Chapter 3 - Lessons of Blood

🌒 World Notes: The Moons of Hipos

Before fleeing to the mortal realm, Azaroth and Lumiel lived beneath a divine sky.Their lost home, Hipos, followed the rhythm of Twelve Moons, not seasons.Though that world has long fallen, they still whisper its calendar each year—a quiet act of remembrance for the eternity they once ruled.

🕯️ The Twelve Moons

🌱 Spring — The Season of Awakening

1. Verdance — Renewal and the first bloom of life.

2. Bloomveil — Blossoms, vows, and the birth of hope.

3. Highsun — The rise of warmth and radiant growth.

☀️ Summer — The Season of Power

4. Emberfall — The height of light and fire's breath.

5. Harvest — Balance, bounty, and gratitude.

6. Ashveil — The waning sun, when glory fades to dust.

🍂 Autumn — The Season of Reflection

7. Frostveil — The first chill, when leaves begin to fall.

8. Whiteshroud — The stillness before the snow.

9. Gloamreach — The longest night; dreams and memory entwined.

❄️ Winter — The Season of Silence

10. Dawnswell — The first light after the endless night.

11. Thornmarch — Struggle and endurance; life pushing through frost.

12. Verdantwake — The quiet end of the cycle; seeds sleeping beneath snow.

Between Ashveil and Frostveil lies the Day of Two Shadows,when both suns and both moons rise together,and for a moment, the breath of gods returns to the living.

📜 Current Time: Year 5 — The Fifth Year of Eryndor

For them, time began the moment their son first opened his eyes.

Year 1 marked the birth of Eryndor—their light, their new beginning.Year 5 marks the life they built since,five springs under a mortal sun.

To others, these are ordinary days.But to Azaroth and Lumiel, every dawn is sacred—another heartbeat in the only world they now believe in:the world their child brings to life.

Year 5, Month of Harvest.

Mist rolled through the forest like pale breath rising from the soil.The sun had yet to climb over the horizon, but a single light already burned in the clearing—Azaroth stood there, motionless, waiting.

His figure was entirely human now. No horns, no wings, no trace of what he had once been.Yet the air around him still carried a quiet pressure, like a storm holding its breath.Fear had replaced divinity, and it was heavier than any crown he had worn.

He had not slept since the night his son died and returned.Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again—Eryndor's body crushed beneath the beam, blood pooling beneath lifeless skin, and then the impossible moment when breath returned on its own.

It had been a miracle.And miracles terrified him.

If a child could die and rise again, then death itself might not be the worst thing waiting for him.Something far greater, darker, could still claim him.Azaroth had sworn that day: never again.

When Eryndor appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes, he looked perfectly mortal—black hair, crimson irises dulled by morning light, and a face that held too much grace for a boy his age.

"Morning, Father," he said softly.

Azaroth's reply was curt. "Run."

Eryndor blinked. "Run?"

"Because you stopped once," his father said. "And stopping killed you."

The words hit harder than any command.He didn't understand, but he obeyed.Small feet splashed through dew and dirt as he began to circle the clearing.

Lumiel stepped out onto the porch.Her beauty had dimmed into something mortal—her hair no longer glowed, her eyes were merely gold instead of light.But when she looked at them, she still seemed otherworldly.

"Azaroth," she called gently, "he's barely awake."

"He'll stay that way if he learns discipline," he answered.

Her lips parted, but she said nothing.She knew what haunted him; she had seen it too.So she only watched, hands clenched around the edges of her shawl.

Minutes became hours.The morning haze burned into white heat.Eryndor ran until his steps wavered, his breath rasping.Azaroth's voice followed him, unrelenting.

"Faster."

The boy stumbled.

"Again."

He fell to one knee.

"Don't stop."

"Azaroth," Lumiel warned, voice firm now. "Enough."

He didn't look at her. "It can never be enough. He needs to work."

"No—he needs to rest now."

