The forge of old Duncan was silent.
Not the kind of silence that followed peace, but the silence that lingered before a storm.
Marcus stood before the anvil, staring at the hammer in his hand. His reflection glimmered in the molten iron — distorted, trembling, almost… afraid.
It had been three days since the night he found Arnold unconscious in the woods, wounded by something no blade could have caused. The scars glowed faintly even after healing.
Something inside Marcus whispered that those wounds weren't born from man or beast, but from something far older.
"You hear it too, don't you?"
The voice came from nowhere — soft, ancient, and layered with a thousand echoes.
Marcus froze.
He looked around, but Duncan's forge was empty. The only thing breathing was the fire.
"The sound beneath your veins… the pulse that isn't yours."
He dropped the hammer. The clang echoed through the chamber like a scream.
For a heartbeat, he swore he saw it — a crimson thread crawling beneath his skin, moving like something alive.
Marcus: "Who are you…?"
Voice: "The one who remembers what you've forgotten."
The flames flickered, and a shadow took shape upon the wall — tall, monstrous, human yet not. Its eyes burned with the same feral gold as the beast from his dream.
Marcus stumbled back, his heart pounding against his ribs.
Marcus: "This isn't real…"
Voice: "Reality is the lie you built to cage me, boy."
"But the cage is cracking."
The fire exploded outward, sending sparks across the forge. When the light died, the shadow was gone.
And in the corner of the room, something gleamed — a mark carved into the stone, glowing faintly red.
Marcus reached out. His fingers brushed the mark—
—his vision shattered.
He stood once again in the field of corpses.
But this time, the reflection sitting atop the mound turned its head.
It smiled.
Reflection: "Welcome back, Marcus."
Marcus: "You're not me."
Reflection: "I'm what's left of you."
Reflection: "The part that chose to live when you begged to die."
The ground pulsed with blood.
From beneath the corpses rose claws of shadow, grasping at his legs, pulling him down into the crimson sea.
Reflection: "Let me out. The world has forgotten the old gods… but I remember."
"Let me out — and I will make them remember too."
Marcus screamed and struck the reflection —
—and awoke in Duncan's forge, his hand buried deep into molten iron.
The heat didn't burn him. It felt cold.
Duncan's voice shattered the trance.
Duncan: "Boy! What in the seven hells are you doing?!"
Marcus blinked. The mark on the wall had vanished.
He pulled his hand from the forge, skin unscarred, but faintly glowing red beneath the veins.
Marcus: "Did you… hear anything?"
Duncan frowned. "Only the sound of you almost killing yourself."
Then, softer: "You've been pale for days, lad. Whatever haunts you, fight it before it owns you."
Marcus looked down at his hand.
Fight it. The words echoed, but somewhere deep inside, another voice laughed.
That night, the wind carried no song.
Marcus sat alone on the farmhouse roof, watching the twin moons rise — one silver, one crimson.
He had read once that when both moons shared the sky, a blood pact between worlds awakened. He used to laugh at such tales.
Not anymore.
Footsteps broke the silence.
Arnold stood below, his armor catching the moonlight.
Marcus: "Can't sleep either?"
Arnold: "When you've killed as many as I have, sleep becomes a stranger."
Marcus said nothing. The words hung heavy between them.
Arnold sighed. "I remember flashes now… fire, screams, a hand dragging me into the dark."
Marcus turned sharply. "The night you vanished?"
Arnold nodded. "Yes. And I remember something else… a voice whispering 'the first blood must awaken.'"
The phrase froze Marcus's veins.
Arnold looked up. "Brother, if anything happens to me… promise you'll protect Mary."
Marcus: "You're talking like a man who knows death."
Arnold smiled faintly. "No, like one who's seen it."
A gust of wind swept through the fields, carrying with it the faint toll of a bell — the same sound from Marcus's nightmare.
They both heard it.
Marcus: "Did you—"
Arnold: "Yes."
Both men drew silent.
The night felt wrong, alive with unseen eyes.
Arnold placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Whatever's coming, Marcus, don't let it consume you. Promise me that."
Marcus looked at him, a storm gathering behind his eyes.
Marcus: "I can't promise something I don't understand."
Arnold smiled sadly. "Then may the gods forgive us both."
By dawn, the village awoke to the cries of ravens.
The sky bled red — and in the distant woods, a figure cloaked in black watched the brothers from afar.
In her hand was a silver insignia shaped like a crescent moon split in two.
The mark of the Council of the Eclipse — the hidden order that served no king, no god, only prophecy.
And their prophecy had just begun to unfold.
"The blood of man and monster will soon be one."
— To be continued.