The Moonlight Sovereign
Rembulan or Lunaria, she was the supreme queen ruler of the lunar planet. Her dominion stretched across all kingdoms of the moon, including the mighty Arkei Kingdom—the greatest and strongest of the celestial realms, commanded by her will alone. Lunaria was a sacred sovereign, revered by kings and commonfolk alike, for her divine blessings allowed their civilizations to thrive. She was the immortal embodiment, destined never to perish… unless she unleashed her greatest power.
In the year 922 of Lunarism (2100 AD on Earth), war ravaged the moon's kingdoms. Chaos reigned. Everything lay in ruins, kings were slaughtered, and the scramble for power blinded all to reason. Overwhelmed by grief and compassion, Lunaria chose to relinquish that power to shield her people from the savagery of power-hungry warriors and tyrants. She bore this burden alone, for she was a princess of purity and grace, one who abhorred the radicals clawing at her realm's foundations.
When she activated her primordial force, her own kingdom—the Moonlight Kingdom—became a sanctuary, the sole survivor of the cataclysm, shielded by an ethereal barrier born of her sacrifice. Yet, in the aftermath, stripped of her power and vulnerable, Lunaria was sent to Earth by Ambalan, her elder brother, who vowed to continue safeguarding their people. Ambalan could not bear to see his sister perish, especially now that she no longer possessed the strength to shield even herself.
Thus, the moon's luminous queen fell to the mortal world—a radiant soul exiled, her legacy etched in starlight and sorrow.
The Exiled Sovereign,
Lunaria was cast toward Earth on a surge of solar-infused energy, a celestial current meant to ferry her safely through the void. She descended unconscious, her body drained by the colossal power required to breach the lunar realm. Ambalan had sent her in this frail state, knowing she would resist exile—but it was necessary. On Earth, she might find temporary refuge, far safer than the moon's blood-soaked chaos.
She fell to a forgotten corner of the planet: a patchwork of rice fields, relics of an era long abandoned by Earth's 22nd-century sprawl. For three days, she lay motionless among the overgrown stalks, unseen beneath the indifferent sky. On the fourth dawn, Sari—a farmer tending her meager plot—stumbled upon the ethereal figure. Gasping, she rallied her fellow women farmers, and together they carried the stranger to Sari's ramshackle hut.
There, Rembulan was cleansed, wrapped in coarse linen, and nursed with herbal compresses and balms. Days bled into nights, yet the lunar queen remained lifeless, her breath shallow as starlight. Sari longed to summon a doctor, but her island—a speck of isolation in a vast ocean—offered no such luxury. The nearest mainland required a ten-day voyage by rickety boat.
The Isle of the Moon, as it was called, housed only women. Once, men had dwelled here, but the island's daughters had purged them generations ago, offering their blood in moonlit rituals to a goddess said to shield their shores. Now, a ten thousand women thrived in their solitude, their lives bound to tides and tradition.
And so Rembulan lingered in limbo, a celestial queen adrift in a world of soil and salt, her fate entwined with those who worshipped the very moon she once ruled.