FROST
Chapter 96: Quiet Splintering

Chapter 96: Quiet Splintering

That same night, beneath a sky heavy with silver clouds and a moon veiled in mist, the Lunar Kingdom stood in a solemn hush—its corridors dimly lit with ceremonial lanterns, their flames wavering as if mourning.

Despite the Queen’s condition wavering between life and death, and the former king’s abrupt departure into exile, a coronation was underway.

The High Circle, bound by divine decree and cosmic law, could not allow the Lunar throne to remain vacant. And so, within the great marble hall of astral rites, the young Cloud—barely past his seventeenth year—was summoned to kneel before the ancient altar of Moondawn, where all Lunar rulers had been anointed since the kingdom’s founding.

He wore no crown yet, only a ceremonial white robe threaded with silver glyphs that glowed faintly under the moonlight. His dark hair was still tousled from sleep. His ebony eyes, wide with confusion, darted between the stoic faces of the High Circle. But not once did he speak.

Not once did he question why he, the quiet middle child, was being called to bear a burden he had not sought.

The Circle remained impassive.

"The kingdom must endure," intoned the eldest of the Circle, his voice echoing across the hall like the toll of a bell. "And the divine name of the King must be worn, lest darkness find us unguarded."

Without protest, Cloud lowered his head.

Holy oils were anointed across his brow, the sigils of the moon pressed upon his forehead, his chest, and his hands. A halo of lunar fire circled above him, dancing in the air before collapsing into a single beam of light that struck the crown—once belonging to his father—now set before him on black velvet. And as he rose, the Crown of the Lunar Kingdom floated to his head and settled there without resistance.

The court, filled with gathered nobles and mystics, watched in stunned silence. Not applause. Not celebration. Only quiet surrender to necessity.

Cloud did not smile. His expression remained unreadable—numb, perhaps. Or simply resolute.

He knew nothing of what had transpired. No one told him of the demon who had breached the sacred cavern. No one explained his mother’s cries that night, or the strange child torn from her womb, or why his father had vanished into the wilderness with madness in his eyes. All Cloud was told was this:

"You are king now."

Yet elsewhere in the Lunar Kingdom, his siblings whispered.

Prince Coast, the sharp-eyed, clenched his jaw when he heard the bells toll for the coronation. "This is too sudden," he murmured to his brother, Blaze. "Father wouldn’t step down unless... unless he was dead. Or worse."

Rain, quiet and perceptive, narrowed his gaze. "Mother, the Queen, still lives, but no one is allowed to see her. And the guards near the sacred chamber—they’re all new. None of them speak."

Another sibling, the youngest among the five of them, Rain, had been crying for hours. He’s barely six years old.

"Where is Papa?" he kept asking. "Why won’t anyone tell us what happened?"

The Lunar Kingdom, despite its ceremonial calm, was fractured. In hushed voices and hidden corners, the royal children speculated about rebellion, betrayal, or exile. They had been taught that the Lunar King was divine by right. Unshakable. Eternal. Yet now, their brother sat upon the throne, and no one dared say the truth aloud.

Outside, as the moon reached its highest point, clouds shifted just enough to let a silver beam fall upon the royal banner. It now bore Cloud’s name—stitched in glowing script just below the symbol of the crescent.

The crown had passed. The kingdom had a king. But peace had not returned. It had only been postponed.

Far from the halls of light and ritual, atop the jagged peak known as the Moonspire Cliffs, Caspian stood in the biting wind—alone.

Below him, the Lunar Kingdom sprawled like a ghost of its former self, veiled in twilight mist and sorrowful bells. From this vantage point, he could see the distant flicker of the coronation fires, the procession of priests and nobles crowning his son in the very throne he had once sworn to protect with his soul.

The weight of failure pressed heavier than the wind on his shoulders.

Gone were the silken robes of sovereignty. Caspian now wore the armor of a royal guardian—not just any guard, but one of the Silent Wardens, the elite protectors once tasked with guarding the inner sanctums of the Lunar bloodline.

Crafted from midnight steel laced with stardust veins, the armor shimmered faintly with every breath of moonlight. Intricate celestial runes etched into the pauldrons pulsed like dormant stars, and a cape woven from lunar wolf-hide fluttered at his back, dyed in the deepest shade of obsidian. The gauntlets bore the sigil of the fallen crescent—once a mark of honor, now a brand of his exile.

The helm lay at his feet, its silver crest glinting like a fallen shard of the moon. He could not bear to wear it yet—not while his thoughts still lingered on her.

His wife. The Queen.

Her screams echoed in his mind louder than the Circle’s verdict. He had failed to protect her—from the horror that crept past ancient seals, from the claws that tore her body, from the pain that had marred her spirit. The gods spoke of redemption, of reclaiming his divine name if he retrieved the demon’s spawn and brought its father to justice.

