The moon hung low and red over the treetops, dripping its light like fresh paint across the world. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as Thorne, Lyra, and Ara tightened their cloaks and stepped into the ancient forest.
No one spoke.
Not because there was nothing to say—but because every word felt like it could shatter the fragile silence that held Thorne together. His mother, the woman who had abandoned him to blood rites and torture, was waiting on the other side of this forest. And Thorne's newly awakened power simmered beneath his skin like molten iron, begging to be unleashed.
Lyra kept her eyes on him. His aura usually glowed faint silver, threaded with the warmth he allowed only around her. But tonight… it was dark. Heavy. Sharp-edged.
"Thorne," she whispered, "if it becomes too much, you tell us."
He didn't look at her. "It won't."
Ara slowed her pace until she walked beside Lyra and murmured, "He's bracing for war."
Lyra replied under her breath, "I'm bracing for him."
A distant howl echoed, rattling the branches.
Thorne finally stopped walking.
"We're close."
Ara lifted her hand. The runes embedded along her wrist pulsed. "Three signatures ahead. Possibly scouts."
Lyra's gaze sharpened. "Bloodmoon?"
Ara nodded once. "Definitely."
Thorne exhaled slowly, and the air around him rippled—the curse's energy pushing at the seams of his control.
"Then we move."
---
The First Clash
They slipped between the ancient pines until the faint glow of torchlight appeared through the branches. Three Bloodmoon scouts stood guard around a stone marker carved with sigils.
Lyra gestured. I'll take left.
Ara nodded. I'll take right.
Thorne didn't gesture anything at all.
He simply vanished.
A pulse of dark-silver light erupted forward—silent yet violent. When it faded, the scout directly ahead lay crumpled on the ground, unconscious before his body hit the dirt.
Lyra froze. Ara's brows shot up.
"Thorne…" Lyra whispered. "You didn't even touch him."
He didn't answer. The curse's shadow-like energy retreated under his skin, but it resisted—like claws dragging.
The remaining two scouts turned.
Ara was already moving, spinning her rune-spear with a clean arc that cracked the first man's ribs. Lyra slid low, her dagger sweeping the other's legs from beneath him.
But the third—unconscious on the ground—was still pulsing with a faint residue of Thorne's power.
Ara crouched beside him, her expression shifting from curiosity to concern. "That wasn't normal. That was… destructive essence. Pure."
Thorne's jaw tightened. "We don't have time to dissect it. They weren't alone."
He pointed deeper into the forest.
Lyra felt it then—an oppressive heaviness, like the air thickened by a coming storm.
Bloodmoon Keep.
Thorne's mother was close.
---
Between Roots and Shadows
The forest became denser, the trees warping into unnatural shapes. Old magic clung to the bark like frost. Lyra kept close to Thorne, their shoulders brushing despite the tension in the air.
"You're too quiet," she murmured.
"You want me to talk about the woman who carved runes into my bones?" he replied, voice cold.
Lyra swallowed. "…No. I want you to talk to me. Don't shut me out."
He stopped walking, turning to face her fully.
His eyes—not silver, not gold—something in between, storming.
"If I open my mouth right now," he said softly, "I might scream instead."
Lyra stepped closer, placing her hand on his chest. His heartbeat was too fast.
"You don't have to hold yourself together alone."
A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he didn't push her away.
Ara cleared her throat gently. "We move. Her sentries are shifting."
Thorne pulled away, not rejecting Lyra but forced by necessity. "Let's finish this."
---
Bloodmoon Ritual Grounds
They emerged into a circular clearing lit by crimson lanterns. Dozens of runes carved into the earth glowed faintly, humming with blood magic.
Lyra's stomach tightened. "This is a ritual ground."
"One she used on me," Thorne growled.
The memory flickered behind his eyes—chains, burning sigils, the smell of iron.
Ara approached a rune. "Someone used this recently. This pattern… this is meant to amplify a power-holder's core."
Thorne's eyes darkened. "She's strengthening herself."
"Or preparing a vessel," Ara murmured.
Lyra's blood chilled. "A vessel for what?"
Ara looked at Thorne.
And for one horrifying second—Lyra understood.
"No," she whispered. "She wants him back. She wants to reclaim him."
Thorne said nothing.
But the shadows around him stirred.
"No one is taking me anywhere," he said finally. "Alive or otherwise."
---
The Ambush
A twig snapped.
Lyra spun—too late.
A spear of crimson magic shot toward her chest.
Thorne appeared in front of her, taking the hit with his forearm. His snarl shook the clearing. The corrupted energy sizzled against his skin—but didn't pierce it.
Then the attackers emerged—six Bloodmoon elites, cloaked in crimson armor, eyes glowing with ritual enhancement.
Ara's face hardened. "Elites. Not scouts."
Lyra tightened her grip on her dagger. "Then they know we're close."
The elites moved first—swift, synchronized.
Ara leapt into action, runes blazing as she deflected two blades at once. Lyra ducked under a strike, countering with a precise slash across an exposed joint.
But Thorne—
Thorne didn't fight.
He devoured their attacks.
Every strike that touched him was absorbed into the dark energy coiling under his skin. His mother's curse drank the magic like water.
One elite struck his ribs.
Thorne didn't move.
He let the blade bury itself an inch.
Then he grabbed the man by the throat.
And crushed.
Lyra's breath hitched. Ara's eyes widened.
"Thorne!" Lyra yelled. "Stop!"
He didn't hear.
Or he didn't care.
The next elite rushed him—Thorne slammed him into a tree so hard the trunk cracked. His power flared—dark silver ripping upward in a pillar of force.
Lyra had seen Thorne angry before.
But this—
This was something else.
The curse was no longer restrained.
It was asserting dominance.
Ara shouted, "If he loses control, this entire forest will—"
A sudden scream cut her off.
One elite grabbed Lyra from behind, dagger to her throat. "One more step and she bleeds—"
His words never finished.
Thorne appeared behind him like a shifting shadow.
He whispered into the elite's ear, voice cold enough to freeze marrow:
"Touch her again."
He ripped the man away from Lyra and threw him into the ritual stones. The elite's body went limp.
Lyra touched Thorne's arm gently. "Thorne. Look at me."
His breathing was wild. His pupils blown wide. Power radiated off him in waves.
But when she touched him—
Something in him eased.
Just slightly.
Enough for him to choke out, "I'm… trying."
"I know. Stay with me. Don't let her win."
The forest trembled.
Then—
Another presence entered the clearing.
Cold.
Powerful.
Familiar.
Thorne's body went rigid.
Lyra's pulse skipped.
Ara's spear rattled in her grip.
From the shadows behind the ancient stones, a woman stepped forward—draped in crimson silk, long dark hair flowing like ink, eyes gleaming with predatory intelligence.
Thorne's mother.
Lady Vaelith.
She smiled slowly, like a serpent recognizing prey.
"My son," she purred, voice dripping with unnatural sweetness.
"You've grown beautifully."