In times where magic bore no name and the miracles came down as flurry snow, the realm of Evenfall bathed in a light of silver and gentle blue, above the clouds but below the moon, where lakes of sapphire would glitter with diamonds and the crystal tree leafs reflected the morning dew; one could say it was a place where peace would never waver. And it has, in fact, never been troubled - for the past fear of its people remained engraved in each generation's mind to never forgive, never forget, the reason why they had taken refuge in the moon’s shadow.

  Owein had been taught this more than once, the story of a god that had surrendered to madness and invaded the sun’s fire and swarmed onto the lands a violent storm of flames and ash, where the pain threw the people into a frenzy and from which the heat dried the seas, for all that was left was the hollers of a god whom we had forgotten the name of.

  What came before the cataclysm was unknown, or maybe it did not matter, but it was something he had always wondered. He wished he could picture the realm below before all came down to chaos, why would the gods, protectors of realms, succumb to a darkness too dreadful to speak of. Pondering about a past that probably will never reveal itself to him was unfortunately not something he could continue doing.

  Looking through the window of his study he observed the stars, the delicate colours of the night sky painted in waves of lilacs and teal, and heavily sighed. Now was the time to go pray and, quite frankly, he did not want to. More than confronting the people that held in him a hope that he did not even believe in, it was praying to the moon that had remained silent for years now - more than once he had to lie about the messages she had presumably conveyed to him. And yet, looking down to his people, they all drank his words, adored and revered and did not once question his intentions.

  He did not lie because he wanted to. But how would they react if they understood that the moon had ceased answering their call? Would their land fall into chaos again? No… Thinking about it made him shiver. Maybe his mother will know, but for now he could only pretend that the moon would bless them eternally.

  Stepping out of his tiny study, he marched through corridors dimly lit by flames of gold and the pearly light from outside. He passed rooms where basins of marble laid untouched, others where parchemins where stored and scribes wrote in an eerie silence, to finally step through grand wooden doors meticulously carved in floral and sylvan motifs. The air was cool, the sky forever cloudless and Owein observed with awe the great cathedral that stood unwavering, solemn and silent, towering above all the other buildings around. An immense courtyard separated the palace and the religious grounds, though linked through this marvelous garden of statues and blooming flowers. The scent was ambrosial, and if he was not assigned to assist the mass, he would stroll down this garden until the bell of slumber would echo, forcing him to retreat to his chambers.

  But being born within an hallowed family, which drew from the moon’s very blood, did not allow him to stroll and wander much. He had resigned to do what he was told, regardless of his own feelings, and he had made peace with the sacrifices that came with his line. Lifting his eyes of tarnished blue to the cathedral, he pressed on, passing beds of white flowers and orange trees lining the path ahead, revealing the towers of the House of the Moon, holiest place in Evenfall, and where he will soon perform the rites.

  The spiraling towers stretched high above, encircling the marble pinnacles carved within the stone with intricate angelic statues. A rose window stood in its front, stunningly bearing colors of incredible beauty, casting within the church a mosaic of hues from ages long past. It was one of the only remnants of the first humans saved by the moon, for they slept and ate and prayed in this very place, before going out and building a world of their own.

  Owein strode until he was puffing from the effort, holding any physical work in disdain, for he would rather spend his hours enjoying the breeze instead of drowning in his own sweat. The result was that his body was quite weak, though he never needed to be fit since a priest doesn't do much other than sitting and kneeling before an altar. Arriving at the end of the path flanked by orange trees, he headed towards the incoming group of believers entering the House of the Moon. The excited chatters filled the air, some mumbles and others talks of adoration made their way into the open doors of the cathedral, from where resonated the sound of an organ.

  “My god, you look awful,” a familiar voice arose, forcing him to turn to his left. A young man walked up to him with a grin on his face, and eyes that shone brown. Owein’s brow flinched.

  “And you look worse,” he retorted.

  The man frankly laughed and pushed him forward to walk with him. Around them some people glanced with discomfort, exchanging low murmurs to each other.

  “How do you feel? A lot of people today,” his friend stated, passing a hand through his black hair. “Don’t be too scared up there,” he chuckled.

  “You know I won’t. What about you? How is the training coming along?”

  “Rather great. Some try to mess with me, but these silver spoon fed lads can’t throw a punch for shit.”

  Owein let out a cackle. “Well, I am very much spoon fed too.”

  “Yes…But you actually think before doing. Looks like it's a gift to have nowadays.”

  They both laughed while making their way through the grand doors, where the solemn air of the building rushed through and put a certain pressure on their shoulders, putting their talk to a halt. The organ blew low sounds of repetitive melodies, and the scent of musk and cedar with a slight floral note flowed within these marble walls. Owein had learned that most of the incense they burnt in the House of the Moon had petals and roots of white flowers specifically grown for that purpose.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  It was hard not to look up once in the cathedral. Painted rib vaults littered the ceiling in colors of deep blue and gold, stars and constellations depicted in a beautiful harmony. The nave stretched far, with benches of dark wood with arches of marble illuminated with large basins of fire hanging from its sides. A beautiful high statue surrounded by the branches of a tree growing at its pedestal extended high under the first dome, representing the allegory of the moon, a long haired woman with a disc of gold behind her head, eyes closed and an arm outstretched towards the sky. The tree bearing branches of white was in full bloom; the crystal leafs dangled gently from the incoming movement of the people, and some flowers had already started to appear in some part of it. Owein and his friend separated in one apprehensive nod, him passing next to the statue, and his friend retreating to the last of the benches.

