THE RISE OF THE CAGED MOON

They called her a myth whispered by the dying, a ghost woven from the fabric of the cosmos.
She was the White Moon Princess, a creature born when the stars held their breath. Her hair flowed like spun starlight, and her eyes were twin orbs of blinding, colorless frost-holding the devastating, unyielding power of the gods themselves. But mortals fear what they cannot tame. For five hundred agonizing years, she was not a goddess; she was a secret. She was locked away in a tomb of celestial iron, buried deep where the sun dared not shine, caged by those who craved her light but dreaded her wrath.
Five centuries of silence. Five centuries of dust.
Until the iron bled.
He did not come as a savior. He came as a dying man.
A legendary general, broken and beaten, dragging his fading warmth into the deep shadows of her sanctuary. His armor was shattered, his life pooling on the stone floor, a trail of crimson marking his final retreat. He sought only a quiet place to draw his last breath. Instead, his trembling, blood-slicked hand brushed against the ancient, forbidden seal.
The blood of a warrior met the iron of a god.
The cage cracked. The silence broke. And as the dying general collapsed into the dark, the white moon finally rose.