Azaroth turned, eyes blazing."I wasn't able to save my own child. I wasn't strong enough—so he has to be!"

Lumiel's voice broke as she stepped closer."We weren't able to save our child, Azaroth. Not you. Not me. I blame myself too… but look at him! You're going to kill him again!"

Azaroth froze.The wooden sword slipped from his hand and hit the dirt.Eryndor had collapsed completely, his body shaking with exhaustion.

For a moment the only sound was the boy's ragged breathing, and the faint wind weaving through the trees.

Azaroth knelt beside him, heart pounding."Eryndor," he whispered.

The boy opened his eyes, glassy and tired. "I'm okay," he murmured. "Just… tired."

Azaroth reached toward him, hesitant—his hands were made for war, not comfort.Lumiel came closer, kneeling beside them.Her fingers brushed sweat from Eryndor's brow; her voice trembled between fear and tenderness.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

Eryndor blinked, confused. "Maybe… a little."

"Then you're still alive," she whispered, and forced a smile."That's enough for today."

Azaroth looked up at her.The fury had gone; only shame remained.He nodded once, unable to meet her eyes.Together, they carried their son back to the cottage.

Inside, everything was painfully ordinary.The smell of bread, the soft crackle of the hearth, the rhythm of a mortal life they were still learning to imitate.They no longer needed offerings or prayers—only warmth, only silence, only each other.

Eryndor fell asleep quickly, his breathing soft and steady.Lumiel tucked a blanket around him, her fingers lingering for a moment on his small hand.When she straightened, Azaroth was standing by the door, staring into the trees.

"I know why you're doing this," she said quietly."You think if he's strong, he can't die again."

Azaroth didn't move."If he's strong," he said, "he won't have to suffer like we did."

Lumiel shook her head."And if he becomes what we were?"

He closed his eyes. "I won't let that happen."

"You can't control what he is, Azaroth," she said softly."But you can teach him who he should be."

For a long time neither spoke.The firelight flickered against their faces, and for the first time since they fled the heavens, the warmth between them felt thin—fragile, human.

Outside, the forest breathed quietly under a sky of fading gold.Inside, the boy's small chest rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep,each breath a promise neither of them could keep forever.

Three Months Later — Month of Whiteshroud

The forest had found a fragile rhythm again.Days blurred into a cycle of training, healing, and quiet meals shared in the warmth of firelight.Eryndor's strength grew unnervingly fast—each motion more precise, each spell clearer, as if he remembered rather than learned.When his blade cut through air, it whispered like something older than his hands.

Azaroth watched in silence, pride tangled with dread.Lumiel saw it too—the echo of divinity that refused to fade.

Sometimes, when Eryndor fell during practice, he no longer bled long enough to frighten them.Wounds closed within moments; scars vanished like smoke.Every miracle felt like proof of how far from human they still were.

But between these heavy truths, life went on.They cooked. They laughed. They pretended to belong.Lumiel hummed old songs when she baked; Azaroth traded mended tools for flour;and Eryndor—though faster and stronger than any boy his age—still found wonder in the smallest things.

That morning, the air smelled again of wet earth and fresh bread.Azaroth, having agreed to stay and mend a broken cart for the elder, watched them go from the threshold—his silhouette a dark line against the pale doorway.He did not wave. He only nodded once, the smallest of departures.

Lumiel walked with Eryndor at her side, the boy's hand tucked into the folds of her sleeve like a secret.He moved with the quiet curiosity of someone stepping into a painting—every color, every sound catalogued behind deep crimson eyes.

"Do you remember what we call this month?" Lumiel asked, as they walked the path toward the village.

"Whiteshroud," Eryndor replied promptly. "The Stillness before the Snow."

Lumiel smiled faintly. "Good. Then notice everything anew—even the silence."

The path into town cut through low fields where frost had bitten the last of the herbs.Children's laughter came softer now, wrapped in breath and wool.Villagers turned as they approached—not with hostility, but with that precise attention people give to the unfamiliar.Lumiel had learned how to fold her otherness into a kind, plain face; still, there were always small ripples.

