The Bride of the Hollow Moon

The moon was a slit eye tonight, half-lidded and watching. Above the blackened tree line, it hung like a curse that had yet to be spoken. There was a hush across the land that came before something broke-before glass shattered, before a scream escaped a throat. Even the wind held its breath.

Isolde clutched her cloak tighter as the cart rolled past the crooked signpost, its letters worn down by time: Duskmere. The name tasted of ash on her tongue, bitter and heavy with omen.

"Almost there," said the driver, an old man with one eye and a mouth full of pipe smoke. His voice crackled like dry leaves. "Place sits quiet, but it's got stories. Don't stray far after dark."

She didn't answer. Her fingers played absently with the pendant at her neck-a silver crescent moon engraved with forgotten runes. A charm from her mother. Or perhaps a warning. She could never tell.

The cart creaked along the narrowing path, its wheels sinking slightly into the damp earth. Branches arched overhead like the ribcage of a slumbering beast. Thin and curious mist curled around them. Isolde's breath came in clouds, each one a pale ghost that vanished too quickly.

Duskmere rose out of the fog like something that didn't want to be seen. Houses hunched close to the earth, their thatched roofs bowed by generations of rain. The windows were dark, watching without eyes. Shadows clung to the corners, thick as ivy. A chapel spire pierced the mist, skeletal and broken, its bell long silenced. She could almost hear the echo of it-an old tolling that never truly stopped.

The cart stopped. "This is as far as I go," the driver muttered. He didn't look at her as he handed down her trunk. "Keep your silver close. And your prayers are closer."

Isolde stepped down. Her boots sank slightly into the moss-covered path. She turned to thank him, but the cart was already retreating into the fog, swallowed whole like a memory.

Alone.

She stood for a moment, uncertain, the chill already pressing against her skin. Her breath caught in her throat as she faced the looming structure at the edge of the village-the orphanage. Wreathed in mist, it stood as if even the forest refused to claim it.

It had once been a manor house, regal and cruel. Tall windows stared down like disapproving ancestors. Ivy crept up the stone facade, clutching at it like the fingers of the dead. The wrought-iron gate before her was rusted, its design thorned and barbed.

She hesitated before pushing it open. It groaned in protest.

"Miss Isolde?"

A woman in dark skirts appeared on the steps. Her hair was pulled into a severe bun, and her voice was sharp, not unkind. Her silhouette looked like it had been carved from a shadow.

"You're late. Come in. The wind carries strange things at night."

Inside, the air was stale with the scent of lavender and old paper. A fire burned low in the hearth. The walls were lined with portraits whose eyes followed her like whispers. Children watched her from shadowed corners, their eyes too large, too still.

"Your room is upstairs. You may call me Matron. There are rules. You will not wander after dusk. You will not ask about the woods. And you will never, under any circumstances, follow the singing."

Isolde blinked. "Singing?"

"You won't hear it," said the Matron. "Not yet."

The hallways smelled of dust and secrets. Her room was small, the bed narrow, the window barred. As she unpacked her few belongings, the pendant at her throat seemed to hum faintly, a tremor she felt in her bones.

That night, she slept poorly.

Dreams came like smoke. A figure cloaked in white walked between trees that bled. The moon above was wrong-hollowed out like a skull. The air in the dream tasted of rust and violets. Footsteps followed her, but when she turned, there was only the sound of weeping.

She woke tangled in her sheets, her heart thudding like war drums.

At dawn, she stood before the forest, drawn to it like a tide to the moon. Mist licked the roots of ancient trees. Something pulsed beneath the soil, a heartbeat too large to belong to anything human.

She stepped forward.

Just once.

And something stepped back.

A branch cracked deep in the woods, and the birds did not startle.

The air changed-thickened-as though the earth itself exhaled. Her skin crawled with the sensation of being seen. She caught a flash of movement between the trees, a flicker of white robes and antlers, gone the moment she blinked. Her mouth went dry.

Behind her, the Matron's voice rose like a whip through the morning haze.

"Isolde! Back, now."

Startled, she turned and obeyed, heart pounding. But when she glanced back over her shoulder, the forest had already swallowed its secrets.

Later, as she washed in the basin of her room, she noticed a faint smear of ash on her palm. No matter how hard she scrubbed, it wouldn't come off.

That evening, a cold rain fell.

Thunder rumbled across the horizon like a beast stirring in its sleep. The children gathered in the common room, whispering stories too old for their mouths, and Isolde sat apart, watching the fire sputter low.

One of the girls-a pale child with tangled black curls-came to her and placed a folded piece of parchment in her lap.

"He knows you came," the girl whispered.

Isolde's fingers shook as she opened it.

Inside, drawn in rough charcoal, was the forest. And in its center, a tree taller than all the rest. Bound at the roots with chains. Bleeding.

Isolde looked up, but the girl was gone.

The Matron's shadow fell across the room.

"There are things in this place," she said quietly, eyes fixed on the storm-dark window, "that do not forgive curiosity."

That night, when the wind howled through the stone halls and the walls creaked with memory, Isolde sat upright in her bed.

Far beyond the orphanage, faint and distant, there was singing.

A voice like velvet, weeping through the trees.

And Isolde, eyes wide, clutched her pendant like it could stop her heart from answering.

Because somewhere in the marrow of her bones, something had awakened.

Something that reminded her.

And wanted her back.