Page 9 of Magical Moonbeam

In times of great sorrow, the Veil has brought shadows. In times of great hope, it has brought light. Both are possible. Both are watching. Both are waiting.

The fine hairs along my arms lifted. I brushed my fingertips along the note, wondering who had written it and what they had seen. The pages shimmered faintly, as though the book remembered the moment it was marked.

A shadow… or a light?

A sharp flutter near my ear broke the spiral of worry I found myself in.

Three book sprites returned with their translucent wings, buzzing like dragonflies on honey. One hovered inches from my nose with an expression that could only be described as exasperated. Another tugged at the corner of the book like it was ready to be replaced, but I barely had time to shutLunarisumbefore the third sprite dropped a new book into my lap with a thud that kicked up a puff of dust.

“Thanks,” I muttered, coughing dust as the sprite zipped away.

This book was thicker, older, and wrapped in cracked navy leather bound with a thread of silver that glowed faintly under my touch. The front was unmarked, but as I opened the cover, the title swirled across the first page in twisting, handwritten ink.

Shadowick: A History.

I stared at it for a long moment, with my heart caught in my throat.

The sprites didn’t drop things at random. Theyknew. They always knew.

So, I flipped the page to see the opening chapter.

It was a dry read, filled with dates, settlement names, and border changes between magical territories. A few mentions of old treaties I didn’t recognize I tucked into memory, but about halfway through, the tone shifted.

It grew darker, not in style, still elegantly penned, but in content. It was as if someone or something unseen had started leaning over the author’s shoulder.

“Shadowick did not begin in shadow,” the chapter began.

My breath caught.

“It was founded on laughter and water. Magic was plentiful, yes! But it was a quiet magic. It was the magic that grew crops in dry soil and found lost children in the woods. Shadowick was a village born of kindness, nestled between Wards. A place of protection. A place for second chances.”

A sketch bloomed across the page. It showed a village surrounded by trees, and warm light in every window as vines grew up brick walls. A river curled through the center like a silver ribbon.

It could have been Stonewick’s twin.

I read on.

“There is no clear record of when the darkness began. No single day or single spell to mark the moment that the village fell to the shadows. But magic, especially untethered, unbalanced magic, leaves impressions. It clings to grief. To envy. To hunger.”

A chill ran through me.

“And something began to feed.”

I gripped the edge of the book.

“It wasn’t a monster, certainly not at first, nor in the stories they told. The shadows lingered in small things. Crops soured overnight. Livestock disappeared. A growing fear of the woods, which had once sung lullabies to the villagers, spread. At first, the fear spread slowly and patiently. It whispered itself into hearts too weary to resist.”

“When the shadows gathered fully, many villagers left, while some stayed. But others disappeared entirely.”

A chill ran through me.

There was a note at the bottom of the page, written sideways in the margin like the author couldn’t bring themselves to include it in the main text.

“We believe it’s dormant now and that the Wards held. We pray that the curse is slow to take effect. But if it spreads… God help us. Let it not spread to nearby villages.”

My jaw dropped.

Shadowick was cursed to shadows?