The final night of the Blood Moon Festival had arrived, the greatest of them all. For three days the kingdoms had sung, danced, and feasted, but this was the night that mattered most—the night when prayers, offerings, and celebrations joined together as one voice under the red moon.
It was the dry season, when not a single drop of rain fell from the skies, and the earth cracked under the weight of heat. For generations uncounted, this festival had always been marked by clear skies and blazing stars. Tonight, the heavens blazed with the crimson moon, its light like liquid fire washing over every kingdom.
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The Celebrations
In the Nightshade Kingdom, the air shimmered with mystery. Dancers cloaked in flowing fabrics of deep indigo and silver twirled under lanterns shaped like crescent moons. Their masks, carved with feathers and jewels, glowed in the moonlight. Music filled the night—haunting flutes and drums that mimicked the heartbeat of the earth. Every step of their dance told an ancient tale, one of shadows and fate, of beauty both fleeting and eternal.
In the Ashford Kingdom, the celebration was vibrant and fierce. The people wore crimson silks, embroidered with golden dragons, their sleeves wide and flowing. The streets glowed with red lanterns that floated into the sky like burning stars. Martial dancers leapt and spun with blades that caught the moonlight, sparks flying as steel clashed with steel in performances of power. Songs rose like thunder, praising strength, prosperity, and the blessing of heirs.
And in the Vale Kingdom, the heart of it all, the celebration burned brightest. The women tied silks around their waists and chests in daring beauty, their jewels glittering against bare stomachs. Men draped themselves in warrior cloths, drums thundering in rhythm with the dancers' feet. Beasts were adorned in ribbons and ornaments, paraded proudly as symbols of fertility and power. Songs of love and longing echoed through the night, voices rising so high they seemed to touch the blood-red moon itself.
The air itself seemed alive—charged with magic, hope, and expectation.
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Midnight: The Hour of Birth
As the moon reached its peak, the air shifted. A hush fell across the kingdoms, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Then came the cry of a child.
In the Nightshade Kingdom, Queen Aurelia bore a daughter, delicate as dawn, her hair dark as midnight. The court rejoiced, for her beauty was radiant, and her arrival was seen as the blessing Madame Calista foretold.
In the Ashford Kingdom, Queen Elowen gave birth to a son. His eyes, though still small and blinking, glimmered with strength as if forged from fire itself. A warrior's son. The kingdom erupted in celebration, horns echoing across the night.
And in the Vale Kingdom, Queen Seraphina's cries broke through the palace halls. At last, her child was born—a daughter.
When the midwife lifted the child for the Queen to see, silence filled the room. The babe was beautiful beyond words. Her skin glowed faintly in the candlelight, her features so perfect that even the nurses whispered in awe. But it was her eyes that stole the breath of all who saw her.
Her irises were not blue, green, nor brown. They were violet—a piercing, otherworldly purple that shimmered like starlight. A color unseen in any mortal before.
"She is…" the midwife stammered, "…divine."
Seraphina's tears fell as she cradled the child, love overwhelming her heart. But her joy was shadowed by dread. Madame Calista's words whispered like poison in her ears.
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The Storm
Then it came.
The skies rumbled. Thunder split the heavens. A drop fell, then another—and suddenly, torrents of rain crashed down with a force the kingdoms had never known.
The earth trembled as trees were uprooted and torches were drowned. The festival fires hissed and died, swallowed by the storm. Panic filled the streets.
"How is this possible?" cried Lady Isolde, Seraphina's mother, clutching her shawl as the winds roared. "We are in the dry season! Not since the time of our ancestors has rain ever fallen on this night!"
The palace shook with the storm. Windows rattled, thunder cracked, and lightning carved through the skies.
Seraphina's heart froze. She clutched her child to her chest, her eyes wide with horror. No… no, it cannot be. Madame Calista's prophecy echoed in her head.
"You will all give birth on the same day… and in that heavy rain, you will see a man dressed in black with a black umbrella. When you see him, know that your daughter is already the Devil's."
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The Man with the Black Umbrella
Her breath caught. Slowly, as though compelled, Seraphina rose and stumbled to the window. Her trembling hands threw it open.
There he stood.
Amidst the raging storm, untouched by wind or water, a tall figure stood still. He was dressed in black—an elegant, timeless suit that clung perfectly to his strong frame. In his hand was a black umbrella, shielding him from the torrential downpour though the rain itself seemed to fear touching him.
His face was striking, impossibly handsome, carved with sharp lines and a cold, dangerous beauty. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, like embers smoldering beneath shadow. And on his lips was a smile—not of warmth, but of possession.
Seraphina's vision blurred. "No…" she whispered. And then her body gave way, fainting into her mother's arms.
The maids screamed, rushing to aid her, but it was the King who moved to the window next. When his eyes beheld the figure, his heart thundered with terror.
"My God…" he gasped, his voice breaking. "It is true. We are cursed. We are doomed!" He slammed his fists against the sill. "Better that the heavens burn this kingdom to ashes than for such a fate to befall us!"
But still the man did not move.
He stood tall, calm, unyielding beneath the storm. His gaze lifted slowly toward the palace, and though distance lay between them, the King felt those eyes pierce straight into the chamber where the child lay.
Then the man spoke. His voice, though carried by the storm, was clear as a whisper in their ears.
"So… she is born."
Lightning split the sky, illuminating his grin—a smile that was both cruel and enchanting. He tilted his umbrella, almost in reverence, and whispered words that froze the King's soul.
"My beautiful bride."