The night the Blood Moon rose, Valenmoor bled.
Storm clouds strangled the stars, and the red moon's light poured through the cracks of every roof and shutter. Inside a crumbling cottage at the forest's edge, a woman screamed as thunder rattled the walls.
"Elara," she gasped, whispering the name of the child she hadn't yet seen. "Stay with me, little one."
Outside came the crash of hooves, the shouts of soldiers, the hiss of fire catching thatch. The king's men were burning every house where a cursed child might be born.
The door splintered. A soldier in black armor stepped through the smoke, his sword slick with rain.
"By decree of the crown—" he began.
The woman clutched her newborn tighter. "You will not have her!"
A flash of steel. A scream cut short. Then silence—except for the infant's cry and the thunder rolling over the hills.
The soldier hesitated. The baby's eyes, half-open, glowed faintly gold. He backed away, murmuring a prayer, and fled into the storm.
The moonlight dimmed. The crying stopped. And the world moved on.
---
Seventeen years later.
Elara knelt by a dying river, the same red moon reflected in its black water. Her hands hovered over the surface, palms glowing faintly as she whispered words older than her name. The stench of decay lifted; silver ripples spread outward; the fish beneath stirred and flicked their tails.
She exhaled. The spell faded.
If anyone saw her, they would call it witchcraft and drag her before the gallows. But she couldn't stop healing. It was the only thing that felt right.
A crunch of gravel made her stiffen.
"Using magic again, healer?"
Jarek's voice—sharp, mocking. She turned slowly. The captain of the village guard leaned against a tree, torchlight glinting off his blade.
"I was cleaning the river," she said.
He laughed. "With light coming out of your hands?"
Elara rose to her feet, drawing her cloak tight. "Go home, Jarek. You're drunk."
He took a step closer. "You think your silver hair and soft eyes make you untouchable? We all know what you are."
Before she could answer, the ground trembled. A deep vibration, steady as a heartbeat. The torch in Jarek's hand sputtered and went out.
"An earthquake?" he muttered.
Elara looked up. "No…"
The clouds were thinning, revealing the red disc of the Blood Moon climbing higher. The same unnatural hue from her nightmares. The same that had ended her mother's life.
Horses screamed in the distance. Armor clanked. Then, through the trees, a column of riders appeared—black silhouettes against the crimson light.
The villagers poured into the square, whispering prayers.
At the front rode a man who seemed carved from shadow itself. His armor was etched with runes that pulsed faintly red, and a long cloak flowed behind him like smoke. His face was half hidden by a hood, but his eyes caught the moonlight—crimson, cold, and alive.
"The Dark Prince," someone breathed. "He's real."
The man dismounted, the air itself seeming to bow away from him. His gaze swept the crowd. "By order of the Crown," he said, voice low but carrying. "We seek the girl born under the Blood Moon."
Every villager dropped to their knees. Every villager except Elara.
Her heart pounded so loud she was sure he could hear it.
The prince's head turned toward her, slowly, deliberately, like a predator catching scent. "You," he said. "Remove your hood."
She didn't move. The river whispered behind her; wind stirred her cloak. She could run—if her legs would obey.
"Do it," he commanded.
Jarek grabbed her arm. "Obey him, witch."
Something inside her snapped. Magic flared, sending Jarek stumbling back as sparks danced over her skin. Her hood fell.
The red moonlight hit her face—pale skin, silver hair, and eyes glowing molten gold.
A murmur spread through the crowd.
The prince's expression didn't change, but the corner of his mouth curved, almost imperceptibly. "Found you," he said.
Elara's breath caught.
He stepped closer, stopping just beyond reach. The air between them pulsed—his dark energy pressing against the light trembling from her palms. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then he reached out and brushed his gloved fingers through the air near her cheek, as though testing the warmth of a flame.
The contact wasn't real—his hand never touched her—but her skin prickled all the same.
"Your magic reacts to mine," he murmured, half to himself. "So it's true."
Elara swallowed hard. "What do you want from me?"
His gaze dropped to her hands, still flickering with faint light. "Only what was promised."
He turned to his soldiers. "Take her."
She backed toward the river. "If you touch me, you'll regret it."
A smirk ghosted across his lips. "You think I don't already?"
The soldiers advanced. Elara's pulse raced. Power coiled in her chest, wild and bright. She threw her hands outward; the ground erupted in a blinding flash. Water surged, knocking men from their feet.
When the light faded, she was gone.
The prince stood unmoving, soaked from the waist down, red eyes glowing in the mist. Slowly, he looked at the rippling water where she'd vanished. A faint smile curved his mouth—not anger, but curiosity.
"Run while you can, little moon," he said softly. "The curse always finds its own."
---
Far downstream, Elara dragged herself from the current, coughing up river water and shaking. Her palms still burned from the spell. She pressed them to the mud, trembling.
She'd seen his face only for a moment, but the image refused to leave her mind—the impossible mix of fury and loneliness in his eyes, the way his voice had sounded almost… tired.
Who was he really? A monster from her nightmares—or something else entirely?
The moon broke through the clouds again, red and cruel. She stared up at it, drenched and shaking.
"Whatever you are," she whispered, "you won't take me."
Somewhere behind her, a horse neighed. A voice, low and dark, carried over the wind:
"Too late."