When the Moon Hatched (The Moonfall #1)

Chapter 1

5,000,165 phases After Stone

I curl my shoulders forward, crumbling my posture into something that appears trodden.

Scared.

Rounding a corner, I step onto the stairwell’s bottom landing, chased by a parchment lark that flutters so close I’m surprised it doesn’t nudge at me to pluck it from the air.

As I twirl the thin iron ring on my middle finger, my gaze climbs the heavily armored guard blocking the gloomy tunnel ahead—arms crossed, his shaved head almost brushing the curved ceiling, a flock of parchment larks nuzzling the door at his back. He’s twice my size, boasting a scowl that appears to have permanently dented his face.

His disapproving leer comes to rest on the nick sliced into my left ear, up near the tapered tip. Like somebody with a tiny mouth bit a chunk from the outer shell.

My clip .

“No token, no entry,” he grinds out, immediately dismissing me as a lesser. A null . Someone who doesn’t hear any of the four elemental songs.

I reach into my pocket, retrieving the stone token embossed on both sides with the prestigious club’s insignia—a maw of stalactites biting in from all angles. Forging the slightest tremble, I hand it over, feeling the male’s probing perusal cut me up and down as he flips the token, his blue armor clanking with the motion.

I’m curious to know why he lets the larks flock the door rather than allow them straight in, but Raeve is the outspoken one, and I’m not Raeve right now.

“I’m Kemori Daphidone,” I say, tone soft and submissive. “Traveling bard.”

“From where?”

“Orig.”

A wall settlement I’ve never been to, not that it’ll stop me from rattling on about it if he asks for specifics.

Preparation is my armor. Don it or die.

He inspects the token, handing it back with a gruff “No veils.”

I glance up at him from beneath a blaze of feather-tipped lashes. “Part of my act. I’m part of the scheduled entertainment.” I retrieve a roll of parchment from my pocket and nudge it toward him. “I was warned about the no veil rule, which is why I’ve only covered the bottom half of my face.”

Scowling, he unravels the scroll, his beady leer raking over my letter of hire so painfully slow I start to get a crick in my neck, impatience gnawing at me.

Finally, his eyes widen with recognition. “Oh, you’re the stand-in!”

I offer a shy, demure nod when all I really want to do is bang his head against the wall.

Hard.

He rerolls my scroll and hands it back, stepping aside to open the door. “Third level. Mind the waif. It’s always extra hungry this late in the aurora cycle.”

My shiver is far from fake.

I move into the Hungry Hollow’s warm, smoky embrace, attacked by a rush of dense musk and the undertow of sulfur, the door banging shut behind me and the flock of dispersing parchment larks. Through a dark tunnel, I emerge at the pinched mouth of a vast, lofty cavern the shape of a stony lung.

A swoop of steps leads me onto one of the many paths that web through a cluster of luminous springs, steam rising from their turquoise depths. Folk are draped against their steps, heads tipped while they languish in the lapping warmth. A pretty paradise for those who wield enough power or political sway to keep themselves on the cushioned side of The Crown.

I huff out a bitter laugh.

Here, it’s easy to pretend our colorful kingdom isn’t nesting on a bed of bones.

A freestanding staircase leads to the second floor supported by mossy pillars. I head for it, weaving along the labyrinth of paths when a waft of steam congeals into a pale, lanky creature with eyes like ebony jewels.

“Shit,” I mutter, pausing.

Head swiveling unnaturally, the waif looks right at me, sniffs the air, then releases a gluttonous gasp. “Well, well, well … isn’t your soul a plump, juicy thing?”

Ahh.

“How kind of you to say. I’ll just be on my wa—”

“There are screaming spirits desperate to speak with you. How about a small suckle of your soul?” the creature asks, and I swear it sounds like it’s salivating. “Then you can hear everything they have to say.”

No fucking thank you.

“I’ll pass.”

Heartily.

Seeming to ignore my objection, it flits forward, gathering wafts of steam it uses to stretch in my direction, vaporous fingers reaching.

I spin on my heel and hurry down another path, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Looking over my shoulder, I spot the creature, now hunched over a male lazing against a spring’s edge, sucking something shadowed from between his parted lips.

