In a world of countless kingdoms, empires, and dynasties, three great and powerful realms stood apart. They were bound not by blood but by loyalty, their rulers tied by friendship, their borders interwoven like strands of fate. These were the Vale Kingdom, the Ashford Kingdom, and the Nightangle Kingdom.
It was the season of the Blood Moon Festival, a sacred event that came once in a year .For three days and three nights, the veil between the human world and the supernatural realm grew thin. Spells and rituals reached their peak; blessings, curses, and visions were said to walk hand-in-hand. On these nights, mortals celebrated with fire, music, and dance—yet they also trembled, for the same gates that opened to blessings also opened to horrors.
This year's festival carried a deeper joy. Each queen, from each kingdom, carried life within her womb. Three children destined for three thrones. The rulers had gathered at Vale Castle, a sprawling fortress draped in banners of black and gold, to celebrate both the festival and the hope of heirs to come.
The castle courtyard glittered with lanterns. Crimson garlands wound around the archways, their blooms symbolizing the blood moon's promise of fertility. Bonfires crackled high into the air. Minstrels played flutes and drums at every corner, while servants in laced Victorian tunics carried trays heavy with roasted venison, spiced bread, and honeyed wine.
But beyond Vale, the three kingdoms each prepared in their own ways—each culture shining like a gem under the same crimson moon.
Ashford Kingdom draped its streets with silk banners of jade and scarlet. Their people wore Chinese-inspired robes embroidered with silver moons and constellations. When they danced, the long sleeves shimmered like flowing rivers. Children released glowing lanterns into the night sky, each lantern carrying a whispered prayer for prosperity and strong heirs.
Nightangle Kingdom shimmered in feathers. Their nobles dressed in gowns and cloaks woven with iridescent plumes—peacock blues, raven blacks, and snowy whites. Headdresses shaped like wings crowned their women, while men wore capes lined with feathers that shifted with each step. They filled their streets with glowing orbs and polished obsidian mirrors, believing the reflections would scatter away spirits drawn to the Blood Moon. Their dances were swift and fluid, like birds in flight, their chants rising into the sky like a flock taking wing.
Vale Kingdom, the heart of the gathering, prepared with bold tradition. Women tied bright cloths around their waists and across their chests, leaving their stomachs bare in an ancient rite of fertility. Men wore sashes across their shoulders, bearing ritual spears not for battle but for dances of strength and fire. It was said that on this night, many couples conceived children blessed by the Blood Moon, while others returned with miracles whispered across the kingdom.
And so, as the first evening of the festival began, the three queens gathered together in Vale Castle's grand hall.
Queen Seraphina Vale, her dark hair braided with pearls, rested her hand on her swollen belly. Beside her sat Queen Aurielle of Ashford, serene in her jade-embroidered gown, her eyes alight with wisdom. To her right, radiant in sapphire robes crowned with a feathered headdress, was Queen Elowen of Nightangle, her smile gracious as she accepted courtiers' well-wishes.
The hall was a storm of laughter, music, and anticipation. Yet beneath it all was a hum of curiosity: the unborn heirs of three kingdoms. What futures awaited them?
"Your Highness," a guard called, bowing deeply at the door. "The seer has arrived."
A hush fell. An old woman entered, cloaked in deep indigo, her silver hair trailing to her waist. Madame Calista, the most respected fortune-teller of the age, carried a carved wooden box. From it, she drew dice marked with strange glowing runes.
The dice clattered across the velvet cloth.
"For Ashford…" Her voice was clear, certain. "You will bear a son. A warrior, noble and fierce. He will bring victories to Ashford and blessings to its people."
A roar of triumph filled the hall. King Darius clasped his queen's hand as courtiers raised goblets high.
"For Nightangle…" She cast again. The dice formed a pattern that made her voice soften reverently. "You will bear a daughter. A jewel among mortals, her beauty will weave unity where there is division. She will renew Nightangle's culture and raise its name to glory."
Queen Elowen's eyes brimmed with tears. King Rowan pressed a kiss to her hand as cheers rang out.
At last, the dice fell for Vale. The torches dimmed, shadows crawling high against the stone walls. The dice froze in an unyielding pattern. Calista frowned, rolled again, and again—the result unchanged.
"Well?" King Aldric Vale demanded, his grip tightening around Seraphina's trembling hand.
Calista's voice cracked. "You will bear a daughter. A maiden of surpassing beauty, too radiant for mortal eyes. Her grace will be both gift and curse. She will bring much to this kingdom."
The crowd erupted in cheers. Yet the seer's expression only darkened.
"There is more," she whispered. Her hands shook as the runes glowed blood-red. "I see a mingling of light and darkness. A fate woven in shadow and flame. This child… will change history."
"What do you mean?" Seraphina asked, her voice faint.
"She will be the first human chosen by the Darkness itself. A bride not of men, but of the Devil."
The words struck like thunder. Gasps echoed. Nobles clutched charms, some whispered prayers, others shouted in fear. Seraphina's color drained as Aldric leapt to his feet, rage burning.
"Lies! Do not curse my child with such wicked prophecy!"
But Calista only shook her head, her voice low and final. "The Devil has already marked her. On the night of her birth, beneath the Blood Moon, he will come for her."
The hall dissolved into chaos—shouts, prayers, cries of terror. And amid it all, Queen Seraphina clutched her belly and whispered, trembling:
"Not my child… not my baby."