Blood Moon Wolf

The night howled with fury. Thunder rolled like an angry beast through the skies. Lightning slashed the heavens in jagged bursts, illuminating the gnarled silhouette of Eryndor's Black Forest. The wind screamed through the trees, bending massive oaks and tossing firs as if they were twigs. Even the streams, once melodic, now roared with a savage, deafening force.

It felt like the forest had awakened, moaning, creaking, and crying with the voices of lost souls.

Inside a crumbling cottage on the forest's edge, an old man sat hunched near a dying fire. Ninety winters had bowed his back, stolen his teeth, and painted his beard white as snow. He was the last of his bloodline

Thalia.

His granddaughter. Sixteen, radiant, and once the light of his final years. But she was gone, vanished days ago, as if swallowed by the forest itself.

He had searched every trail, cried her name to the trees, the wind, even the wolves. No sign. No body. No blood. Just silence. The dreadful kind that creeps into your bones and tells you you're truly alone.

Had she run off with a lover? Perished in some unseen tragedy? Or worse-abandoned him?

"Oh, Thalia," he whispered brokenly. "Why did you leave me? Who will care for me now? Who will close my eyes when death comes?"

His voice cracked. Tears slid down a face already carved with sorrow. That's when it came-a knock. Loud. Sudden. Impossible.

The old man struggled to his feet, heart pounding. He opened the door.

A tall man stood before him. Around forty. His clothes-rich but worn. His blond hair-long and wild. His blue eyes-haunted. Something about him was... off. He radiated sorrow, like it clung to him.

The old man gestured him inside without a word.

He offered food. The stranger didn't touch it.

The storm raged harder. Thunder boomed directly overhead, shaking the cottage. The stranger flinched, his face contorted in agony. The old man reached for a crucifix above the hearth, but the guest raised a commanding hand-his authority sharp, undeniable.

The old man froze.

"You tremble at the storm?" he asked gently.

"I am unhappy," the stranger replied, his voice tight. "And so are you."

The old man told him-briefly, painfully-of Thalia.

The stranger listened, then spoke slowly. "You are alone. Forgotten. If you died now, wolves would find your corpse before anyone else. You'd rot, unmourned."

The old man shivered. "Why do you speak such terrible things? Who are you?"

Thunder cracked again. The man didn't answer.

Instead, he offered something impossible.

"I can make you young again," he said. "Strong. Handsome. Rich. Intelligent beyond anything you've ever known. All I ask is that you walk beside me-for eighteen months. At the end, we part. Forever."

The old man's heart pounded. "And the price?"

"There are two conditions," the stranger replied, eyes dark. "First: you remain by my side, obeying me, until sunset on of the eighteenth month. Second... you must prey upon the human race."

The old man recoiled. "What does that mean?"

The stranger leaned closer. "Do you know the legend of the Were-Wolf?"

The old man's blood turned cold. "I've heard tales... of cursed men who become wolves at night."

"At sunset on the last day of each month," the stranger said, "the cursed take the form of the beast. They remain that way until dawn."

"And this... this is the condition?"

"It is."

The silence stretched. The storm outside echoed the old man's thoughts-violent, chaotic, unstoppable.

"I accept," the old man whispered. "I have nothing left. No one."

"Good," the stranger said. "Elias, your time begins now."

Elias stiffened. "You know my name..."

The stranger smiled grimly. "I know much more. Wait here."

He disappeared into the night.

Ten years later, at the stroke of midnight.

In a lavishly decorated chamber within one of Lumea's grandest mansions, a nobleman lay dying.

The soft glow of a ceiling lamp flickered across his gaunt, pallid face. Even in the shadow of death, his features bore a sternness untouched by fear or uncertainty. He was about fifty-two, and though illness had dulled the fire in his once-brilliant black eyes and drained the color from his cheeks, the aquiline precision of his profile still spoke of a youthful beauty.

Anyone could see the pride etched into the curl of his upper lip, the harsh dominance in the creases of his brow, and the ruthless coldness carved into his entire countenance. His expression didn't scowl, but radiated a severity born of something deeper-some consuming passion or dark sentiment rooted in his soul.

Two figures stood by the deathbed.

One was a woman of twenty-eight, stunning yet severe in bearing. Her black hair tumbled loose over her bare shoulders, exposed by the hurried way she'd thrown on a robe. That robe clung at the waist, subtly revealing the elegant shape of her tall, graceful frame. Her beauty was commanding: large, blazing eyes; a finely cut aquiline nose; lips red, full, and slightly pouting; a delicate chin with an edge of sensuality. She was majestic-a woman born to inspire awe, to arouse desire, yet repel impertinence with a single glance.

