Selena's POV
My heart skipped a beat the moment his gaze fell on me. It was as if every bone in my body turned to ash, my strength scattering into nothing. I felt my balance slipping away beneath me.
His eyes were dark, yet there was a strange glow within them—a glow that pierced through the sorrow buried deep inside. His skin was pale, almost ghostly, and though his expression remained calm, there was something about him that carried a quiet, dangerous weight. His very presence seemed to echo fear.
He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. His voice, low and steady, brushed across the silence.
"What are you looking for here, young lady?"
*Young lady.* The words clung to me. He looked no older than me—perhaps younger—yet there was an ancientness in his face, a depth etched into every shadow of his features. For a fleeting moment, I could have sworn I was older than him, or at least his equal in years. But something about him disarmed logic, made me overlook such details. Perhaps it was the intensity in his eyes, or the way his steps closed the distance with an aura of danger.
"Just passing by," I whispered, my voice fragile, trembling. He did not seem concerned with my answer. His gaze drifted, drawn to the necklace resting against my collarbone. The small piece of silver glimmered in the dim light—the heirloom my mother had given me, passed down through countless generations of our bloodline.
Before I could think further, his voice sliced through my thoughts.
"Morgan… is that you?"
The name froze me. My heart stumbled into silence. Fear prickled my skin. *Morgan?* My great ancestor? Why would this mysterious man speak her name as though he had seen her with his own eyes?
"Is it you?" he asked again, his voice trembling now, yet carrying an urgency that unsettled me. He took another step forward, his hand half-reaching as though he longed to grasp me, to hold me. For the first time, his pale, sorrowful face shifted—softened—into something that looked like hope. Hope tangled with despair. Like a man who had finally found something he thought lost forever.
I stepped back quickly, my pulse racing.
"No. My name is Selena," I replied, though my voice cracked. "Morgan… she was my great ancestor."
Disappointment washed over his expression, the fragile hope in his features collapsing. He drew himself upright, his cloak shifting as dust broke free from the folds of his hooded garment. The dark hood clung to his figure, shadowing him in a shroud of secrecy.
"Who are you, sir?" I dared to ask at last, ignoring the fear clawing at the edges of my voice.
"I am nobody," he murmured, his tone like a stone sinking into still water. "Just keep going your way, young lady."
Again—*young lady*. He repeated it with such certainty, as though he knew, beyond any doubt, that he was far older than me. And perhaps he was. The thought unsettled me, gnawed at the edges of my understanding, especially when I considered the way he spoke Morgan's name.
Then came the voices.
"It is your doom," the first echoed in my mind, sharp and cold.
"It is your savior," whispered the second, softer but no less haunting.
The twin voices no longer startled me; they had lived in my head for some time now. The two god moons, forever speaking to me—forever contradicting each other. And yet, both always proved true.
My eyes never left the stranger. His entire being radiated danger, every breath he drew reminding me of Kael, the red moon's warning: *this man might really be your doom.*
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Ashar's POV
The girl kept staring at me, even after I told her to leave. Could she not hear me? Or perhaps she was simply too stubborn—or too troubled. Judging by her clothes, the vast white garments she wore unsuited for the barren expanse of the lost desert, she was certainly running from something. No one dressed like that would wander here by choice. Trouble clung to her like a shadow.
And yet… the necklace. Morgan's blood. Her descendant.
The thought twisted inside me. A chance, perhaps, to mend what I destroyed in the past. To find forgiveness. Or to fail again, as I had failed Morgan. I feared that history might be waiting, patient, ready to repeat itself.
"Can't you hear me, young lady?" I pressed, my voice firmer this time. My words snapped her out of her daze, though she still hesitated, staring at me as if torn between fleeing and speaking. "I told you to keep going."
But she didn't move. Her silence clung like a chain, and so I turned, deciding to walk away.
Then I felt it—her small hand tugging at the edge of my hood.
I stopped. Slowly turned. Her eyes met mine, wide, desperate, trembling.
"Save me… please. I need your help."
Her plea dug into me. My mind roared, *Help her. Help her.* But another voice whispered caution. If I helped her, would I not only doom her? Would I not repeat the sins of the past?
I gently pried her fingers from my hood and stepped away. My heart clenched, heavy with guilt, but I reminded myself: this is how I became cursed. This is why I wander endlessly across this desert with no end in sight.
Then—her scream shattered the night.
"HELP!"
Her voice tore through the barren silence, echoing far across the dunes. My chest tightened. I turned back and ran toward the sound.
But when I reached the place I had left her, she was gone. In her place, I found tracks—five sets of footprints leading away.
She had been taken.
My jaw tightened. My body burned with urgency. I had to save her. The desert had been my prison for decades, but it was also my domain. I knew every shadow, every path, every hollow. And I would not let her vanish.
I ran faster than I had in years, pushing my body until weakness clawed at my insides. Still, I pressed on. For her. For Morgan. For redemption.
Ahead, faint lights flickered—torches, moving toward the distant village. My heart knew instantly. It was them.
I had no choice now. To reach her, to save her, I would have to break the vow I had kept for so long. I would have to unleash the power I had buried within me.