"Morning, stranger," the baker called, wiping his hands on his apron.He glanced at Lumiel with the casual curiosity of someone who sees many faces."Your child's got eyes like stormlight. You from beyond the ridge?"

Lumiel inclined her head, the practiced smile that made heads relax."Just passing through," she said. "May I have two loaves, please? One for the road, and one to share."

The baker's lips twitched. "Share? Well, that's a good name to meet the day with."He tossed one loaf into a linen bag and wrapped the other in paper for her."On the house for such manners."

Eryndor examined the loaves with a solemnity that made the baker laugh outright."Do we feed these to trolls?" he asked, in a voice that sounded like a question from another era.

"No," Lumiel said, amused. "We break bread, not bones."She handed him a piece; Eryndor bit and studied its texture like a scholar tasting memory.

At the market square, the world uncoiled in small dramas: an old woman bargaining for dye, a boy showing off a carved whistle, a shepherd trading gossip for grain.Lumiel moved through it like water—listening, responding, buying a strip of cloth, a pot of honey, herbs to stitch into sachets.

Children noticed Eryndor at once—not for his face, but for the quiet calm around him.He stood near the fountain where the village gathered to draw water.A young boy—barely six—leaned too far over the edge, chasing a fallen coin, and slipped.The splash came sharp, fast; his mother screamed before anyone could move.

Eryndor was already running.Without hesitation, he dove into the shallow pool.The crowd gasped—some in fear, some in disbelief—as the small figure disappeared beneath the surface.For a moment there was only churning water, a silver blur beneath it, and then Eryndor rose, holding the limp child in his arms.

He laid the boy on the stone edge, eyes wide with focus far too old for his age.The mother was sobbing, pulling at her own hair. "He's not breathing!"

Eryndor placed a hand on the child's chest. His fingers glowed faintly—not a burning light, but something gentler, like sunlight seen through water.The boy convulsed once, then gasped—a desperate, broken gasp that tore the silence in half.Water spilled from his mouth, and color flooded back into his cheeks.He coughed, blinked, and began to cry.

The crowd erupted. At first, in relief—shouts of praise, of thanks to the heavens.But the sound shifted; gratitude warped into confusion, confusion into fear. "What did he do?" someone whispered. "He touched him. And he came back.""That's not possible."

The priest, who had been among the onlookers, stepped forward, face pale."Child," he said carefully. "Who taught you that?"

Eryndor looked up at him, bewildered. "No one," he said. "He was cold. I wanted him to breathe again."

The priest's mouth tightened. "Such power does not come without cost."

Lumiel rushed forward, her voice soft but edged."He only helped," she said. "You should be grateful."

"Grateful?" The priest's voice wavered, the fear beneath it now given form. "You call this help? To command life and death as if they were toys?"

The words spread like oil across flame.Murmurs began to rise—suspicion, awe, terror. "Witchcraft," someone hissed. "A blessing," another countered.And so the crowd divided—between those who saw a miracle and those who saw an abomination.

Lumiel took Eryndor's hand firmly. "We're leaving," she said. No one tried to stop them, not yet. The crowd simply parted, the way mortals part before something they cannot name.

On the walk home, Lumiel's silence felt heavier than the air.Eryndor looked up, his voice trembling. "Mother… did I do wrong?"

She forced herself to smile, though her hands shook."You did what was right," she whispered. "But right things frighten people."

The boy nodded slowly, though he didn't understand.Behind them, the priest watched from the chapel steps, lips moving in a prayer that sounded more like a curse.Already, messengers were whispering to him; already, questions were spreading.

As they reached the edge of the forest, the sun was sinking, red as a wound.Azaroth was outside the cottage, mending his tools. He looked up, saw their faces, and something in him went still.No words were needed.

That night, the forest felt too quiet. Even the stars seemed to hold their breath.