But her appearance deceived. No one dared offer flattery to Antheia, the deaf and mute daughter of the proud Aurel of Blackmere.

Thirteen years earlier, at just fifteen, her mother had died under mysterious circumstances. The trauma nearly claimed her life. And when she recovered, the doctors delivered a grim truth-Amelia had lost her hearing and speech forever.

Those who knew her before, especially Dr. Orion , the family's physician, said she'd once been sweet and shy. But the illness changed her. Now, her eyes could blaze with rage at the slightest misstep from a servant. Her lips trembled with fury over any small offense. She showed no restraint, even with her father, and often responded to his authority with icy anger. Yet, oddly, the count adored her. He saw in her his own imperious spirit and took pride in her fierce gaze and regal bearing.

The young man beside her was Theseus, her Twenty's-year-old brother. Unlike his sister, he had none of their father's harshness. Where the count was cold and cruel, Theseus was warm-hearted, open, and kind. His soft blue eyes and chestnut hair mirrored his gentle soul. Perhaps that was why his father harbored so much disdain for him.

Antheia, however, adored her brother with a love deeper than sisterly affection. She watched over him, protected him, and delighted in his happiness. To offend Theseus was to provoke her wrath. Any cruel glance from their father toward her brother would trigger a storm in her silent, flashing eyes.

These were the three gathered in that room of shadows and flickering light.

Lord Aurel of Blackmere had been sick for weeks, but that night, Dr. Orion had told him death was close. The nobleman requested to see his children alone. When Theseus and Antheia entered, the doctor and the priest withdrew.

Now, Theseus stood on one side of the bed, Antheia on the other. The dying man summoned his strength.

"Theseus," he said, his voice cold, "I will speak briefly, but what I say is of great importance. You believe in the symbol beneath your hand?"

"The crucifix?" Theseus exclaimed. "Yes, father-it is the symbol of the faith that guides our lives and our deaths."

"Then kiss it and swear-swear to obey my final instructions."

Theseus, tears in his eyes, kissed the crucifix. "I swear, father. I will fulfill your wishes-so long as they ask nothing dishonorable."

"No conditions!" he snapped. "Swear without hesitation, or receive my dying curse instead of my blessing."

"Father!" Theseus cried in anguish. "I swear. Without hesitation."

He kissed the cross again.

"You choose wisely," the count said, fixing him with a blazing gaze. "This key,"-he pulled it from beneath his pillow-"unlocks that door."

Theseus glanced at the far corner of the room. "The one that's always locked?"

"Who told you that?" Lord Aurel demanded.

"I've heard the servants....."

"Then silence such gossip when I'm gone!" he snapped. "That door leads to a closet, accessible only from this room. My command is this: on the day of your marriage-no matter when that may be-you must open that door. Take only your bride. No one else. Do it the very hour after the ceremony. Inside, you will uncover a mystery-one tied to our family, to me, and to your future. It may bring great benefit to you and your wife."

Lord Aurel paused, then added, "If you never marry, the closet remains sealed forever. And this-this command must remain secret. Your sister must not know. She cannot hear me, and you must never reveal my words-not by writing, nor signs. I give you my blessing-but if you break this vow, may it become a curse. The curse of Hell."

"Father," Theseus whispered, overwhelmed, "I swear. Whatever lies behind that door, I will obey you."

He took the key and placed it safely in his pocket.

"You will inherit all," the count went on. "My will also includes provisions for Antheia-only if, by some miracle, she regains her senses. Otherwise, she must rely on your kindness."

"I love her dearly," Theseus replied. "She is everything to me."

"Enough," Lord Aurel muttered. Exhausted by the effort, he collapsed back into the pillows.

Antheia, who had kept her face buried in her hands, looked up and saw her father's condition. She motioned urgently to Theseus, who rushed to summon the doctor and priest.

Dr. Orion returned swiftly, but as he approached, he shot Antheia a meaningful look. She answered with a slow, sorrowful shake of her head. The doctor's eyes narrowed with concern, but her imploring expression softened his resolve. He gave a subtle nod in return.

This silent exchange, full of unspoken understanding, lasted only a second. Theseus noticed nothing.

Dr. Orion tried to revive the count, but it was too late. The nobleman slipped into a deep stupor and never awoke. By five a.m., he was gone.

Theseus and Antheia, now orphans, embraced each other tightly. Theseus wept. Antheia did not.

There was a strange light in her eyes-not grief, not joy, but something intense and unreadable.