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Selena's POV
The ropes bit into my wrists until fire seared my skin. The men who carried me—five of them, torches blazing, blades gleaming—chanted in unison.
"Witch! Witch! Witch!"
Terror thundered in my chest. Their voices rose like a storm, drowning every other sound. My heartbeat pounded so violently it felt as if it might burst through my ribs.
Then the night shifted. The torches wavered. Shadows split.
And he appeared.
The Mystery Man.
He moved like a phantom, faster than my eyes could follow. One heartbeat he was absent, the next he was among them. The clash of steel against his bare hands, the sickening crack of bone—it all echoed through the night in a storm of violence.
He fought with an inhuman ferocity, a storm unleashed. The sorrow in his eyes—the quiet grief that had haunted me before—now ignited into something darker. Hunger. Rage. A beastly fire that devoured everything in its path.
Five against one, yet none of them stood a chance. He twisted and turned with brutal grace, his cloak whipping around him like shadows given form. One man screamed, the sound cut short as his body fell limp. Another was hurled against stone, his body crumpling lifelessly.
I wanted to feel relief. Gratitude. Safety. But instead, fear rooted me in place. Because this man—my rescuer—looked nothing like a savior. He looked like death itself, unleashed.
When the last of them fled into the darkness, silence reclaimed the night. My body trembled uncontrollably. Not just from the terror of the priests' men, but from the realization of what I had just witnessed.
He turned to me then. His chest rose and fell like a beast barely restrained. His eyes—still burning with a remnant of that rage—softened just enough to seem human again.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was low, controlled, but it carried a weight that coiled in my stomach like chains.
My lips parted, but no words came. I should have thanked him. Instead, I swayed, faint with exhaustion and fear. The last thing I felt was the cold strength of his arms catching me before the world slipped away.
…
When consciousness returned, the desert sky was gone. I awoke inside a cave, the rough walls flickering with firelight. The smell of smoke clung to the air, the sting of rope still burned across my wrists.
For a moment, I thought it a dream. Then I saw him.
The Mystery Man sat by the fire, his hood pushed back. Shadows sculpted his pale face, his gaze fixed on the flames as though the answers of the world were hidden there. I trembled, the memory of his earlier fury burning fresh in my mind.
I pulled my arms close, clutching the marks left by the ropes. He didn't look at me, though I sensed he knew I was awake.
"Why…" My voice broke, but I forced it steadier. "Why did you save me?"
The fire cracked. Silence stretched long before he answered.
"Because you would have died."
I frowned. The simplicity of the answer felt like sand slipping through my fingers.
"You could have walked away."
This time he turned his head, just slightly, his eyes glinting in the firelight as they caught mine.
"I told you once already… Morgan."
The name hit me like a blade. My ancestor. My mother's stories. The necklace around my neck, passed down through generations. But Morgan lived more than a century ago. How could he speak her name with such familiarity—as if he had seen her, touched her, known her?
I sat up slowly, my heartbeat quickening. "Who are you? What were you to her?"
His jaw tightened. He turned back to the fire, his silence heavier than words. I pressed, my voice trembling.
"Are you saying you knew her? That you lived then? That you're still living now? How is that possible?"
For the first time, anger cracked through his calm. His fist clenched, his voice snapped like a storm.
"Enough."
I flinched.
Then his tone dropped, guttural, dangerous. "Don't think the moons can save you from me. They don't have the heart to do that for a poor girl like you."
I froze, my hand flying to the necklace at my chest. The moons. The voices that spoke in my head. How did he know?
I stared at him, caught between awe and terror. This Mystery Man knew more about me than I dared to imagine.
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Ashar's POV
I cursed myself silently. I had said too much. Her shocked expression told me I had invited questions I could not answer. She would demand to know how I spoke of the moons, how I knew their whispers.
But the truth was simple. They were the ones who had cursed me. They were the reason I wandered, doomed without end.
"You know about the moons?" she asked, her voice sharp, her eyes locking onto mine for the first time that night. Her irises glimmered blue, the same as Morgan's. Was it a mark of the moon-bearers? Or simply the legacy of her bloodline?
"Yes," I replied curtly, my voice tight.
"How?" she pressed again, her words sharper, her curiosity relentless.
"Look, young lady," I said, forcing calm into my voice. "I only know because I once knew someone like you. She wore the same necklace, passed down from one moon-bearer to the next."
Her expression shifted. Confusion and belief warred within her eyes. "Moon-bearer… is that what it is? My ancestor—she was one of them too?"
I gave no answer. She stared at me, her gaze demanding more.
"Are you one as well?" she asked suddenly. Her words struck me like an arrow, and for a moment, I could not speak.
"Do they all have the same powers as you?" she pressed, her tone faltering. "Do they all look as terrifying as you did before?"
Her apology stumbled after her boldness, but the word lingered—*terrifying*. I felt the weight of it.
Then her voice softened, trembling yet insistent. "If you knew my ancestor, that means you must be over six centuries old. If you are a moon-bearer, and you lived this long… why didn't she?"
Her questions came like waves, too many, too sharp. My silence was no longer enough. At last, I realized—I would have to give her answers.
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