The Girl Who Fed the Moth King

Luna had never dreamed. In a village where dreams are sacred, visions were gifted by the spirits in the jungle. This made her something less than human—or something worse. The elders called her “Touched” where moths marked her in the womb. Children kept their distance at night.

Dreams weren’t just stories that came while you slept. They were messages from the jungle spirits–signs of favor, or sometimes warnings you couldn’t ignore.

During the Moth Festival season, children were warned not to go after dark. He waits in the jungle, still as torn silk wings. Stray too close, they whispered, and he’ll steal your dreams, leaving you—leaving you hollow, your eyes empty as glass.

“What was the Moth King before?” Luna asked, her voice sharp with curiosity. The other children gasped—no one dared speak of him so boldly.

Luna was nearly twelve, old enough to know fear, young enough to still chase it.

“There was once a Guardian spirit,” an elder replied, his voice cracking like dry wood. He watched over the villagers, helped them grieve, and helped them heal. Until the Moth King devoured him.”

One child stood, stretching out his arms to measure the creature’s size. “He’s huge—like, bigger than a village house! He ate so many people he just…got big. His wings are all ripped up, like paper someone stepped on. And he’s got red eyes that glow in the dark. His teeth are gross and broken and probably smelled really bad.”

“You saw him?” another child asked, wide-eyed.

“For a split second.”

They all believed him.

And they screamed.

The elder glared at Luna. A cursed child with no dreams…. What a sorrowful thing to see.

It was Luna’s parents who let the secret slip, in hushed voices behind closed doors. But in a village where everyone lived so close, even whispers had wings. An old elder, now long gone, overheard from the house next door. By morning, everyone knew: Luna couldn’t dream.

It all started when her twin sister died—an accident, they called it, though no one ever said the word out loud. Too sudden. Too cruel. Luna couldn’t remember the last time she saw her smile. Just the quiet that swallowed up everything, even her dreams.

Luna was definitely an outcast. That didn’t stop her from asking questions or exploring, but she had to move fast and stay almost invisible. People were too busy during the day, and their eyes finally stopped watching at night. She waited, just a little longer, until the last bit of light was gone.

The trail was open. Too open.

No one ever left a part of themselves out there—not even a footprint.

On the night of the Moth Festival, doors bolted shut and lanterns burned low to keep the winged omens away. Parents were asleep. Luna stepped outside. She wasn’t afraid of the moths. What haunted her was the emptiness inside–the hollowness where dreams should be. Barefoot and unseen, she followed the giant white moths deep into the jungle, to where the dream-thief stayed. It led her to vine-wrapped ruins of a forgotten temple.

Eyes in the trees glowed and bugs bit at her legs. She wasn’t exactly clean as she stepped onto the muddy trail, but she didn’t care. If the Moth King’s going to eat her, then maybe she was just what the villagers said.

Luna knocked on the temple door. Dust drifted in the window and stung her eyes. She stepped on a few twigs and branches. For a moment, she stood still and looked over her shoulder to make sure no one had heard or followed her.

There was no answer.

The door had a thin crack, just wide enough for fingers to slip through, though she didn’t notice it right away. With a little force, the temple door shifted, opening just enough for her to step inside.

The smell was awful–wet, rotten, hard to ignore. She didn’t want to make another sound if she could help it.

Then a shadow flickered on the stone wall.

It wasn’t small. Not even close.

It appeared for a moment, then vanished.

The hairs on her arms stood up, and her body warmed with fear.

The sounds of leaves rustling across the ground made her freeze. Something was moving slowly, headed toward her. Luna’s eyes widened. She started to second-guess everything and turned to run.

That’s when she heard it. An old voice, thin and fading, like it was barely trying, called out behind her.

“Stop.”

It was the Moth King.

He stood at least ten feet tall, not solid exactly, but there–like a shadow that decided to take shape. His limbs were long and thin, almost drifting instead of moving. Bushy white eyebrows hung low over small red eyes that glowed faintly, and two curled antennas floated above his head, swaying even when the air was still.

His skin looked pale and dusty, like it might disappear if you touched it. His wings opened behind him, slow and silent. They were torn and faded, patterned like an old moth, barely holding together. For a second, they shimmered like moonlight on water, then dimmed.

His mouth opened, saliva dripping down—thick and slow. His teeth were crooked, some cracked, others missing. He looked like something that should have fallen apart a long time ago.

But he hadn’t.

The Moth King lowered his eyes, sensing Luna’s bravery.

“You’re not going to eat me, are you?” Luna asked. Her eyes were starting to water as she took in the full weight of what she was seeing.

The Moth King shook his head.

She didn’t feel the urge to run anymore.

“I am a guardian spirit,” he said. “I protected the villagers for generations. I listened to their grief, their sorrow. I took it from them. I carried their pain so they wouldn’t have to.” His voice was rough, like it hadn’t been used in a very long time.

“But why do they make you suffer? Why must they be afraid of you?” Luna stepped a little closer.

The Moth King wiped his saliva from his mouth. His eyebrows lifted in a quiet surprise, and then–he started to cry.

Luna stood there, stunned. The damage the villagers had caused wasn’t just old—it was still happening. She wrapped her arms around him.

“Grief is a moth with fragile wings. It flutters in the dark, sometimes lighting the way, sometimes tearing everything apart.”

“They came to me for help,” he whispered. “Every grief, every loss, it all came to me. And as I carried the pain, I decayed. I withered. Until all they saw was a monster.”

Luna didn’t want to ask about her dreamless mind–not if it would make him suffer more.

But it was like the Moth King had already heard the question forming in her head.

“I can carry more,” he said. “It’s what I was made to do, even if it changes what I become. You feel cursed, don’t you? Just like me. It’s a cruel thing… but I knew you were coming.”

He looked at her, tired but steady.

“I won’t harm you,” he said softly. “But I must keep doing my duty, Touched One. Not all who grieve feed me. Only those who bury their pain are too deep to carry it themselves.”

The Moth King placed a hand gently on her head. A warm, steady light spread across her—soft, but bright. For the first time in a long while, Luna didn’t feel so hollow.

Images flickered through her mind–like dreams she should have had. Memories, stories, fragments of something lost. Many of them were of her twin sister. Some were joyful, others dark, like old nightmares waiting in the corners.

He had given her the answer without her needing to ask.

She couldn’t dream because the pain had been buried too deep. Her mind had locked it away to protect her. The Moth King had held that weight for her.

Luna had been feeding him all along.

Now, she could finally feel what was once too much.

She could dream again.

Yet they feared the one who fed on pain.

The next morning, she returned to the village and shared her story. She told them how the dreams had come back. How the Moth King had taken her sorrow, just as he had done for others before her.

She spoke of the dreams she’d had of her sister—clear, vivid, finally peaceful.

A trusted villager didn’t believe her at first—not for a long time. After all, she was just a child. Years passed and Luna grew older, still telling her story over and over. Finally, one villager stepped forward with quiet sorrow in their eyes, and Luna agreed to go meet the Moth King.

Gradually, the village began to change. They still lit lanterns during the Moth Festival, and the jungle still whispered at night, but they no longer spoke his name with fear. Luna, the girl with no dreams, became their storyteller. She spoke of sorrow as something to hold, not something to bury.

Deep in the jungle, the Moth King remained in the temple—faded and torn, but not forgotten. He carried their grief the way wings carried wind. On quiet nights, when the moon hung low, some said they could still hear him breathing—soft and steady, like he was finally dreaming too.