Moonlit (The Ashen Court Chronicles #1)

Prologue

The night the Traveler came to the Sinclair Outpost, the portal sang a note Willem had never heard before, a low, trembling hum that curled through the frigid air like a lullaby meant for something ancient and restless.

Willem stepped out into the moonlit clearing, lantern raised.

The standing stones around the portal glimmered silver, their runes pulsing faintly as if waking from a long, uneasy sleep.

Behind him, Johana stood in the doorway of their small stone cottage, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

A strange silence pressed against her chest, too delicate to call danger, too insistent to ignore.

“Willem?” she whispered.

“It’s all right,” he said, hoping that saying it aloud made it true.

The hum deepened. Not hostile, merely wrong, like a mispronounced word.

Then the air folded inward with a soft, trembling sigh.

A man stepped through, not a creature from their nightmares, nor a monster from the Grimoire’s warnings.

Just a man, travel-worn, frost-dusted, his smile warm and apologetic.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “Your crossing opened just as I reached it. I hope I’m not intruding.”

Johana exhaled. Willem lowered the lantern a fraction. The ward stones glowed pale blue, identifying the newcomer as a witch. Harmless.

“Not at all,” Willem said quickly. “You’re welcome here.”

The man’s eyes softened, grateful. “I had hoped,” he said gently, “that the Sinclairs would be precisely as gracious as the stories claim.”

They froze. No stranger should know their name. But the Traveler’s admiration felt so genuine, so earnest, that suspicion melted like ice left too near a fire.

“Guardians of the portal,” he said with a reverent bow. “Stewards of the Grimoire. It is an honor.”

Willem flushed with pride. Johana looked over at her husband, faint unease apparent on her face.

“Please,” Willem said. “Come inside. Warm yourself.”

The Traveler followed Willem into the cottage. The man paused before the hearth, extending his hands toward the flames as though grateful beyond words.

“This home,” he murmured, “is peaceful. Your ward craft… it hums with precision. Only a Sinclair could weave such strength with such grace.”

Willem nearly preened. Johana’s cheeks flushed with pride. The Traveler’s gaze drifted to the iron-clasped Grimoire resting on the mantel. He didn’t touch it.

“You will have daughters,” he said softly.

The words dropped like stones in a still pond. Johana froze. Willem inhaled sharply.

“We…” Johana responded with a slight stutter. “We have no children.”

He smiled, serenely. “Not yet.”

Johana visibly stiffened, and Willem laid a hand on hers.

“Their births,” the Traveler murmured, “will shape the age to come.”

Willem stepped closer, captivated. “Tell us.”

The Traveler’s expression softened, almost affectionate. “The first daughter will be easy to love,” he said. “Bright. Gentle. She will sense magic the way some sense storms before they break. A herald of old powers awakening.”

Tears slipped down Johana’s cheeks.

“And the second…” His voice lowered, tender as a confession. “The second will be the one marked for greatness.”

Willem’s pulse quickened, and Johana’s breath shuddered.

“Greatness,” the Traveler continued, “is a fragile thing. A double-edged gift. A child born with such fire must never be indulged.”

Johana blinked, clearly startled. “Indulged?”

“She must be anchored,” he said softly. “Guided firmly. Held to the highest standards. If you spoil her, she will break. If you give her too much freedom, she will burn.”

He stepped closer, voice warm with false reassurance. “Children of destiny test boundaries,” he said. “Not from malice, but simply because their nature pushes against them.”

Johana’s fingers trembled at her sides.

“If you love her, you must not mistake gentleness for kindness. Firmness is her salvation. Structure, her safety.”

Willem nodded reverently, absorbing each word as if hearing divine instruction.

Johana swallowed, and Willem noticed, knowing her fear and love were knotting painfully together.

“You will think you are strict,” he finished, “but you will be saving her.”

Then, and only then, did he lift his hand toward the Grimoire. He didn’t touch the cover, but he came close enough that the iron clasp quivered.

“The Grimoire chose your bloodline,” he whispered. “But destiny must be shaped. Tended. Controlled.”

Inside the book, something shifted, so faint it could have been the settling of parchment. Or something waking. Outside, the portal flickered, just once, with a strange-colored light. A flaw barely noticeable, a fracture waiting to widen. The Traveler stepped back, expression serene.

“Remember what I’ve told you,” he said. “And raise your daughters well.”

The household retired, and at first light, he bowed deeply, slipping into the early mist without disturbing a single leaf.

The visit ended quietly, and the Sinclairs believed they had welcomed a blessing.

They did not feel the single thread that had been pulled from their fate; a thread that would, in time, unravel everything.

He left no obvious harm.

No blood.

No curse.

Nothing they could see.

Only words that would echo through their lineage and rot it from within.

Sinclair House, 1792

The beginning of the year Poppy turned ten, winter held onto the Sinclair estate with stubborn, icy fingers.

Frost webbed the windowpanes. Drafts slipped under the doors. The whole house felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with weather.

Servants guided her aside with firm hands.

Her parents spoke around her, never to her.

But Lysandra, nineteen, almost twenty, saw Poppy.

Lysandra was warmth in human form. She braided Poppy’s hair every morning, stole sweet buns from the kitchen, and held her through the nights when the halls creaked too loudly.

She was sister, guardian, conspirator, the one person who made the house feel less like a shrine.

Poppy believed her sister would always be there.

March 12 was her tenth birthday.

It should have been like any other winter morning, cold floors, gray sky, Lysandra humming while she braided her sister’s hair.

But by evening, everything changed.

Poppy remembered it in pieces, the way a frightened child remembers things too big to understand. A sharp shout. A tremor under her feet.

Then… light.

A burst of blinding brilliance that filled the hall—white, hot, and searing—so bright it stole her breath. The force pushed her backwards. Her ears rang. Her cheeks burned. Her heart hammered so hard it ached.

When the light faded, the spot where Lysandra had stood was empty. No voices. No movement.

No Lysandra.

Just the wild, terrified certainty of a ten-year-old.

Her sister was gone. Gone the way only dead people are.

Adults rushed around Poppy afterward, shouting, whispering, refusing to meet her gaze.

She begged them to open the door.

No one would.

No one said Lysandra’s name.

No explanation. Just silence, heavy and permanent.

Poppy learned that grief can be a hole you fall into without warning.

A week later, she was lifted into a carriage, a trunk she hadn’t packed at her feet, a too-large cloak slipping off her shoulders. No farewell. No comfort.

Nothing but snow falling softly as the wheels creaked forward.

She pressed her forehead to the cold window and clutched the frayed ribbon Lysandra had braided into her sister’s hair days before.

The estate disappeared behind drifting white. She cried until she slept.

She found blessed peace at boarding school. Arcaneum was warmer for Poppy in every way. It had structured halls, steady routines, teachers who spoke to her without anger or resentment.

She grew, studied, and then taught. She learned how to suppress the memory of Lysandra’s disappearance into a small, quiet part of herself where no one could touch it.

Nineteen years passed.

Poppy never returned home. But winter stayed with her.

Some absences do.