that no telescope could explain away. The blood eclipse was coming—not just any, but the kind that had once cracked alliances, unmade leaders, and called prophecy from m

The blood eclipse had passed, leaving behind a world not quite the same.Though the moonlight returned and the sun breached the horizon once more, everything felt... quieter. Too quiet. The hush that settled over Moonrise was not peace—it was something heavier. Like breath held too long. Like a question hanging in the air, waiting for an answer no one dared speak aloud.The wind through the pines carried a sharper bite. The trees stood still as sentinels, listening. Even the river—usually a babbling companion to village life—seemed to murmur more darkly as it twisted through the valley.Something had shifted. And it did not wait long to show its face.The Silence That SpokeAt first light, a messenger arrived breathless at the gates.The northern outpost had gone silent.Rhett. Solen. Gilly. Young Mara—four of the pack’s best scouts—had not returned when the eclipse ended. Their final transmission had been brief and haunting: "Lights on the ice… Something has woken in the deep." And t

The frost hadn’t yet left the ground when Aria stood beneath the scarred sky, her hands clenched beneath her cloak. Spring had sent out cautious feelers—buds curling against the wind, grass inching toward green—but Moonrise still bore winter’s weight in its bones. Much like the valley, the people within it were thawing slowly, hesitantly.This, she thought, was the hour that would decide the future—not a prophecy’s fire, but the fragile breath between wars.The war tent stood atop the scarred battlefield of Thornridge Hollow, its canvas patched and dyed in three distinct colors: Moonrise’s silver, the Ash Pack’s crimson, and the rogues’ black-braided wild. It was not a place of glory. The soil here still remembered fire and bone. But it was sacred now—not for what had burned, but for what might bloom in its stead.Inside the tent, silence waited like a fourth guest.Danica of the Ash Pack sat at the long table first, her youthful face a mask of steel. A scar cleaved her brow, an echo

The days following the Watchers’ return brought no calm—only a sharpening of the senses, as though the valley itself held its breath. Aria awoke each morning with the echo of voices she could not name—tongues older than the Watchers, murmuring through her bones like wind through hollow stone.The Watchers began their teachings in earnest. From children to elders, all were welcomed into their silent circles beneath the trees. There, they were taught the rites of Remembrance, rituals designed to tether soul to memory in the face of darkness. And though hope grew in the hearts of the valley, Aria could not ignore the hum beneath every lesson. It was not peace—it was a warning.On the second morning, veiled in silver mist, the lead Watcher summoned her and Xander to the edge of Skyvault Ridge. The figure stood motionless, draped in midnight blue, his bone mask gleaming like frost. In silence, he handed her a shard—smooth as glass, etched with runes that shifted like whispers in water. At

The sun lingered low and golden in the sky, hesitant to set on the day after betrayal. Across the northern camp and into the valley, the wounds left by Alin’s actions still ached—there were words left unsaid, glances that flickered with doubt, a new wariness in the laughter of children at play. But as dusk neared, another current moved among the three clans and their allies: a resolve, a growing certainty that survival would not come from suspicion or strength alone, but from something older, deeper—chosen unity.The Watchers had not vanished. Instead, they gathered near the oldest clearing in the valley, beneath three pale moons rising side by side—an omen the elders whispered had not blessed the sky in living memory. There, upon moss and ancient stone, they drew a ritual circle wide enough for all to see and surrounded it with torches that flickered with blue, silver, and gold flame. In the center, the ground was marked by a spiral of salt, wolf’s blood, and moonroot, encircling a s