Chapter Eight: The Blood Moon Rising
Blackthorn Hall was no longer quiet.
The night breathed.
The walls whispered as crimson light spilled through the arched windows, washing the corridors in the color of spilled wine.
Elara felt it before she saw it—the pulse beneath her skin, answering the rhythm of the blood moon rising over the moors.
The night of the ritual
From her window, she could see the family gathered in the courtyard below, cloaked in black, faces hidden by silver masks. At their center stood Darius Vale, regal and terrible, a chalice in one hand and a book of shadows in the other.
Lucien wasn't among them.
She pressed her palms to the cold glass. "Where are you?" she whispered.
A voice behind her answered, low and urgent.
"Right here."
Lucien emerged from the darkness, cloak dripping with rain. His eyes glowed faintly—like embers refusing to die.
"We don't have much time," he said. "The ritual begins when the moon reaches its peak. Once it does, Darius will summon me to bind my will—and erase yours."
"Then stop him," she said.
"I can't defeat him. But I can outwit him."
He held out a small silver dagger, its blade carved with runes. "If you pierce your palm with this and let three drops fall into the flame in the hall below, the spell will bind to you instead. The memory he tries to take will burn into eternity."
Elara hesitated, the dagger trembling in her hand. "And what happens to you?"
Lucien's smile was faint, bittersweet. "If you succeed… I'll be free of his control. But the bond between us will be complete."
The confrontation
Thunder roared as they crept down the marble stairs. Darius's voice carried through the hall, deep and commanding.
"Bring forth the girl!"
Lucien stepped into view first. "No."
Gasps rippled through the gathered clan.
Darius turned, his eyes gleaming like steel. "You would defy me for a mortal?"
"For her," Lucien said. "Yes."
He moved faster than sight—one moment at the base of the stairs, the next standing before his father. Power sparked through the air, rippling the candle flames.
"You were supposed to destroy weakness," Darius hissed. "Not worship it."
"Maybe love isn't weakness," Lucien said. "Maybe it's what's kept me human."
Elara's choice
Elara's pulse thundered in her ears. She raised the dagger. One breath. One heartbeat.
She pressed it to her palm.
Three drops of blood fell into the flame.
A blinding crimson light burst through the hall. The runes carved into the marble glowed, twisting like serpents. Darius cried out, the spell breaking from his grasp.
Lucien staggered back, his mark flaring to life. "Elara!"
"It's done," she said, voice shaking. "They can't erase us now."
"No," he whispered. "Now we're bound forever."
The blood moon burned overhead, brilliant and terrible.
The clan scattered, their power dissolving with the ritual.
Lucien fell to his knees, and Elara caught him, their hands glowing faintly where the sigils met.
In the silence that followed, the house seemed to exhale—relieved, or perhaps warning of what came next.
"It's over," she murmured.
"No," Lucien said, eyes opening slowly. "It's only beginning."
Outside, the blood moon began to wane—but its mark on their souls remained.