A shiver nettles my skin.

I quietly thank the Creators that waifs are rare, haunting only drapes of mist where they nibble souls in exchange for messages from obliging dead.

Can’t think of anything worse. I’m certain the spirits so desperate to speak with me have nothing nice to say.

Not that I can blame them.

Thankfully, the creepy soul-nibblers are easily distracted.

I dash up a staircase, rising well above the reaching fingers of steam. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses come to me as I emerge onto the second level scattered with Skripi tables.

Folk are gathered about, puffing smoke sticks, drinking sparkly spirits, game shards fanned close to their chests. Dice scatter, piles of dragon bloodstone shoved from hand to hand.

I cast my furtive gaze over their attire, some garbed in colorful, gem-encrusted gowns. Others wear finely tailored coats, feathered shapes barbered into shorn hairstyles, elemental beads hanging from their lobes. A boastful token of their ability to hear the different elemental songs:

Red for Ignos.

Blue for Rayne.

Brown for Bulder.

Clear for Clode.

Beads aside, you can usually pick a high-ranking Fade elemental from the other side of a room: those who boast more than ten colors on a single outfit, as if it’ll make them mighty like the vibrant dragons that lord this kingdom’s skies.

The great Moltenmaws.

Funny, since they’d be the first to bleed the beasts if the bloodstone mine ever ran dry.

I’m halfway up a thin staircase chipped into the back wall when somebody tall, broad, and cloaked charges down from above.

I pause, unable to see much of his face bar his strong jaw brushed in a dark, well-shaped beard, his cloak’s hood casting everything else in shadow.

He doesn’t slow. Just keeps stalking down the stairs despite the fact that I’m dressed in a bold, bright-red gown impossible to miss.

I almost grit my teeth, remembering the metal cap coating my back molar just in time to avoid an impromptu activation of my secret weapon.

He barely fits on the staircase himself , meaning moving past each other is going to be a tight shuffle.

Lovely.

Typical elemental bullshit, only thinking about themselves.

Sighing, I curl my shoulders further forward and step to the side, reminding myself that I’m Kemori Daphidone, traveling bard from Orig. I’m trodden. Scared. And I’m absolutely not here to accidentally trip this male and watch him tumble down the stairs.

Absolutely not.

Back pressed to the wall, I keep my eyes down and wait for him to squeeze past, his heavy steps growing closer. So close I’m struck with a smoky musk pinched with the smell of freshly split stone, softened with notes of something buttery.

My breath catches, then shudders free, as if unwilling to part with the dense, luscious scent that might just be one of the best smells I’ve ever inhaled …

He steps to the side, edging past.

Pauses.

I’m caught in his shadow like a flame in the dark, my heart pumping hard and fast. Nudging up my throat with each lengthy second that ticks by.

Why isn’t he moving?

I sidestep farther up the stairs, edging free of his atmosphere. “Excuse me.”

Places to be, hands to sever.

A dense, grated sound crumbles out of him, like it wrestled loose.

The air shifts.

I shift with it.

Whipping around, I snatch his wrist with the speed of a lightning strike. Tension clogs the air, my gaze dropping to his large, heavily scarred hand—outstretched, paused midmotion, as if he were just about to grab my veil and rip it free.

The asshole.

Though I can’t see his eyes, I feel his penetrating stare with such probing intensity my lungs pack full of stones, the trail of his attention traversing to the rounded nick in my ear.

Back to my eyes again.

Sharp words gather on my tongue like thorns that I’m so, so tempted to spit at him. Then I remember that folk who stand up to high-ranking elementals end up as dragon chow.

I swallow the words instead. Something that never feels good, no matter how often I do it.

Loosening my grip, I dip my head and shuffle back a few steps, only stopping once I’m high enough that I’m looking down on the male. Far enough away that I’m less tempted to punch him in the throat for thinking he could unveil me.

“Apologies,” I bite out, trying to sound submissive. Failing miserably. “The veil is part of my act.”

Silence ensues, thick like a tacky syrup.

Move, Raeve.

Easing free of his reach, I spin, hurrying up the staircase.

