The night fell heavy upon the kingdom of Aeloria, but it was not like any other night. A silence deeper than winter cloaked the land, as though the very winds had forgotten how to breathe. Shepherds on the hilltops, soldiers patrolling the ramparts, and peasants locking their doors all looked skyward in awe and dread—for above them hung a moon no longer silver, but crimson, like an open wound upon the heavens.
Legends spoke of this omen: the Blood Moon of Silverblood, a harbinger that came but once in a thousand years. Old grandmothers whispered it over dying embers; scholars etched it in forbidden tomes; and priests of the Ivory Order prayed that they would not live to see its return. Yet now it hung vast and swollen, spilling its crimson light upon fields, rivers, and the shining spires of the capital, Caelthrone.
High within the royal palace, King Maelric of House Veylan stood at his balcony, his hands gripping the cold stone rail as though it might anchor him against the dread rising in his heart. He had heard the prophecy as a boy, when his tutor had read it in hushed tones from a brittle scroll: "When the moon bleeds and the sky weeps fire, the pact shall awaken, and the heir of shadows shall rise." Maelric had dismissed it as a relic of superstition, a tale to frighten children into obedience. Yet seeing the crimson moon now, he felt its truth gnaw at his bones.
Far below, in the streets of Caelthrone, torches flared as the city stirred uneasily. The common folk knelt in prayer or wailed in terror, believing that demons would soon walk among them. Priests gathered in the Cathedral of the First Flame, chanting until their throats grew raw, their voices trembling against the vast silence of the night. In the barracks, hardened soldiers whispered of omens, their hands tightening on spear-shafts as if wood and steel could ward away fate.
Beyond the city, in the desolate hills of Eldruin, a wanderer stirred from uneasy dreams. His name was Kaelen, a young man of no renown, born to a forgotten bloodline, raised among shadows. For nights uncounted, he had dreamt of the crimson moon, though he could not understand its meaning. Now, awakening to its presence in the sky, he felt his heart beat like a war drum in his chest. Something ancient within him had awakened.
He rose, his cloak billowing in the chill wind, and felt the pull of destiny calling him toward the city whose spires glowed blood-red under the sky. He did not yet know who he was, nor why whispers had haunted his every step since childhood. But he knew this much: the world had changed tonight, and there would be no return.
In the far reaches of the kingdom, where the Forest of Dusk stretched like an endless shroud of shadow, creatures unseen for centuries began to stir. Silver-furred wolves, their eyes glowing like lanterns, prowled the glades, howling to the bleeding moon. From the depths of the Blackmarsh, a shape vast and formless rose, its tendrils rippling across the stagnant waters. And in tombs long sealed, bones shifted, as though restless spirits were waking to answer a call only they could hear.
The omen was not merely in the heavens—it echoed across all realms, mortal and otherwise.
Within the Ivory Halls, the council of lords convened in secret. The chamber was lit by candelabra, their flames guttering against drafts that should not exist. Cloaked nobles leaned close, their jeweled fingers drumming nervously on the polished oak table.
"The prophecy is upon us," whispered Lord Calveth, his hawk-like features pale. "The Heir of Shadows shall rise. We must prepare."
"Prepare?" scoffed Lady Isolde, her voice sharp as glass. "We must prevent. If the pact awakens, the throne itself is at stake. Our power is at stake."
Their voices rose, a storm of fear, ambition, and treachery. None noticed the scribe in the corner, quietly recording every word. None wondered why his shadow stretched long across the marble floor, even though the candles burned low.
And high in the mountains beyond, unseen by mortal eyes, a figure cloaked in silver watched the kingdom below. His lips curled into a smile, ancient and cold. "The game begins," he whispered, his voice carried by the wind.
As the crimson moon reached its zenith, a single drop of blood fell from the heavens, vanishing into the dark earth. And the world shuddered, for the prophecy of Silverblood had begun.