Red Moon, Blood of the Crown

The first arrow struck the bronze bell before midnight.

The sound echoed throughout the market, accompanied by the shattering of paper lanterns hanging between the buildings. High above the roof, the red moon hung like a wound in the sky—burning, turning the surrounding clouds crimson, and casting its color upon every face below.

Aria looked toward the narrow alley between the stalls. In front of her, a cart had overturned. Apples spilled across the wet stones, rolling between the feet of screaming people. At the other end, men wrapped in black cloaks were descending from the roofs. In their hands, weapons with silver blades gleamed.

“Close the doors!” shouted a guard. “No one gets out!”

The tents in the eastern part of the market quickly went up in flames. Fire climbed up the hanging fabrics, leapt across the wooden pillars, and seized the roof of the old hall. A child was crying. A woman was screaming the name of a lost child. In the midst of the chaos, Aria heard the sound she feared most—the low growl of a vampire before it strikes.

She should not be here.

That was the first rule taught to her by silence: never approach humans, never show yourself, never let blood remember you. For years, she had survived by being a shadow at the edge of the world.

Yet beneath the burning market, people were trapped behind iron gates.

And there was a witness who needed to live.

She saw him at the top of the stone stairs in the northern part of the hall—an old man wearing a faded cloak, clutching a small iron box to his chest. Two vampires were chasing him. Behind the man, a blazing pillar collapsed, blocking the only exit.

“Aria.”

She did not know who called her. Perhaps one of the fleeing people. Perhaps the memory of a voice long gone from her side.

She curled her fingers tightly into her palms. Beneath her skin, the blood stirred.

Don’t.

A scream was cut short at the end of the alley. A body slumped over crates of fabric. In the firelight, Aria saw the marks on its neck—two holes with darkened edges.

The werewolves had come for revenge. The vampire clans had come to conquer. And this market was the first altar to bleed for the crown.

Aria ran.

She collided with a man carrying a torch. He fell, and the torch rolled into the dry hay. Fire spread to her right. Her sleeve singed, but she did not stop. With every step, she heard the clashing of weapons, the rustle of cloaks, the sobbing of people who did not know who to fear.

“Open the gate!” cried a guard.

“They’re not human!” another replied. “Kill them all!”

Three dark figures dropped from the roof. They moved with unnatural speed—faster than the human eye. One of them lunged at a guard, but was met with a spear bearing a sun-carved emblem. The vampire’s skin sizzled upon impact. It recoiled, growled, and retaliated with its claws.

Both sides clashed in the middle of the market.

This was no longer just an attack. This was war.

Aria stopped at the foot of the stairs. The old witness stared at her. Beneath the dirt and blood on his face, there was a flicker of strange recognition in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the old man said.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying.”

“If they get the box, the bloodline ends—”

An arrow zipped between them and embedded itself in the old man’s shoulder. He cried out. The box slipped from his hands, clattering loudly against the stone.

Aria lunged and caught him before his head hit the stairs.

“Let him go!” shouted a female guard from across the way, holding a spear whose blade gleamed in the red light. “The witness belongs to the law!”

“Your law is what burned the market,” Aria replied.

“The vampires started this!”

“I didn’t ask who started it.”

The guard raised her spear.

At that moment, a vampire struck from the side. The guard whipped around, but it was too late. The spear slipped from her hand. The creature’s claws reached for her throat.

Aria moved without thinking.

She grabbed the blade of the spear.

Her palm split open.

Blood dripped onto the silver.

And the entire market lit up.

It was not the light of fire. It was whiter, colder, with crimson veins snaking through it. The light surged from her hand up to the blade, then exploded into the air like the breath of a creature that had waited far too long to wake.

The vampire recoiled. Its facial skin tore, and black smoke billowed from its wounds. It dropped to its knees, convulsing.

The screams stopped.

In the blink of an eye, every pair of eyes locked onto Aria.

On the blood in her palm.

On the light that should not exist.

The old man gasped. “The blessed blood...”

“No,” the female guard whispered, turning pale. “The cursed heir.”

Aria felt the back of her neck grow cold. Beneath her skin, the light continued to trace patterns. She did not release it. She did not know how to stop it.

The blood moved for her.

The blood chose.

“Kill her!” shouted a man behind the guards. “She has the key to the crown!”

Chaos erupted once more.

Spears turned toward Aria. The vampires unleashed a roar that seemed to rise from the depths of the earth. The old witness clutched his cloak.

“If you want to know why they are hunting you,” he said, “take me to the northern tower.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because I know your mother’s name.”

Aria turned pale.

She didn’t ask how he knew. An arrow struck the stone right beside her head, sending tiny shards grazing her cheek. She hauled the old man away from the stairs.

“Run,” she said.

“I’m wounded.”

“Then don’t stop.”

She dragged him into a narrow corridor between warehouses. To their left, a roof collapsed, spilling fire across the floor and cutting off the path. To the right, people crammed behind a locked gate, crying for help.

Aria stopped.

Behind the bars, a child clung to his mother. Thick smoke choked the air around them. The padlock bore the carving of a sun—the mark of the werewolves. An ordinary key could not open it.

“Aria,” the old man urged urgently. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll both die.”

She looked at the weeping child.

Her palm kept bleeding.

She didn’t know if that blood was a blessing or a curse. She only knew it possessed the power to unlock things sealed away by fear.

She pressed her hand against the padlock.

The iron groaned.

A red light crawled across the sun carving. The lock shattered like bone. The gate swung open, and the people scrambled out, shouting.

