The Daughter of the Last Moon

By BOUMMI

"Whispers of the Forgotten" is an epic fantasy novel set in the kingdom of Eldoria, a land shrouded in fear and governed by the iron fist of the Arcanum Council. For centuries, magic has been deemed a dangerous abomination, its practitioners hunted and silenced. Our story follows Elara, a seemingly ordinary village girl who, on the eve of her coming-of-age ceremony, unwittingly unleashes a surge of raw magical energy.

Terrified and confused, Elara is forced to abandon her home and everything she knows, branded a pariah by the very people she grew up with. With the ruthless Inquisitors of the Arcanum Council hot on her trail, she seeks refuge in the forbidden Wilds, a treacherous expanse rumored to hold ancient secrets. Along her journey, she encounters a diverse cast of characters: Kael, a cynical but skilled rogue with a mysterious past; Lyra, a wise elder who possesses forbidden knowledge of Eldoria's magical heritage; and the enigmatic Shadow Weavers, a clandestine group dedicated to preserving the old ways.

As Elara hones her burgeoning powers, she begins to unravel a complex web of lies and ancient prophecies that suggest magic was once a force for good, a vital part of Eldoria's very essence. She discovers that the Arcanum Council's crusade against magic is not what it seems, and that a far greater, more sinister threat looms over the kingdom. "Whispers of the Forgotten" is a tale of self-discovery, rebellion, and the enduring power of hope, as Elara must confront her destiny, unite a fractured people, and ignite the flames of a forgotten magic to save Eldoria from succumbing to eternal darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BOUMMI
• Release date: Oct 2, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232634469

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Daughter of the Last Moon

Whispers of a Shattered Legacy

The wind, a constant, mournful companion in the desolate highlands of Eldoria, tugged at Elara’s threadbare cloak, whipping strands of her dark hair across her face. She shivered, not just from the biting cold, but from the familiar tremor of apprehension that always preceded a visit to the Elder. Her small village, nestled precariously on the edge of the perilous Shadowwood, offered little comfort or warmth, only a stark, unyielding existence. Every stone and shadow seemed to hum with ancient, forgotten histories, a weight she felt acutely in the quiet chambers of her own heart. The air itself tasted of dust and distant memories, whispering tales of glories and tragedies long past.

Elara clutched the small, leather-bound satchel tighter, its contents a collection of meager herbs and a crudely carved wooden bird, her sole companions. She was an orphan, or so she had been told, abandoned as an infant at the village’s edge, her origins shrouded in an impenetrable mist of mystery. The villagers, kind in their own stoic way, had raised her, but the unspoken questions about her past always lingered in their glances, a silent judgment she carried like a heavy mantle. This sense of being an outsider, of belonging nowhere, was a constant ache beneath her ribs, a persistent hum of loneliness.

Her only solace came in the flickering firelight of the Elder’s cottage, a place filled with the scent of dried herbs and aged parchment, where stories of the old world were woven into the very fabric of the walls. Elder Rowan, his face a roadmap of wrinkles etched by time and sorrow, was the keeper of these tales, the last living link to an era when the moon itself seemed to hold sway over mortal affairs. He spoke of a lunar dynasty, a powerful lineage that once governed these lands with wisdom and celestial grace, a time of unparalleled prosperity and peace. The vibrant imagery he painted often stirred a strange yearning deep within her, a feeling she couldn’t quite articulate.

Today, however, a different kind of urgency propelled her steps. A sickness, a creeping malaise known as the ‘Grey Blight,’ had begun to take hold in the village, draining the life from the crops and the laughter from the children. Its touch was insidious, leaving behind a trail of wilting hope and growing fear. Elara, despite her youth, possessed a surprising aptitude for healing, a natural intuition for herbs and remedies that often astonished the Elder himself. But the Blight was different, more potent, more ancient, a darkness that seemed to mock her meager attempts at solace.

As she pushed open the creaking wooden door of the Elder’s cottage, the familiar scent of sage and thyme enveloped her, a comforting embrace. Elder Rowan sat by the hearth, his gnarled hands warming a clay mug, his eyes, though clouded with age, still held a piercing intelligence. He looked up, a flicker of something akin to worry crossing his face as he met her gaze. Elara, child, he murmured, his voice a low rumble, you look troubled. Has the Blight worsened? His concern, though gentle, deepened her own anxieties, amplifying the weight of the encroaching darkness.

Elara nodded, sinking onto a stool opposite him. It has, Elder. Old Man Hemlock’s fields are almost entirely withered, and little Lyra... she coughs constantly, her skin growing paler each day. My remedies do little more than offer fleeting comfort. I fear we face something far beyond our understanding. A knot tightened in her stomach, a cold dread seeping into her bones as she recounted the village’s struggles. The helplessness she felt was a bitter taste in her mouth, a stark reminder of her own limitations.

The Elder sighed, a sound heavy with the weariness of centuries. He gazed into the dancing flames, his eyes distant, lost in the echoes of a past Elara could only glimpse in his stories. "The Grey Blight is not a natural illness, child. It is a symptom, a