Rain battered the SUV with relentless ferocity, each drop hammering against the roof as Damon's hands gripped the wheel like iron clamps. The service road ahead disappeared into fog that carried the scent of rot and ozone, thick enough to choke the stars. Dahlia sat rigid beside him, cloak drawn tight around her shoulders, Nullstone pendant pressing icy against her chest. Every mile swallowed the city's glow, leaving them in a darkness that felt alive, hungry, suffocating. Her body thrummed with residual Moonblood energy, every nerve taut with fear and anticipation.
"You said we're meeting an oracle," Dahlia murmured, eyes scanning the shifting shadows outside the window.
Damon's jaw tightened, the edge of his voice cold as obsidian. "Syra trades in futures measured in blood. She reads truth in bone ash. If anyone can unlock your memories—she can."
"And she'll help willingly?"
"She doesn't do anything willingly. Pain is currency she respects. And that, I have in abundance."
Through the veil of rain, a wrought-iron gate appeared like a beast's open maw, crowned with three rusted ravens. The violet runes etched across its bars pulsed faintly, reacting to the Nullstone on Dahlia's chest. The SUV slowed and stopped; the gate creaked open on its own. The path beyond twisted through a graveyard of faceless statues, their stone flesh stripped of identity, as though memory itself had been murdered. Fog clung to the windows like skeletal fingers until the manor rose, a mausoleum pretending to be home: spires of black stone clawed at the storm, iron vines coiling like serpents, and a single lantern burned a ghost-blue light above the threshold.
Inside, the temperature dropped sharply, each inhale tasting of frost and old secrets. Candles lined the entryway, their flames unnaturally still, burning with a cold, spectral blue. From the top of the grand staircase descended Syra, her ash-gray skin contrasting against silver-bound hair, eyes milk-white and unblinking. Silence warped the air, bending it around her presence. "Valemont," she rasped, voice cutting into the storm's echo. "You drag curses to my doorstep again."
Damon inclined his head, measured, precise. "And pay the price."
Her gaze pivoted to Dahlia. The searing recognition in her pale eyes froze the girl's blood. "This isn't a curse," Syra whispered, voice fracturing into a dozen harmonics. "She's a paradox… Moonblood."
Dahlia's breath caught, chest tight, mind spinning. The words felt like chains, binding her to a destiny she could barely comprehend. Syra led them down spiral stairs that coiled into darkness, torchlight clawing at shadows that whispered with old magic. At the heart of the catacombs, the chamber revealed itself: walls mosaicked with wolf and human skulls, jawbone to crown, and a shallow pit at the center, sand black as void. Syra knelt, scattering crimson powder into the coals. Flames erupted, blue-white, licking the air. "Three drops," she instructed, pointing at Dahlia's hand.
Dahlia drew a blade across her palm, three droplets sizzling in the fire. Each ignited visions that clawed at her mind: metal cradles, infants etched with silver sigils, hooded figures chanting in dead tongues, a dragon-shaped shadow eclipsing the moon. She saw Damon, kneeling in ashes, carving her name into bone. Her chest tightened, and for a moment, the weight of her heritage threatened to crush her. Syra's voice layered over itself, chilling and omnipresent: "Born beneath a counterfeit moon, forged from the marrow of a dead god, she is the storm the Order failed to leash. Moonblood remembers." Flames danced higher, smoke twisting into visions of corpses and chains, silver hair whipping in wind, a faceless wolf dripping void. Then everything went black.
---
Rain now fell as mist, dripping from skeletal pines, clinging to cloak and hair. Dahlia staggered, body humming with residual Moonblood energy, eyes still reflecting fragments of the visions that seared her mind. Damon's hand gripped hers, steady, unyielding, pulling her through the twisting tunnels beneath Syra's manor. Every step carried the echo of the Hollow Order's failures, the remnants of spells etched in scorched stone, lingering whispers that bent the very air. Lightning laced the sky behind them as they emerged into the forest, the scent of wet iron and ancient decay thick, the Nullstone pendant warm against her chest.
