The Eclipse Arcanum was quiet, tucked deep within the Veiled planes—far beneath the reach of lycans, vampires, witches, or humans. Carved stone held ancient warmth, and candles burned low, their flames curving toward the center as if listening.
Seven chairs formed a circle. In one, an old woman sat with her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. Ink-black veins pulsed beneath her skin—not from poison, but from prophecy. A mark of those who bore the Sight.
Around her, the Eldryn watched in silence—hooded, unmoving. Not witches, not vampires, not wolves. They were witnesses, arbiters of the supernatural. They were chosen to remember what others feared, to mediate wars, and to guard prophecy fragments.
When the Seer finally spoke, her voice cracked softly against the chamber's silence.
"When the day comes that myth becomes truth, an impure blood shall bring a rise of a new race and an end to the war. She will rise where blood was buried. She will join what was broken. She will not follow clan or throne. If no one stands with her… she will still stand."
One witness stirred, his voice barely above a whisper. "What of balance?"
The Seer exhaled. A pause.
"She is the balance… or the destruction."
A longer silence followed. Then, the oldest among them leaned forward.
"Preserve the vision. Record what must be known. We will maintain balance as we always did. The rest—we will not interfere...."
"Not until the mark burns again."
The candles flickered low. The Seer's head dropped gently to her chest.
And with her last breath, the prophecy was sealed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The windows of the old house rattled with the force of the storm. Rain poured in sheets, drenching the forest outside, while wind howled through the trees like a warning. Inside, the fire sputtered against the damp air, casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls.
The old woman knelt by the low bed, her hands firm but gentle as they moved over the laboring mother's swollen belly. "Breathe," she whispered, her voice gravelly but calm. "You're almost there."
"I can't, I can't," she muttered.
The mother—young, pale, and trembling—bit down on a folded cloth to keep from screaming. Sweat mixed with tears on her face. Her long hair clung to her skin, and her claws dug into the straw-stuffed mattress. She was a werewolf, even in human form—strong, but this pain was unlike anything she'd known.
"Yes, you can. You are strong. The Moon goddess chose you to bring her to this world. Yes, you can."
"She's early," the old woman muttered. "Too early, but there is no cause for alarm. When you feel the contraction, I want you to give me one final and strong push."
Another contraction hit, hard and fast. The woman cried out, putting all her strength into pushing, legs shaking. The fire hissed as wind pushed smoke back into the room.
"Oh, goddess!" She cried out.
Moments later, the baby came—silent at first, slick and small. The old woman cut the umbilical cord. She then rubbed the newborn's back and then let out a sigh of relief as the child let out a sharp, piercing wail. The old woman wrapped the baby in a worn wolf-pelt blanket.
"It's a girl." She said to the child's mother.
Her cries filled the little wooden house, bringing about a warmth that came with bringing new life into the world. She moved toward the bed, handing the baby over to her mother.
But just as quickly, the room grew colder.
A silvery glow shimmered across the baby's spine—strange and shifting, like light dancing on water. The light traced all the way to the left side of her back, where a pattern formed, leaving behind a crescent mark. The baby's eyes opened, revealing amethyst irises. The witch stiffened.
"Impossible!" she uttered in shock.
The mother saw it too. Her eyes widened with horror. "No… no, no…" she whispered, pulling back. "It's true. She's… this can't be happening. She is a..."
The old woman said nothing. She'd seen marks before—but never like this. She'd only heard about it from her grandparents. A tale told in passive conversations. A myth passed down through generations. Or so she'd thought.
"You can't leave her," the witch said quietly. "Whatever she is, she's yours. You carried her in your womb. She is a part of you."
The mother shook her head. "You don't understand. They'll kill her and me. Him too. If they ever find out. I did not think it was going to happen." Her voice cracked. "She was not meant to live. She is the product of a mistake that never should have happened. I cannot keep her."
A pause. Then she stood, barefoot and bleeding, and took the child for one final moment. She was beautiful and perfect. Her perfect mistake. But she could not keep her. It hurt, but it was her fate and her baby's. She didn't kiss her. She didn't speak. She only stared at her, as if trying to burn her daughter's face into her memory.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Then she was gone. Before the old woman could register what had happened, the mother had disappeared into the night.
She stepped out into the storm and stood there for a second, uttering words in a foreign tongue. A portal opened in front of her. She put the baby through it. "They will take care of you." The baby smiled as if understanding what she had said. She watched as the portal closed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deep within the veiled planes, past sealed tunnels and stone-carved passages, the Eclipse Arcanum lay untouched by time.
In its center, enclosed by thick walls of moonsteel, stood a pedestal. Resting upon it was a large, weathered tome—closed and locked for years.
Without a whisper, without a touch, the Book of Prophecies shook.
Its leather cover snapped open.
The pages turned, one after another, faster and faster—until it stopped.
It landed on a page marked with dark, dried ink. The writing was old. The paper yellowed. But the words remained as clear as the day they were written.
Footsteps echoed into the chamber. One of the Wise Ones entered, robes trailing against the floor. He stared at the open book, at the prophecy now exposed.
A second joined him, then a third.
The leader of the council stepped forward, eyes narrowed. He read the page in silence.
Then, without warning, his eyes turned white. And he spoke as if in a trance.
"Moon-born. Fire-touched. Of blood never meant to mix."
His voice was low at first.
"When the day comes that myth becomes truth, an impure blood shall bring a rise of a new race and an end to the war."
The others stood still. Listening.
"She will rise where blood was buried. She will join what was broken."
The council leader closed the book with both hands. He looked at the others, voice steady.
"She will not follow clan or throne."
"And if no one stands with her…"
A pause. The book creaked faintly in his grip.
"She will still stand."
Silence stretched long and tight.
One of the Wise broke it.
"What do we do?"
The leader turned toward the sealed exit.
"We watch."
Outside the vault, for the first time in centuries, the atmosphere shifted. Something old was moving.
And far away, a newborn's cry echoed again into the trees.