The night bled red. The Blood Moon swelled above the temple, its crimson glow spilling like molten wine over the cliffs. Above the jagged peaks, the moon had turned full and furious, its surface veined with crimson as though some vast wound had split open in the heavens.
The villagers cowered in silence, doors barred, hearths darkened. Old women pressed salt across their thresholds. Mothers kissed their children's brows and whispered prayers to gods who had long abandoned them.
For it was known across every valley and fortress of the Sanguine Realm, when the moon turned to blood, the Veil between worlds thinned — and monsters walked freely.
Rhiannon stood at the cliff's edge, the wind clawing at her hair. The crimson light painted her silver cloak a darker hue, like spilled wine over snow. She felt it before she saw it, the strange pull in her chest, the way her pulse answered a rhythm not her own. The Flame within her stirred, restless, burning hotter than it ever had.
She clenched her fists.
Why now? Why tonight?
A howl split the silence.
Not the cry of a wolf, but something larger, more feral, threaded with fury. The sound echoed across the valley, rattling bones, sending the crows screaming from the trees. Her heart lurched.
And then — movement.
From the tree line below, a shape emerged, tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked in shadow, followed by an army. His eyes glowed faintly — not amber like a wolf's, but a piercing molten-gold that caught the moonlight and held it.
Valerius.
The Crimson Duke.
The one every omen, every whisper, had warned her of.
Rhiannon's breath caught in her throat. She had seen him only in glimpses —in dreams walking through fire and ash, visions scribed by the Oracle's hand. But never like this. Never with flesh and voice and presence, standing beneath the blood-stained sky.
Valerius stopped at the base of the cliff, tilting his head as though scenting the air.
His voice rose, low and resonant, carrying up the rocks as if the night itself bore his words.
"You should not be here, LITTLE EMBER."
The way he said it — not an accusation, not a warning, but the recognition — sent a shiver through her.
Rhiannon's chin lifted. "And yet, here I stand."
The wind hissed between them, thick with the iron tang of the moon. The world seemed to wait.
Valerius stepped forward, the red glow cutting across his face. His features were sharp, severe, carved as though from the same stone as the mountains that loomed behind him. His presence was dominance incarnate — but beneath it, something strange glimmered. Something almost... curious.
"You burn too brightly," he said softly, eyes locked on hers. "Do you not fear the dark will devour you?"
Rhiannon's lips curved into something between defiance and invitation. "Do you not fear the flame will scorch you?"
The ground trembled — not from them, but from the Veil itself, thinning, shivering beneath the Blood Moon. Shapes moved in the tree line, twisted and wrong. Specters formed from smoke and shadow, drawn to the light of her flame, drawn to the hunger in his blood.
Their meeting had not gone unnoticed.
Valerius's jaw tightened. He turned his head slightly, the warrior in him sensing the oncoming swarm. His voice, when it returned, was no longer soft.
"Then let us see if prophecy spares us long enough to test it."
And with that, he leapt — higher than any mortal man, scaling the cliff in a surge of power, landing before her in one fluid motion. The world seemed to narrow, the shadows pressing closer, the heat of her flame rising in her veins.
For the first time, Rhiannon and Valerius stood face to face.
Silver flame met the crimson duke.
Light met blood.
Destiny clenched its fist around them both.
And the night howled its approval.
But the night was not the only witness.
From the carved cliffside temple above, the stone statues began to stir. Faces cracked, eyes glowing faintly as though ancient watchers roused from slumber. And from their midst, a figure emerged — robed in pale veils, her hair white as frost, her steps both heavy and weightless.
The Oracle.
Her presence stilled the wind, silenced even the whisper of leaves. She descended with the authority of one who had seen countless dawns rise and fall, her voice sharp enough to cleave through prophecy itself.
Her hand came to rest upon Rhiannon's shoulder. Yet her gaze, cold and merciless, fixed not on the Flame. Not on the stars.
It fixed on Valerius.
"Step aside, riff-raff," she commanded, her tone like iron striking stone.
Valerius stiffened, shadows writhing faintly at his back. His lips curled into a devilish's smile.
"Still venomous as ever, Oracle," he growled. "Even after all these ages."
The Oracle's veil fluttered in the blood-red wind, her expression untouched by his presence.
"You should have stayed in the Veil where you belong. You were cast out for a reason."
Valerius's eyes blazed, silver cutting like a blade.
"Banished, yes — to bleed in the dark, to fight against the invaders while your kind watched from your stone halls. I survived what should have ended me. And I swore then... that when I returned, I would claim what was mine."
His gaze slid, deliberate, to Rhiannon.
The Oracle's fingers tightened briefly on Rhiannon's shoulder. "Foolish boy. You dare reach for what belongs to destiny itself?"
Valerius bared his teeth, his voice dropping into something primal, dangerous.
"Destiny is a leash. I am no man's hound. What I desire, I claim."
The Oracle's eyes flashed, fierce enough to still the very air between them.
"And yet... even immortals are hunted when they stray too far from the castles that shelter them."
A tense silence followed — flame, immortal, and fate coiled in fragile balance beneath the bleeding moon.
Then the shadows stirred. The Veil screamed. And the night unleashed its horrors.
"Still you spit venom, Oracle. Still you pretend at power."