“Moonlight in Her Veins

The Abandoned Blossom

Rain fell without mercy that night. The sky bled silver, and the wind howled like a grieving mother. Beneath an ancient oak at the crossroads of two forgotten paths, a small wooden box rested its lid half open, its contents trembling. Inside lay a newborn. Her hair, impossibly soft, shimmered white with faint streaks of pink, like cherry petals caught in snow. Her skin was pale as moonlight, her lips blushed the gentlest rose, and her eyes—when they flickered open were dark blue, deep and endless. The world did not deserve such beauty, and yet, here she was, crying into the storm. Her parents had left her there, hidden by shadows and guilt. They had wanted a son—an heir, a legacy and when fate delivered a daughter instead, their love withered. The mother’s tears had fallen when she placed the infant down, but the father’s silence had been colder than the rain. They left her at the crossroads, where the dirt met the stone, and the thunder swallowed her cries. Hours passed. The storm raged on. Then came Arden Vale a man worn by years and sorrow. His boots sank into the mud as he trudged along the road, carrying nothing but an old lantern and a heart that still hoped for something he could never have. He and his wife, Elara, had prayed for a child for years. They were poor so poor that some nights they shared one loaf of bread but what they lacked in gold, they made up for in tenderness. Yet, no matter how much love they had to give, no child had ever come. Arden was returning from the village when he heard it the faintest cry between the thunderclaps. At first, he thought it was a bird caught in the storm. But as he neared the crossroad, his lantern flickered across the outline of the wooden box. His breath caught. When he lifted the lid, he saw her. The world seemed to still. Her eyes met his dark blue, shimmering with tears—and something inside him broke and healed all at once. “By the gods…” he whispered. “Who would leave a flower like you to die in the rain?” He hesitated only for a heartbeat. Then he took off his worn cloak and wrapped her in it, close against his chest. She was so small, so warm. The rain no longer mattered. “Don’t cry, little blossom,” he murmured. “You’ll never be alone again.” And just like that, her life began anew. When Arden reached home, Elara nearly dropped the bowl she was washing. “Arden! What—who is that?” He smiled softly, soaked through, the tiny bundle in his arms still crying. “Our daughter,” he said simply. “The gods have given us one.” Elara’s eyes widened, then softened as she peered into the bundle. The sight of that small, perfect face pink lips trembling, tiny fingers curling—stole her breath. “Eira,” she whispered suddenly. Arden tilted his head. “Eira?” “It means snow in the old tongue,” she said. “Because she’s as pure and bright as the first snow of winter.” And so, Eira Caelwyn was named. Years passed, and Eira grew into the most radiant child the village had ever seen. Though her parents were poor, their home was rich in laughter. Arden carved wooden toys for her, while Elara sang lullabies that drifted beyond the fields. But not everyone saw her beauty as a blessing. The villagers whispered. “Her hair it’s unnatural.” “Those eyes, like the deep sea… cursed, they say.” “Maybe she’s not even human.” Eira heard them sometimes, their voices sharp as knives. But when she ran home crying, Arden would lift her up and smile. “Let them talk,” he’d say. “You’re my daughter, and you’re perfect just as you are.” Those words became her shelter. On her fourteenth birthday, the house smelled of baked bread and honey. Arden had made her a crown of daisies, and Elara had sewn her a pink ribbon to match her hair. Eira’s laughter filled the small home. That night, they sat beneath the stars, and Arden told her stories of heroes and kingdoms she’d never seen. But fate, ever cruel, waited in silence. When dawn came, Arden did not wake. Eira found him sitting in his chair, the wooden carving knife still in his hand, his face peaceful as if asleep. But when she shook him, his head fell forward. The world shattered. Her scream carried across the village, but no one came. Elara changed after that. Her grief curdled into anger, then into something darker. She refused to look at Eira, refused to speak her name. “It’s your fault,” she hissed one night, her eyes wild. “You brought this curse to our home!” Eira begged, sobbed, clung to her mother’s skirt, but Elara only tore her hands away. Within a week, she remarried—a man from another town—and sent Eira away to a boarding school far from home. Eira never saw her again. The Lyra Academy for Girls was not the haven she hoped for. Its stone walls were cold, its corridors filled with laughter that wasn’t meant for her. The other girls mocked her hair, her eyes, her silence. “Monster,” they called her. “Cursed thing.” Even teachers looked away, muttering prayers under their breath when she passed. At night, Eira would sit by the dormitory window, staring at the moon. “If you’re watching, Father,” she whispered, “I’m trying to be brave. I’m trying.” Her heart ached with every breath, but she learned to smile through it. By the time she turned eighteen, Eira had stopped expecting kindness. She worked part-time cleaning classrooms to afford her meals. When she laughed, it was soft and hollow, like a sound from another life. Still, something inside her refused to die. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was the memory of a man who had once picked her up from the rain and called her his daughter. She promised herself that she would live, no matter what this cruel world thought of her. But fate was not done with Eira Caelwyn. Not yet. That night, as the wind howled once more and thunder echoed like it had fourteen years ago, Eira stood beneath the same kind of sky. Somewhere far beyond the stars, a door was opening. A new world—one she could not yet imagine—was calling her name. And in that world, beneath the red moons of Aethelgard, another lonely soul would soon hear it.