“To the river!” Aria yelled. “Not the main road!”

Some looked at her as if she were their savior. Others shrank away from her hand.

She did not wait for their gratitude.

She pulled the old man toward the path behind the storehouses. But before they could get far, a shadow dropped from a high roof and blocked their way.

A man.

Tall, draped in dark clothes, holding a silver blade in one hand.

He did not move like the vampires Aria had seen. Nor did he pace like the bloodthirsty guards. His posture carried a heavy, quiet resilience that neither fire nor blood could shake.

In the red light, she saw the sharp lines of his face.

“Step away from the witness,” the man said.

“No.”

“You don’t know what he’s carrying.”

“I know everyone’s trying to kill him.”

The man raised his blade. “And you? Aren’t you afraid they’ll find out what you are carrying?”

Aria felt the pain flare in her wounded palm.

“If you know,” she said, “why haven’t you killed me yet?”

A flicker crossed the man’s eyes—not pity, not fear. Hesitation.

“Because I am not one of them.”

“Are you a vampire?”

“That is not the question you should be asking.”

“Then you aren’t worth an answer.”

From behind them, shouts erupted. The guards were closing in. At the other end of the corridor, a shadow slithered along the wall—a pack of vampires tracking the scent of Aria’s blood.

The man glanced at both sides, then back at her.

“You have three breaths before the passage behind you seals shut,” he said. “If you want to live, follow me.”

“I don’t follow strangers.”

“Then choose which monsters get to you first.”

A spear flew out of the smoke.

The man swiped his blade, deflecting the spear into the wall. At the same instant, a vampire lunged from behind. He twisted his body, met the creature head-on, and drove the silver deep beneath its jaw. The vampire crumpled to his feet.

Fast. Precise. Unhesitating.

The man grabbed Aria’s arm.

His fingers were warm.

“Now.”

She didn’t know why she obeyed. Perhaps because the guards were drawing near. Perhaps because the old witness was losing consciousness. Or perhaps because of a strange familiarity in the man’s voice—like a secret she had yet to remember.

They ran.

They slipped behind warehouses, under a stone bridge, and into a low-ceilinged tunnel. With every turn, there was fire on one side and blood on the other. Aria heard the pounding of feet, the clinking of weapons, the old man’s ragged coughs behind them.

At the end of the tunnel stood an iron door.

The man lowered his shoulder and slammed into it. The door didn’t budge.

“Open it,” he said.

“I don’t know how.”

“You did it earlier.”

“I didn’t control it.”

“That’s worse.”

Footsteps closed in fast behind them.

Aria placed her hand against the door. Against the cold iron, she felt a pulse—not in her own chest, but within the door itself. It felt as though a heart were trapped on the other side.

She closed her eyes.

Blood welled from her wound.

The door groaned deeply and swung open.

Once the old man was inside, Aria pulled the iron shut. An arrow struck the wood. A heavy blow rattled the hinges.

They were inside a windowless room. An old staircase spiraled up into a tower. Above, a small aperture let in the crimson glow of the moon.

The old man collapsed onto the bottom step, holding the iron box, his hands trembling.

“The crown,” he wheezed, “is not made of gold.”

“I didn’t ask about the crown.”

“But that’s why they’re hunting you.”

Aria stepped closer. “What’s in the box?”

The old man didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at her palm.

A single drop of blood fell onto the floor.

From below, the pounding on the door echoed once more.

“Open up!” a man shouted from the other side. “In the name of justice!”

The old man let out a bitter laugh. “Hear that? That’s what they call revenge.”

The man who had accompanied them stood by the door, blade raised.

“Do you have a name?” Aria asked.

He looked at her.

“Kael.”

A blast shook the metal. Cracks webbed out around the padlock.

“Kael,” Aria repeated, as if weighing the heavy syllables. “What’s your secret?”

“Not now.”

“I’m not used to trusting men who won’t answer.”

“And I’m not used to rescuing girls whose awakening blood can crush two bloodlines.”

The world froze between them.

Outside, the werewolves roared. Inside, the blood on Aria’s palm flared.

Suddenly, the box popped open.

The old man hadn’t unlocked it.

It opened on its own the moment Aria’s blood dripped onto the lid.

Inside lay no crown. Only a piece of black stone, inscribed with the shape of a half-moon and a single line written as if in blood.

Aria read the words before she even drew closer:

When the blood demands its due and the moon sinks into darkness, the heir shall decide who stands.

Behind her, Kael drew a heavy breath.

“No,” he muttered.

“You know this?”

He did not answer.

Outside, the door finally gave way.

The light of torches flooded the room. Many faces appeared in the opening—werewolves with fury in their eyes, weapons aimed straight at Aria.

“She is the heir!” one screamed. “Take the blood!”

The old man shrank back. Kael grabbed Aria’s arm and shoved her toward the stairs.

“Go up.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You’re not saving me. You’re saving yourself.”

An arrow struck Kael’s shoulder. He dropped to one knee, but refused to lower his blade. No blood flowed from his wound.

Aria looked at him.

She saw the secret resting between one breath and the next.

He was not entirely human.

Nor was he like the vampires hunting them.

Below, the guards shouted. In her palm, the blood she had once hidden in the darkness blazed anew.

Aria grabbed Kael’s hand and pulled him upward.

“Then,” she said, climbing the tower alongside the old man, “we run together.”

Below them, the market was swallowed by fire.

And for the very first time, Aria knew she was no longer hiding from the war.

The war was hunting her.