He woke with a sharp gasp, chest heaving as his hand clutched his temple. The echo of the nightmare still throbbed in his mind, a lingering pulse of fear that crawled beneath his skin. Slowly, he focused on the ceiling above him, its familiar cracks barely visible in the dim light. The shadows were where they should be.
He was home.
A figure stood nearby, dressed in a deep brown suit, his posture relaxed, his calmness almost unreal. It was his brother, Luchian Nox Pvolae. His face was oval and unmistakably human, absent of any sharpness or striking edge. A short, slightly rounded chin softened his features, giving him a quiet, unassuming look. Thin, light eyebrows rested gently above grey eyes—clear, yet subdued—each holding a faint crescent that seemed to linger rather than shine.
His hair was black, though subtle strands of silver wove through it, noticeable only upon closer look. A straight nose sat naturally at the center of his face, its tip slightly rounded, avoiding any sharpness. His lips were thin, resting in a neutral line—neither smiling nor tense, simply still. His pale skin carried a quiet, distant presence, as though he belonged more to silence than to the world around him.
The brown suit he wore deepened that impression, paired with black pants that blended into the muted tones of his figure. A brown cap rested lightly atop his head, completing the look—unassuming, composed, and easy to overlook, yet strangely difficult to ignore.
Luchian was a painter. He did not earn much, yet he somehow managed to provide for both of them. Clyde had never questioned it aloud. They had no parents to rely on, or at least, that was what Luchian always said. It was a truth Clyde accepted, even if it never fully made sense to him.
"Did you have another nightmare?" Luchian asked softly.
Clyde nodded. The words refused to come, weighed down by images he could not name.
"I'll be leaving for work," Luchian said, adjusting his coat.
Clyde exhaled quietly, then glanced at him. "Already heading out?" he murmured, his tone low, slightly rough from sleep. After a brief pause, he added, softer, "Don't stay locked in there the whole day again."
A faint, almost invisible shift crossed Luchian's expression at that.
Clyde looked away, then back again, his voice gentler now. "Just… take care."
It wasn't dramatic or heavy—just something simple, familiar. The kind of words that didn't need to be said often, but always meant the same thing when they were.
After Luchian left, Clyde dressed in his finest clothes. The fabric brushed against his skin, a reminder of a normal life that felt increasingly distant. He stepped out into the streets of Cristae, where damp stone and faint chimney smoke hung heavy in the air. Every step felt deliberate, cautious, as though the shadows themselves were watching him, waiting to drag the dream back into waking thought.
By the time he reached Cristae Academy, the unease had settled into a dull weight.
He no longer walked its halls as a student, but as a teacher. His income, four pounds a month, far exceeded Luchian's income, and the difference had reshaped his life in small but meaningful ways. He could afford fresh, warm bread instead of stale loaves. He could imagine, faintly, that if he saved enough, he and Luchian might one day own a proper home instead of renting the decaying one they lived in.
Even so, the role didn't quite feel as distant as it sounded. The same halls he once walked as a student were still the same halls he moved through now, only with a different purpose. Familiar faces passed by him, some recognizing him, others treating him as if he had always been on the other side of the room.
During one of his classes, Clyde stood at the front mid-teaching, chalk in hand, finishing a line on the board. The room was quiet, students mostly paying attention.
He paused when he noticed the back row.
Two students weren't following along.
One of them sat slouched, tie loose, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he hadn't bothered fixing it all day. The other leaned forward with his chin resting on his hand, eyes half-closed, fingers marked with faint ink stains. They weren't looking at the board. Their attention was on each other.
"Hey… you heard about the fallen moon goddess?" one of them whispered.
The other glanced at him. "What about it?"
"They say she wasn't fully gone," he said, lowering his voice even more. "Like… parts of her are still around."
The second student frowned slightly. "That sounds like something people just made up."
"I'm just saying what I heard," the first replied. "There've been stories—people having the same dreams… strange things at night."
Clyde's hand slowed at the board.
The chalk stayed in contact with the surface, but he stopped moving for a moment.
"Blood-red moon," the student added quietly. "That's what they mention."
Clyde's grip tightened around the chalk.
The words caught his attention more than he expected.
For a brief moment, the classroom felt further away. The voices behind him, the faint movements, even the sound of chairs shifting—it all faded into the background.
His mind drifted.
The nightmare came back in pieces. Not clear, but enough to recognize. The silence. The feeling of being watched. The pressure that didn't come from any direction but still surrounded him.
And then the name surfaced again.
"Noxella."
Clyde held still for a second longer than necessary.
Then he forced himself to move again, continuing the line he had been writing. The chalk scratched softly against the board as he finished it.
He placed the chalk down.
"Focus on the lesson," he said, without turning around.
His voice was calm, but a little firmer than before.
A few students straightened in their seats after that.
When class ended, Clyde stayed composed as he gathered his things. He moved with the others for a moment, then broke away, heading down the corridor instead of following the crowd.
The hallway was quieter.
His steps echoed lightly as he walked, each one steady, even if his thoughts weren't completely settled.
He told himself it was nothing more than curiosity.
Still, the feeling stayed with him as he made his way toward the library.
He pushed open the doors, and a gentle hush of air washed over him. The scent of old pages and dust filled his lungs, tinged with something faintly metallic. The hall stretched impossibly high, walls of books rising beyond sight. Their spines were cracked with age, their stories waiting in silence. Dust drifted through the lamplight like slow-falling snow.
After signing the registry, Clyde walked deeper into the library, past countless shelves, until he reached its farthest corner.
There, hidden among broken volumes, he found a book titled The Cataclysm.
He opened it carefully.
The first page showed ancient humans kneeling beneath the moon. Their faces glowed with reverence as they reached toward a gentle figure depicted above them.
Noxella, the Moon Goddess.
The text described her as merciful and kind, a deity who loved humanity so deeply that she gifted them a single drop of her divine blood. That drop, the book claimed, could cure any illness, even those thought incurable. It could restore life where none should remain.
Clyde traced the illustration with his finger, imagining warmth, light, and compassion. It felt impossibly distant from the horror that haunted his sleep.
As he turned the pages, the tone shifted.
Humanity grew greedy. They took more than they were given. They hunted the goddess's blood, worshipping the miracle while forgetting its source. Fallen gods whispered into Noxella's ears, twisting her grief into rage. When she opened her eyes again, she no longer saw children in need, only thieves.
The Cataclysm followed.
Moonlight burned cities to ash. Civilizations vanished. An entire age was erased, leaving only whispers, ruins, and bloodstained history.
Clyde closed his eyes, the weight of it pressing down on him. The world he lived in was not shaped by chance or time, but by sorrow, betrayal, and divine wrath.
And somewhere within that truth, something was still watching.