Moonfall

29th of Midwinter, 960 A.D.

The silver winds that once whispered prayers through the marble arches of the Silver Sanctum had long since fallen silent. The holy songs were gone. The light was gone. All that remained was dust, dried blood, and a gaping wound in the heart of the moon’s faith.

Malevor stood at the edge of the ruined courtyard, where pale vines had begun to creep over broken columns and shattered mosaics. The old temple still clung to its form, even after all that had happened within it. Statues of Selune, her arms once raised to cradle the stars, now lay buried under debris and shadow. The stone altar was stained - not just with blood, but with truths too heavy to wash away.

She had not returned to mourn. She had come to build.

Only a few miles to the south, hidden within a ring of low cliffs and silver pines, construction of the new temple had begun. They called it the Temple of Moonfall, though the name was never spoken publicly. It was not recorded in any ledger, not whispered in any tavern, not mapped on any chart. The workers were brought in by Ahmya’s organization - men and women who knew better than to ask questions. 

The temple’s outer form resembled nothing of the Selunite design. No sweeping arches. No delicate marble. Instead, it was low, angular, and armored, like a bunker pretending to be a chapel. What looked like devotional chambers above ground were merely the husk. The real temple was below, a descending maze of laboratories, vaults, meditation halls, and libraries, each carved deeper into the rock than the last.

At the heart of it all, in a chamber of obsidian and silver, floated the core fragment of the moonstone - the same sliver that had halted the progression of Malevor’s darkvein. The same one that spoke to her when the Selunites had tried to seal her away.

She had nearly died that day. Or perhaps, she had.

The rage had been uncontrollable, but it hadn’t been blind. She had fought for her right to live and to be free from those that had wanted her dead. She believed them to be family for most of her life, but they proved that they didn’t feel the same way. She had left after the fight and it wasn’t before nearly a year later that she returned.

She remembered Alune’s face when she had returned. A face she had once held with trembling hands in moments of love and prayer. And then, in those final moments, the same face twisted by refusal, by fear, by duty to a god who had turned her back.

Malevor had not struck the first blow. But when she struck back, it was with everything - the scream of a dying faith, the vengeance of a stolen truth, the might of a god imprisoned yearning for release.

The surviving Selunites had died quickly. Alune had died slowly.

The year that followed was not filled with peace. The darkvein had receded and disappeared, yes, but something else had replaced it: a low thrum beneath her skin, a weight in her mind like pressure before a storm. It wasn’t pain. It was a presence. Caecus- the ancient one, the exiled god, the thing hidden from every prayer book and holy tome - had touched her soul.

At first, she believed she was merely his vessel, or a tool. Maybe even a prophet.

But the more she listened, the more she realized the truth: her connection with Caecus was not whole. The essence of Caecus was fragmented and scattered across the material plane and maybe even beyond. If she could reunite these fragments to build a stronger connection, to understand them, it would bring her closer to the answers she sought.

And so she began her research.

Ahmya had helped her. The brilliant, quiet woman that she was moved through the chaos of the world like a shadow. Where Malevor’s path was scorched by fury and revelation, Ahmya’s was clean and methodical. The organization she managed named The Silent Wing had resources Malevor was eternally grateful for. Forbidden tomes were acquired and so were stolen reliquaries. They brought her information on moonstones, lunar phases, and gravitational anomalies from beyond the sky. Anything that could possibly be connected to Caecus.

Together, they pieced together fragments of the past, ancient rites that predated the current order of Selune, of a being chained in silence while the pantheon looked away. They found patterns. Strange symmetries in arcane lunar cycles. Blood rituals matching the rhythms of eclipses long forgotten. The more shards of Caecus they gathered the stronger her connection became. The dreams began soon after. 

Some nights, she would walk alone into the sanctum and stand before the floating shard of moonstone. She would press her palm against its surface, feeling the static ripple across her skin, up her arm, into her bones. Her veins would illuminate faintly - silver first, then deepening to a sickly, violet glow.

Those were the nights when she remembered Selune’s touch. She remembered what it felt like to be loved by a god. To be healed by her light. To be cradled by her warmth in the deepest hours of the night. But then she would remember what they did to her. And she would press her hand harder against the stone until her fingers bled, and whisper back to Caecus.

The Temple of Moonfall was never meant to be a church. Not truly. But already, some had begun to gather. They came in silence - runaways, exiles and outcasts who felt the cold pull of the dark moon in their dreams. They saw her violet-veined skin and bowed in reverence, though she had never called herself divine. Some brought offerings, shards of moonstone, blood-soaked scrolls, poems written by the mad under full moons. Malevor never asked for these things. But she did not reject them, either.

The worshipers of Caecus had no name. No official dogma. Only belief in a god who had been wronged and who now returned through one of their own.

And in their own way, they were right.

One night, Malevor and Ahmya stood at the top of the half-finished temple, staring out at the shattered ruins of the old Selunite shrine atop the spire far in the distance. The wind had gone quiet again. The sky was clear with the exception of the two moons.

Ahmya took a sip of her tea and as she put the cup down on the railing said. “You’re going to have to face her again someday.”

Malevor didn’t look at her. “Selune?”

Ahmya nodded. “Or what’s left of her. She won’t ignore this forever.”

Malevor’s jaw tightened. “She can’t stop what’s already begun.”

Ahmya took another sip, her expression unreadable. “And if she tries?”

Malevor turned her eyes to the moon. Her voice was calm.

“Then we bury a second god.”