"You feel it, don't you?" Damon's voice sliced through the night, low, controlled. His silver fire flared faintly in his eyes as he scanned the shadows ahead. "The Order knows. They track anomalies like wolves scent prey."
"I feel… everything," Dahlia admitted, shivering. "It's like the forest itself is alive… watching me."
He inclined his head, predatory. "Good. Let it scare you. Fear is a tool. It sharpens the storm inside you."
The Red Spire emerged from the horizon at dawn, a jagged monument of rusted metal, cables twisting skyward like iron serpents trapped in storm clouds. Time seemed to lag across the glass-strewn field at its base, each step echoing behind them by seconds. Dahlia stumbled, moonsteel dagger tight in her palm, Nullstone thrumming with energy. Damon didn't break stride, though his gaze flicked to her reflexively, measuring, calculating—like a predator watching fledgling prey learn to strike.
At the Spire's base, the amphitheater lay in ruin: broken pillars, shattered stone, a yawning doorway drenched in blood-tinted darkness. Damon traced ward runes along the stone with ash-coated fingers; the barrier shivered, then collapsed. The air beyond pulsed like a heartbeat, molten iron veins threading the walls, humming with an almost sentient rhythm. Dahlia's brand flared, silver light spilling over her arms, illuminating runes that guided their descent down a spiral of steel stairs. Her chest hammered—not just from exertion, but from anticipation, dread, and a strange, unwelcome pull toward Damon.
Level Twelve: The Cradle Crypt. A translucent stone sphere floated above a pit of grinding gears. Inside, suspended in fluid, floated a waxen effigy of a girl. Her. Dahlia's breath caught; the Nullstone burned against her skin. Damon's hands tightened on his ash-steel blades, voice low: "The Order grew clones. They took what they could from your first scream."
Before either could react, the sphere shattered. Shadow burst forth—formless, twisting, then solidifying into a creature with Dahlia's face and bladed limbs. Her own twin, horror made flesh, claws glinting with stolen moonfire. Damon lunged, but the clone was faster; its blade tore across his arm, blood hissing on the steel. Dahlia stepped forward, moonfire coursing uncontrolled from her palms. The twin shrieked, a layered wail of agony and rage.
Silver light met iron shadow, chaos incarnate. Damon struck low, hamstringing the creature. Dahlia thrust moonfire into its chest, light piercing shadow, screaming echoing through the crypt. The clone imploded into sparks; the crypt walls shuddered, glyphs raining down in ash. Memories surged unbidden: infants in tubes, chanting in a language older than time, silver hair glowing, first screams, stolen potential, Hollow Order rituals—their obsession with control, broken in an instant.
Dahlia staggered, breath ragged. Damon caught her before she fell. "You good?" he asked, eyes scanning, silver fire flaring along his lashes.
"Better," she breathed, shivering from power and adrenaline. "I remember enough… to hate them properly."
Outside, the Red Spire trembled, rust and ash cascading as they fled. The world beyond the Spire had transformed into a dead landscape: treeless, silent, as if the storm had burned every last remnant of life away. The sun bled into a sky torn by ruin, orange and violet streaked with smoke and lightning. Dahlia felt the Nullstone warm against her skin, steady, grounding. Her hand brushed Damon's briefly; the contact was fleeting but loaded with unspoken tension.
"Next," she said, voice hoarse but resolute, "we end Sareth."
Damon's nod was silent but absolute. "Side by side."
Thunder rolled, a war drum across the horizon. The storm, relentless and alive, followed them, and for the first time, Dahlia understood: she wasn't just surviving. She was awakening, and the world would never be the same.
---
Dahlia sank onto a moss-covered boulder, chest still heaving, silver hair plastered to her damp cheeks. The forest around them had grown eerily silent, broken only by the occasional drip of rain from skeletal branches. The smell of iron and ash hung thick in the air, a grim reminder of the Red Spire's destruction. Her palms glowed faintly, residual energy from the Moonblood surge pulsating like a second heartbeat. She flexed her fingers, testing control, and found only partial mastery. Fear lingered, but beneath it, a budding thrill: power, raw and untamed, alive in her veins.
