A Color for the Moon

Aeriel stood on the frostbitten balcony of the Ice Keep, her feet numb against the veined stone. Above her, the battlements glimmered with hoarfrost, and the Moon’s great dust-sea stretched away, silver and endless. Night was always here, and moonlight fell like an old, persistent memory. Behind her, Oriencor’s presence pressed cold against her back—no footstep, no sound, just a closing of the world, as if the air itself had stopped moving. Aeriel turned. The White Witch was beautiful as a glacier’s heart: skin white as salt, hair a shimmer of spun frost, eyes blank and depthless. She wore white upon white—robes hard to look at, like patterns in ice, never quite the same twice. 'I would give you a gift,' Oriencor said, voice as soft as falling snow. 'If you will pay the price.' Aeriel’s heart hammered. She remembered the wraith-brides below, their hands forever weaving, their faces emptied of color and hope. She remembered Irrylath, wings folded like shadows, his eyes sometimes human, sometimes black as the night-sea. 'What gift?' Aeriel asked, her voice small but steady. 'A color the Moon has lost,' said the Witch. 'A true hue, stolen by ending. Gold, perhaps. Or red, as once the dawn. I could give it back.' Aeriel shook her head, but could not look away. 'Why?' she whispered. 'Why offer this to me?' Oriencor’s eyes narrowed. 'Because you have a name I might need. Name for me a child,' the Witch said, 'one who could become a darkangel. Speak it, and I will restore color to this world—one hue, for one future. Will you barter with hope, or with hunger?' Aeriel flinched. On the battlements above, the icari—brothers, sons, cousins of darkness—watched, faces pale, wings taut with anticipation. The air was heavy with their hunger, but also with their uncertainty. They were beautiful and broken, her enemies and almost her kin. Aeriel remembered Eoduin’s laughter, and then her hollowed face. She remembered Talb’s words: 'A heart is not for trading, but for giving.' She trembled, but stood her ground. 'If I name a child, you’ll turn them?' 'Or not,' said Oriencor. 'A name is only a key. You may choose; you may refuse.' The Moon seemed to hold its breath. Aeriel stared down at the world, so pale, so starved for color it hurt to look. Her heart ached for gold, for red, for any sign this was not death in slow motion. But she thought of the wraiths, and the price of hunger. 'I will not name a child for you,' she said at last, voice barely above a whisper, but it carried. 'Let the Moon stay pale, if the cost is another darkangel.' Oriencor smiled, thin and sharp. 'You are stubborn, servant. But you do not understand: hunger finds its way regardless.' The Witch turned, her shadow trailing across the stone like a slow eclipse. The icari shifted, restless above. Aeriel watched her go, heart pounding, eyes stinging. The Moon remained unchanged—still cold, still colorless. Yet, for a moment, Aeriel thought she glimpsed a faint flush at the horizon, a memory of dawn. She stood alone, feet aching with cold, and knew the Moon’s hunger had not ended. But neither had hope.

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