  Owein felt uncomfortable by how grandiose the House of the Moon was. It felt too big, too disproportionate, like one might get lost in the immense walls of marble and the checked pattern of the ground. Sometimes, he could hardly focus on the space around him and he would lose his focus - as the ceiling being so high and the arches so large it would make no more sense to him, and after a bit, he would urgently leave the premises before he felt the need to vomit. It was unfortunate to have the role to participate in the mass while having to deal with the ridiculous height of the building, but Owein never once complained, for this was his duty.

  The assembly filled the benches in murmurs, while the organ ceased playing its melody as Owein was turning behind the statue to meet with his other colleagues. No need to move to the transept or the choir to perform the rite, as this mass only consisted of chants of adoration and offerings, before finishing by a message from the moon. Owein hoped with all this heart that today, the prayers would at last work, and refrain him from lying again in front of all these people. He was so tired of blabbering nonsense just to preserve the illusion; and yet if he didn’t, he would be too scared to face the consequences.

  “Your cape,” a feminine voice told him while giving a white cloak.

  “Thank you Monica.”

  She quickly went around him before tying his hair in a low ponytail.

  “You ought to cut your hair,” she pointed. “It will get in the way.”

  “I know,” Owein sighed. “I want to, but mother hates it short, I don’t really have a say in the matter.”

  “You’re lucky…Silver hair is pretty,” she said while petting his head and turning to the High Priest leading this mass. “We are ready, Holy Jesper.”

  An old man, bald with sunken black eyes slowly nodded to her, forcing a tired smile.

  “Good, we shall begin.”

  Monica turned towards the back of the cathedral and threw her arms in the air, signaling the organ to start playing the mass. And so it began. First, they came out with candles of red supported by a silver metallic stand, representing the melting earth below. The Holy Jesper then sang a first song, solemn and grave, describing with an unsettling accuracy the agony of their ancestors, who had greatly suffered at the sun’s wrath. The priest and priestesses joined, from which Owein and Monica were part of, repeating in unison three hymns dedicated to the moon, the redeemer, that saved the lives of living men. Then the public stood and sang and prayed and after a while, Owein was bored.

  Truth was that these rites took so much time off of his own personal studies that weren't even that enthralling, though if that could mean to leave this awfully grand place, they would certainly become of great interest. But it was what he was born for, and so he kept going either way. The organ would blow even more beautiful melodies, and people would sing, some word cry, some would stay silent, while Owein simply tried not looking around in fear of triggering his unease about the place. At last, the moment they all waited desperately came after a myriad of songs that felt no more different to one another.

  The Holy Jesper showed his hand flat, commanding a complete silence. The music ceased, and the people sat, eyes hypnotised by the old man dominating the crowd by its simple presence. Now was his turn. Owein gave his candle to Monica while bowing, and the Holy Jester stepped aside to let him stand in the middle of the gathering. Was brought a great basin of Moon Water by four muscular men, and its sight was something to behold. Pearly white color reflected on its surface that dazzled from the shiny little glitters contained in it. Blessed by the moon itself it felt like the holiest of holy simply by looking at it. Its sight was as rare as it being blessed, for this was the last remnant of the moon’s gifts and a hope that maybe she had not abandoned them. Slowly, Owein slightly bent and cupped a small amount of water in his hands - he oh so prayed that this time around, a message will be conveyed. He lifted to his lips the glowing liquid, drinking it all.

  The taste was strange, not unpleasant but not exactly great; it was sour and sweet, with a warmth that would envelop the mouth and throat after swallowing it, like liqueur provided after a large meal. Nothing happened at first, and Owein accepted the fact that once again, he would have to lie. He opened his mouth, ready to speak praises and good news, but nothing came out. Instead, a violent cough took over him, alerting the crowd who started whispering. A fuzzy sensation filled his head, and he felt light, yet his limbs were as heavy as a bag of bricks, and his throat stung from the cough that seemed to not end. A new awful pain arose from his chest making him wobble, feeling his heart pumping rapidly. Owein sank to his knees, his mind rushing to panic as other believers tried to pull him away, though somehow even them couldn't move a single inch of his body. He tried to scream but more cough came out instead, the pain rising from his chest to his head, unable to understand what was happening. His eyes focused and unfocused on his surroundings, making out faces yet sometimes going all blurry, his breathing slowed and, soon enough, he moved no more.

  The crowd was not really sure what had happened. Some men had gotten up to leave in haste, while others saw in the spams of the poor young man a sort of message to be deciphered. Monica was terrified and she stood frozen into place, catching a glimpse of Gwendal making his way from the back end of the crowd to check on his friend.

  Owein’s body flinched. He slowly got up, shutting down any sounds of the assembly that had started to leave the building or speak in a disordered manner. His eyes were empty of soul, his body looked limp though it stood straight like a stick. All went silent and watched the young man speak in a voice that was not his. The voice that spoke felt distant yet whispering to your ear, it was gravely yet fawning, it was a plea but also a command. It said one thing.

  “I’m dying.”