The night had turned blood-red. Half the moon already drowned in crimson light, and the rest was slowly giving in.
Reva lay asleep on her bed, her cheeks still damp against the pillow. The blanket was half thrown aside, the kind of sleep that came only after crying too much. Outside, the world was painted in red—every wall, every glass pane of the Von Stein castle reflecting that eerie glow from above. The mountain wind moved through the trees below, carrying with it a silence that didn't feel right.
The guards patrolled the ramparts like usual, their silhouettes cutting through the red haze. Drones floated around the castle in neat arcs, their lights blinking rhythmically across the night. Nothing unusual—except the color of the sky, and what that color meant. The night of the red moon was supposed to be sacred. Now it was just another reminder of loss. A festival turned into mourning.