Breaking their embrace, Theseus signed to her: "You have lost a father, but you still have a brother who loves you."

She responded: "Your happiness is my life's purpose."

Father Edmond and Dr. Orion stepped forward, gently leading the siblings away.

"You wish to spare us the pain," Theseus said, glancing back at the room. "It's hard to lose a father-especially now, when I know so little of the world."

"The world is full of temptations, especially for the powerful," said Dr. Orion. "But a strong heart and honest purpose will always guide you. Remember that, young Lord Aurel of Blackmere. It's advice from an old friend."

With a final squeeze of their hands, the doctor and priest departed.

The siblings embraced once more, then retreated to their rooms-each now carrying the weight of a legacy shrouded in mystery.

The room to which Antheia retreated in the bleak hours between four and five that winter morning belonged solely to her.

It was part of a private suite-three connected chambers, each furnished with refined elegance and in the tasteful style of the age. The innermost served as her bedchamber.

As she stepped inside, a girl of seventeen rose quickly from a chair near the fireplace. She was as beautiful as an angel, though her modest attire marked her as a dependent. Her wide, questioning eyes searched her mistress's face.

Antheia answered with a single, silent gesture: it was over.

The girl, Lily, flinched at the message-not from grief, but from the calmness with which it was delivered. Her mistress showed no sorrow. But when Lily lingered, uncertain, Antheia waved her away with a sharp, impatient flick of the wrist.

Once alone, Antheia sank into a deep-cushioned armchair near the fire, letting herself fall into thought. Her long black hair tumbled over her bare shoulders. One hand supported her proud brow; her lips, slightly parted, revealed perfect white teeth. Her dark lashes veiled her eyes half-shut in contemplation, and her body reclined with effortless grace against the cushions.

She was stunning-more a vision than a woman.

But then she stirred.

Eyes flashing, chest rising with a sharp breath, her expression shifted-resolve overtaking doubt. She rose in one swift motion, standing tall, majestic. The firelight caught the folds of her robe, tracing every curve of her statuesque figure. Her lips curled, disdainful of anything that might defy her will.

She didn't look like a woman mourning her father.

She looked like a warrior queen-an Amazon in silks.

There was something both beautiful and terrifying about her-a presence that commanded, even in silence. This was not a woman meant to be loved. This was a woman to be followed.

Pulling her robe tighter around her form, she lit a lamp. She was about to leave when something stopped her-the gaze of a portrait hanging across from her bed.

The painted woman seemed to look directly at her, eyes soft and full of unearthly kindness.

It was the portrait of her mother.

The resemblance was unmistakable: the same dark hair, the same sculpted features. But where Antheia's beauty carried the shadow of pride and fury, her mother's was gentle, almost divine. The artist had captured a soul of pure light-a saint, not just a woman.

Antheia stared.

And stared.

There was more than love in her eyes.

There was worship.

Minutes passed. Then, all at once, tears spilled from her eyes-hot, fast, unstoppable.

She wiped them away angrily.

Weakness had no place in what she was about to do.

Without a sound, she left the room.

Moving swiftly through the rest of her suite, she slipped into the corridor. The mansion was silent; dawn had not yet broken. The lamp's flickering flame cast dancing shadows on her pale face as she walked.

At the end of the passage, she paused.

She opened the door.

She stepped inside.

It was her brother's room.

Theseus lay asleep, exhausted from the long vigil beside their father's deathbed. He had fallen into slumber less than fifteen minutes earlier, his mind haunted by the cryptic instructions their father had given him.

Antheia watched him quietly, a triumphant smile touching her lips. Her cheeks, pale moments ago, flushed with color. He was asleep-deeply, soundly.

Without hesitation, she moved to his side.

She searched his coat.

Found it.

The key.

The key their father had placed in his hand only hours before.

She didn't hesitate. She didn't falter. She turned and left as silently as she'd come.

Halfway back down the passage, she stopped again-this time outside her father's chamber.

For one heartbeat, she hesitated.

Her hand trembled.

Her brow furrowed in conflict.

Then her face hardened. Her lip curled.

Fool, her eyes seemed to say. Now is not the time to falter.

She entered the room.

The body lay cold and stiff, bound in a winding sheet. The face-drawn tighter by the band tied around the jaw-was ghastly in the lamp's glow.

The nurse who had prepared the body had gone to rest.

There were no eyes to witness what Antheia did next.

No one to see her cross the room with steady, fearless steps.

No one to stop her as she approached the closet-the locked chamber tied to a secret, a legacy, a warning.

The door loomed before her.

The key trembled in her hand.

And she turned it.