Chronicles Of Moonblood 1. The Wounded Heart のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 101 - チャプター 110

At the edge of the empire, where light no longer walks, where even the stars’ glow dies before it reaches the ground, a palace rises — built not of stone nor of iron, but of darkness itself. Shadows weave its walls of their own will; they do not reflect sound, but swallow it, so that the silence of this place is not peace, but life. The air is cold, yet alive — as if space itself were breathing, in deep, solemn rhythm.At the heart of the black hall stands a throne — unadorned, undecorated — a single slab of polished obsidian whose surface seems to pulse with tiny lights, like heartbeats. Upon that throne sits the Dark Lord — who once was human, though now nothing remains of that time but memory. His face bears no age, no season — only calm, slow movements, like the surface of the sea before a storm. His eyes are deep as night without dawn. And yet — now, a strange, gentle light glimmers within them.Before the throne stands a black cradle. It is made not of gold nor silver, but of a

The night settles over the fortress like a freshly laid blanket—soft, yet weighted. On the battlements, the crackle of torches bites into the silence now and then; from the Hall of the Moon come faint footsteps and whispers as the healers make their evening rounds. The wind plays with the banners, stirs the ash resting on the stones, then draws it out toward the mountains as if wishing to carry away all that belonged to yesterday. What it doesn’t know is that what lingers in the heart, the wind cannot take.I reach Nyra’s chamber and pause on the threshold before entering. A candle burns inside, its flame steady and disciplined, casting an even light upon the walls. In the cradle, Selin sleeps deeply; her breath barely stirs the corner of the blanket, her silence a promise of peace. Nyra sits by the window alcove, a blanket over her knees, her blue cloak draped around her shoulders. Her hair is braided back, but a few strands have escaped, glinting silver in the moonlight, as if the l

My own dry breath cuts against my face.I wake; at first I think it’s the bridge collapsing, but then I realize—it’s my own sobbing that shook me awake. The curtain of the sleeping alcove is half drawn, the candle sputters, ash glows faintly orange in the bowl of the lamp. The Moon sits dejectedly in the window’s cradle, its silver band across the sill paler than before.Selin stirs in the cradle. So faintly that only a mother could hear it—the kind who can separate her child’s heartbeat from her own. I reach for her; the movement is too fast, my body reminds me everything is still fresh—but I am already bending over her. Her lashes are damp at the roots; a forgotten dream, the body easing itself through tears. I pull the blanket back over her, and as my palm lingers a heartbeat on her chest, the air finds its way back between my ribs.“Hey,” I hear Aedan’s voice from the bed—deep, still on the edge of sleep. Those two letters undo the knot in my throat. “I’m here.” The blanket rustle

Dawn is still experimenting above the walls of the castle; the first rays of the sun feel as if strangers are trying to unveil the world, cautiously, fearfully, as if afraid time itself might crack. The hall is silent: the soldiers move slowly, the tiny flames of the candles flicker once, then weaken again, as if they belong more to shadow than to light. I lean over the parchment on which I sketched the details of the map yesterday, and with every beat of my heart, I feel the absence: Kael’s voice, his small body, which I still cannot hold in my arms.Aedan steps behind me, his shoulder brushing mine, his hand slowly finding mine. No words are needed: he knows what I feel. His gaze drifts over the map, his finger resting on the dashed line marking the Name Bridge, and a short sigh escapes him. “We leave tomorrow,” he says softly, yet beneath every word is the weight of plans, fear, and determination all at once. “The space is ready for the step. Are we ready?”I nod, though my body do

The rope in my hand is no ornament. It’s woven from three strands: fine silver thread, silk rubbed with ash, and inside, the thinnest tube containing a drop of dried blood—mine and Aedan’s. At first it feels cold, then, as I hold it longer, it takes on the warmth of my skin. Mae stands behind me, over my shoulder.“Don’t pull, don’t yank,” she says softly. “Just hold. Like a newborn—you don’t decide its weight, only give it a place to rest. Watch the air. If it thickens, slow down.”Rhaell crouches near the edge of the bridge. He presses his rune-staff into the mist, and a thin bluish line extends from it on both sides, like he’s drawing a border. “Edges fixed,” he nods. “If the space shifts, the light flashes first—then you all step back. No heroics.”I nod. The fog in front of me moves slowly, the world here looks as though I were seeing it through thick glass. The bridge—if one can call it that—is a narrow strip where the mist “holds.” If you step on it not with force, but with wei