I don’t look back, flashing my scroll and token at the second wave of stone-faced guards, one of whom breaks away to escort me toward the stage. I’m led into the shadowy den, engulfed in the scent of peat smoke and mead, struck by the dramatic shift in atmosphere.

Stone fangs jut down from the ceiling, cutting the space into arched segments brushed in rusty firelight spilling from blazing sconces. Dimly lit booths line the outer walls, bracketed with heavy curtains offering privacy for those who seek it. Null servers glide through the space, carrying trays topped with mugs of mead and other foggy beverages, dishing them out to jovial elementals gathered around stone tables pocked about the place.

Tucked in the guard’s shadow, I cut a shrewd glance over the eclectic patrons, frustration chewing at my nerves when I don’t see the face I’m looking for.

Please be in one of the booths.

The guard leads me toward a central dais crowned by numerous stalagmites that resemble the bars of a cage, and I almost laugh—only because I couldn’t imagine anything more morbidly appropriate.

A thin, fine-boned female sits on a stool within, holding a white fiddle etched in luminous runes that probably encourage its sound to carry. She wears a simple full-bustled gown similar to mine, but blue, and much looser around the discreet swell of her babe-laden abdomen.

Eyes closed, she carves a melancholy tune while flakes of white light fall from the arched ceiling like a spill of snow. They settle on her gush of pale hair, extinguishing.

Thanking the guard, I step up and perch on the stool beside the musician, her song reaching a lilting crescendo while I search for an amplifying stick.

“Their Runi’s working on it,” she whispers, lowering her fiddle, looking at me through piercing green eyes framed with blue feather-tipped lashes. “It was cutting in and out last cycle.”

Ah.

“Shouldn’t be long. I’m Levvi, by the way.”

“Kemori Daphidone, traveling bard from Orig.”

She flashes me a friendly smile that melts a little when her stare snags on something behind me.

My heart leaps into my throat as a red-haired male strides past, weaving between the crowd, dressed in an immaculate sanguine coat—the color a perfect match to his red elemental bead on boastful display.

Relief prickles through me, eager anticipation making my hands clench and unclench.

Tarik Relaken.

He takes us in, a hungry leer that slithers over my corset-clad bust before he continues toward a booth, three other males lounging within. Leaving the curtain open, he pours into animated conversation, sliding the occasional glance my way. Half-lidded looks that paint me out to be a well-presented piece of meat he’d love to gnaw on.

I see you, asshole.

I catch sight of the cloaked male I encountered on the stairs, now moving through the dusky space—

My heart plummets.

He navigates past other patrons, my mind tangling into a messy knot while he makes for an empty booth at the back of the room …

He was in such a hurry earlier when he almost barreled over me on his way down the stairs. Now he’s back. Why?

Business? Curiosity? Or did he catch the wrong impression from me on the stairs?

Creators, is that why he’s come back in? Because he likes slumming it with nulls and he’s hoping for an easy lay?

His head turns in my direction, gaze sweeping across the upper half of my face like a warm, soft-bristled brush, stiffening the air between us.

I swallow a groan.

I fought hard to have this operation approved. It means everything to me. If that asshole ruins our carefully laid plans, we may not get another chance for who knows how long. Assuming another attempt is even approved .

“You new, honey? I haven’t seen you here before.”

Forcing my regard to soften, I look at Levvi, her null clip evident in the ear poking free of her luscious mane. “Just standing in.”

“I see.” She passes a glance around the room, lips barely moving as she whispers, “That male with red hair who just walked by? His name is Lord Tarik Relaken. Stay well away. Many performers draw his attention, then disappear.”

I widen my eyes in feigned shock. “Really?”

She nods.

“The color of your dress, your demure disposition, and long black hair …” She sweeps her gaze down my body, up again. “You’re just his type.”

I don’t tell her that’s the point.

The hope.

At least it was until I acquired a cloaked observer now watching me from the back of the room, arms crossed, perched against the table of an otherwise empty booth.

“There’s a reason this place hemorrhages null recruits, and it’s not the shit wages,” she bites out, flashing me a sour smile.

I don’t bother asking why she stays, the swell of her belly evidence enough. There are few options for a null to make a living in Gore besides slogging it out in the mines. No place for a pregnant female. Folk do what they can to get by, even if that means walking the fine line between a safe existence and a dangerous one.