Damon knelt across from her, cloak soaked, hair plastered to his temple. His eyes, silver fire dimmed but still sharp, tracked her every movement. Not a word. Only calculation. His presence was oppressive, magnetic; Dahlia's pulse betrayed her even as her mind screamed for distance. The Nullstone pendant throbbed warmly against her chest, tethering her to calm, yet she felt the wild pull of her own blood, of her latent abilities, coiling like serpents inside her.
"You feel it," Damon said at last, voice low, ice-and-fire sharp, "the weight of what you are. Do not underestimate it—or them." His hand hovered over hers briefly, fingers brushing just enough to set her nerves alight. Dahlia's stomach twisted. Hate him, fear him, she thought. Yet her body betrayed her, heat pooling in places she hadn't expected. "Why… do you stay close?" she asked, voice trembling with equal parts accusation and need.
"Because you're dangerous," he said simply. "And dangerous things demand my attention." Not a touch more. Not a comfort. His eyes flicked to the treeline. Shadows were stirring—subtle, writhing, unnatural. Hollow Order scouts, regrouping, drawn to the Moonblood pulse that radiated from her like a beacon. Dahlia clenched her fists. Her dagger felt alive in her boot. Her energy pulsed, involuntarily lashing the undergrowth with fleeting sparks of silver. The leaves shriveled where her light touched.
Damon's jaw tightened. "Enough of waiting," he whispered. "Show me control." He shifted forward, aura radiating alpha dominance, yet precise, measured. Dahlia inhaled, steadying herself. The twin forces of fear and fascination battled within her, every nerve screaming, every glance toward him both a warning and a temptation. They moved in synchrony, predator and storm-born mate, through the shadows where the Hollow Order waited.
The first scout appeared, skeletal, cloaked in black mist. Its face obscured, voice a hiss of old magic and rotting breath. Dahlia flinched but Damon's hand gripped her wrist, grounding. She unleashed a tendril of moonfire from her palm; the scout shrieked, vaporizing into ash and shadow. Damon stepped through the residual smoke, blades cutting arcs of silver, precision incarnate, eliminating another threat before Dahlia's heart could fully pound. Together, they were both terrifying and mesmerizing—a dance of power, tension, and unspoken connection.
After the last scout fell, the forest was scarred, the earth smoking, echoes of their power lingering like a wound. Dahlia's chest heaved. "Am I… the weapon, or the curse?" she whispered, voice hoarse with awe and fear. Damon's eyes met hers, unreadable, predatory awe flickering just beneath the surface. "You are both," he said finally. "And that is why they fear you." His hand brushed hers briefly, again, purposeful yet noncommittal, enough to ignite a coil of heat she could not deny.
Night deepened, forest unnervingly silent. Moonlight reflected off her glowing brand, residual bioluminescence painting the shadows in silver. Damon's gaze flicked to it, then back to her. "You are the last of your kind… and the world will demand you belong to me," he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. Dahlia swallowed, pulse hammering. Her chest felt caught between fear, rage, and something raw, unspoken. The Hollow Order would return—they always did—but tonight, she had survived. Tonight, she had risen.
They settled near a creek, water flowing cold and fast. Damon didn't leave her side, eyes ever-watchful, calculating. Dahlia closed her eyes, letting exhaustion pull at her. Yet even in rest, the tension lingered: hatred, fear, desire, power. Her mind returned to the Nullstone, warmth against her chest. It was more than a charm—it was a tether, a lifeline, a promise. She traced its edges with fingers trembling from adrenaline and something more primal: anticipation.
As the forest exhaled in quiet, Dahlia whispered to herself, "If I am the storm… let them come." Damon's lips curved faintly, a shadow of approval, and the night waited with bated breath, heavy, alive, watching.
---
"Readers, Dahlia has taken her first steps into the Moonblood legacy—but the storm is just beginning. Your power stones and engagement feed her strength.