But this journey was no longer about names or thrones.

It was vengeance.

It was penance.

It was the last promise of a broken king.

Caspian picked up his sword, once a ceremonial blade meant for oaths and processions—now reforged into a weapon of war. Its edge shimmered with moonfire, and upon its hilt was bound a relic stone: a fragment of the Celestial Veil, capable of revealing truths cloaked by shadow and illusion.

He tightened the straps on his armor, breathing in the cold as though it were his last taste of home.

Behind him, the wind carried the faintest echo of bells from the Lunar Temple.

Cloud was now king.

The kingdom would endure... "I’ll be right back."

Caspian rode beneath the weight of the moon’s mournful eye, his horse’s hooves thundering over the frost-slick trails that carved through the outer ridges of the Lunar Kingdom.

His long hair danced against the wind, it could tangle from the speed, but then, he’s a royalty. Even his hair refused to look imperfect.

The landscape grew more twisted and wild with every passing league—the trees more gnarled, the wind more biting, as though the earth itself knew he neared forbidden soil.

His destination lay ahead: the Nocturne Border, a jagged fault between the Lunar Kingdom and the shadowy, chaotic territory known as Rexious—a land unclaimed by politics, yet undeniably ruled.

A realm where half-bloods, born of demons, beasts, and gods, made their home. Though no one dared to call Rexious a kingdom, its people named their own king and none of the realms contested it. Not out of respect—but out of fear. The half-bloods never waged war... but they were powerful enough that others thought twice before offering offense.

It was Cleisthenes, his most loyal shadow-scout, who had whispered to Caspian about a forgotten passage, buried deep within the borderlands—a gate from the old war days, when kings and monsters still danced upon bloodied fields.

"No map dares mark it, My Lord," Cleisthenes had said, his voice trembling, "but they say it listens... it remembers... and if you speak the right words, it opens."

Now, Caspian stood before it.

The gate loomed like a relic of nightmare. Twice the height of any man, its frame was carved from black stone riddled with veins of crimson quartz that pulsed faintly like an old heart.

Twisting runes—some demonic, others ancient fae—ran in tangled spirals across its surface, and in its center, a monstrous face had been chiseled into the stone: a hybrid of wolf and serpent, its mouth agape in a perpetual scream.

The air reeked of sulfur and cold iron, and Caspian’s steed snorted violently, jerking back with a panicked whinny, refusing to go closer.

"Easy," Caspian muttered, dismounting. He placed a gloved hand on the horse’s muzzle, soothing it, but the creature’s wide eyes remained locked on the gate. There was something beyond—something watching.

Just as he reached to inspect the ancient glyphs, a voice, silken and sharp as a dagger tip, curled through the air behind him.

"You smell like a man carrying guilt... and blood. Such a delicious scent."

Caspian spun around, hand already gripping the hilt of his sword—but paused when he saw her.

She lounged against a moss-covered stone, fingers twirling a pair of silver dice that clinked softly in the stillness. Her body seemed carved for temptation—slender yet curvaceous, wrapped in smoky silks that shimmered with an unnatural sheen.

Midnight black hair spilled in waves down her back, streaked with violet strands that glowed faintly in the dark. Small horns curled from her temples, polished and sharp, and her almond-shaped eyes gleamed like molten honey rimmed in gold.

"Who are you?" Caspian commanded.

"Seravine," she said with a coy smirk, bowing low, though her eyes never left his. "Half demon... half nymph. And full-time gambler of fates. Welcome, Former Lunar King."

Caspian’s gaze remained steady, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his unease. "You know who I am?"

Seravine let out a musical laugh. "Everyone in the borderlands knows the man who lost his throne to a scream in the night. The gods branded you, didn’t they? Poor, noble Moonfallen." Her tone dripped with amusement—and something else... curiosity.

"I was told this gate leads somewhere important," he said coldly, ignoring the jab. "A way into the places no map dares chart."

"It does," she replied, stepping closer, her scent a heady blend of nightshade and spice. "But it doesn’t open for just anyone. You must wager something first."

"I offer gold," he said, though he already knew that wasn’t what she wanted.

She chuckled and stopped only a breath away, one claw-tipped finger tracing a line across his chestplate. "Oh no, darling. Not gold. You must offer a memory... a true one. The gate only opens when fed something precious."

Caspian’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. Behind him, the gate pulsed again... like it was listening.

"Choose wisely, Moonfallen," Seravine purred. "For once you give it... you will never get it back."

The air thickened, the ground humming faintly beneath their feet.

The gate was ready.

And Caspian knew—this was only the beginning.