“I appreciate the warning,” I whisper, thinking of the mysterious tip-off Sereme apparently received early in the dae when our current plans were already in motion. Wondering if it was from Levvi—too afraid to muddy her hands by getting involved with Fíur du Ath and our sympathizing, albeit bloody , dealings.

Understandably.

There’s no easier way to piss off our tyrant king than to liaise with his enemies.

A Runi steps close, a white robe hanging off his slight body, dark hair pulled back in a low bun. He looks down his nose at me, and my gaze drops to the only button pinching his floaty garb in place. The symbol of an etching stick upon the round of wood, signifying his ability to etch basic runes.

From the way he’s leering at me, I expected two or three. Perhaps some specialty gift like bloodlacing, or something else spectacular. At the very least, I thought his etching button would be more than elementary—made from silver, or gold.

Wish I could say that.

I accept the amplifying stick with a demure dip of my head instead, wrapping my sweaty palms around the hollow length of metal littered with dots and swirls that emit their own radiance.

I slice another glance at Tarik Relaken, my teeth gritted as I look back at the cloaked observer I certainly didn’t account for, unease slithering through me.

“You okay?”

No.

A parchment lark flutters close, tips its nose, tucks its folded wings, and plummets into my lap. “Never sung before such a large crowd,” I murmur, pocketing the message for later.

“I get it,” Levvi says, offering me a reassuring smile. “They’re mostly too engrossed in themselves to notice us.” She lifts her fiddle, resting the base against the scoop of her neck. “Do you know ‘Ballad of the Fallen Moon’?”

All the warmth drops from my face, a strand of memory wafting through the back of my mind. Stripped of emotion. Beauty.

Pain.

The ghost of something I can scarcely grasp, its corpse anchored in my icy nether. The place inside me that’s vast like the Ergor Plains I once walked alone, blotches of somebody else’s blood frosted to the rags that clung to my skeletal body.

“Yes,” I rasp. “I know that song very well.”

Levvi drags her bow across stretched strings of Moonplume tail hair that shine in the gloom, carving out the first note—so long and deep it’s almost tangible. She plays the next few with such passion it’s like she wrote the tune herself.

Like the fable’s pretty words were tilled from the ashes of her own caged past.

I lift the amplifier to my veiled lips and draw my lungs full, shifting a little so the hidden dagger in my bodice doesn’t nudge my rib. I close my eyes and plunge into the melody in the same way I once plunged into life—but with the words I’ve since learnt how to speak. Armored by the horrors I’ve encountered since.

Flaming horrors.

Mind- mincing horrors.

The crowd dissolves into oblivion as I sing of an inky Sabersythe flying into a black velvet sky, balling up, and dying in the dark where she’ll never be seen again. Of a lustrous Moonplume that tucks beside the sooty beast, illuminating her shape.

Giving her light .

I sing of the Moonplume’s gradual dim. Of how little by little, rise by rise, her luster feeds into the Sabersythe and turns the creature’s scales white, the tune dipping into deeper, more destructive notes as I sing of the Moonplume’s slipping grip on the sky.

Of her fall.

Of the Sabersythe unfurling from her perch amongst the stars, full of gifted life and light, soaring to the world below and hunting for her friend. Of her scratching through inky shards of rock scattered across the snow, trying to piece her back together again.

Failing.

Lids fluttering open, I become vaguely aware that every pair of eyes in the room is turned to us, watching. Wide with greed or wet with emotions that slip down painted cheeks.

But it’s the cloaked male that steals my attention, the top half of his face still hidden within the shadow cast by his hood. Despite it, his stare reaches through the space and embraces me in an iron-clad grip I can’t shake.

As the words continue to pour from my lips, I become bluntly aware that there’s a danger about this male who eclipses everyone else in the room in both size and presence. Who stands with the confident ease of someone untouchable.

A sobering realization strikes like a blow to the side of my head, my gaze drifting to Tarik—perched in his booth, watching me with such condemning hunger I know I’m not leaving this place without him tailing me. The perfect outcome.

Except …

I look back to my cloaked observer, into the hooded shadows obscuring his identity.

I came here to lure one monster, and ended up snagging two.