Why Ravens Guard Mooncrowns — At the thirteenth bell, Caldris set himself a private challenge: he would hold the west tower until moonset without speaking a single word. Read the full story →
At the thirteenth bell, Caldris set himself a private challenge: he would hold the west tower until moonset without speaking a single word. The citadel breathed around him, all wet stone, iron-cold wind, and incense drifting from the sealed chapel below. In his hand, the crystal staff ticked softly, as if a beetle were trapped inside its blue heart. He had come to learn why the oldest mooncrowns were carved with empty perches, and why the court librarians crossed out every answer in silver ink.
A raven landed on his shoulder with the weight of a secret. Its claws pricked through velvet; its feathers smelled of rain and burnt candlewick. Caldris kept his lips shut, even when the bird bent close and whispered, “Ask me.” Curiosity ran through him like fire under ice. He raised the staff instead. Moonlight entered the crystal, climbed the twisted wood, and spilled into the hollow spires of his crown.
From that night on, the crown had a listener. Ravens hear the questions rulers are too proud to ask aloud, and they keep the dangerous ones until the moon is thin enough to answer. Ever since, no mooncrown is true unless a raven guards it.
