The bells tolled at dusk.
Not the church bells. No, those had long been melted down—sacrificed to buy protection from a war that never ended. These bells came from beneath the earth. Deep and ancient, they rang from nowhere and everywhere, vibrating through stone, root, and bone. Some called them the Mourning Chimes. Others called them the Sound of the Bridegroom's Feet.
Isla Corven only knew one thing:
When they rang, someone was about to vanish.
She stood at the edge of the woods, breath frosting in the autumn chill, a basket of half-plucked herbs on her hip. The forest beyond was unnaturally still. Even the crows that nested in the black oaks were silent. It was as if the valley itself were holding its breath.
A wind stirred. It carried the faint scent of iron and burnt incense.
Isla turned slowly, a prickle rising at the back of her neck.
Then she saw it—low and ominous, just cresting the mountains.
The Blood Moon.
It was redder than she'd ever seen it. Heavy and swollen, like an eye infected with rot. Its glow bathed the fields in rust and shadow, bleaching the world of color.
She had seen it in dreams.
And each time she did, someone died.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up. She hurried back toward the village, breath quickening. Her thoughts raced—not to herself, but to her aunt. To the fire still burning in their hearth. To the little garden behind the cottage that they had sown together in spring.
But before she reached the village gate, she heard them.
Hooves.
Six horses emerged through the mist like reapers from a forgotten tale. Their riders wore armor the color of dried blood, etched with runes that pulsed faintly beneath the moonlight. Each bore a crimson banner, marked with a ring of thorns.
The sigil of the Crimson Court.
Panic surged through her.
"Are you Isla Corven?" the lead rider called out. His voice echoed under his helm like wind through catacombs.
She didn't answer.
"Isla of Lira. Marked by the Moon. Your presence is required by the Decree of Binding."
He dismounted in one motion. The smell of him hit her—old stone, crypt air, and ash. His face was hidden, but she could feel the weight of his gaze.
"You are summoned," he said, withdrawing a scroll sealed in black wax. "You shall be delivered before dawn."
"Delivered where?" she breathed.
"To Castle Vespermoor," he said. "You are to become the Bride of the Blood Moon."
Her basket tumbled from her hands.
The words rang in her ears. A story. A warning. A curse.
> "Every Blood Moon, a girl is taken. Marked by fate, claimed by night. She walks into the castle and never returns."
"No," she whispered. "This is madness. That story isn't real—"
"Your mark says otherwise."
Before she could flee, he seized her wrist and yanked back her sleeve.
And there it was—clearer than ever.
The crescent-shaped birthmark on her forearm, pale and smooth like carved bone. It glowed softly beneath the light of the Blood Moon, as if awakened.
Her mouth went dry. Her vision blurred.
"No," she said again, more desperately this time. "No—there's been a mistake—"
The soldier's grip tightened. Another stepped forward with silver-bound shackles, already etched with runes. She tried to scream, but something cold clamped down over her mouth—magic, perhaps, or sheer terror.
A shout echoed from the trees.
"STOP!"
Her aunt—Mother Maren—ran barefoot into the clearing, grey hair wild, eyes bright with fury.
"You can't take her!" she shrieked. "She's not meant for the castle! She's not even—"
The soldier turned.
"She is marked."
"She's not human!" Maren howled. "She doesn't belong to your court or your king. She'll bring ruin—don't you see that?! SHE'S THE END!"
Isla stared, stunned. "Aunt... what are you saying?"
But Mother Maren only dropped to her knees, sobbing, reaching for her, too far away. "Forgive me. I should have burned the mark when you were a child. I should have hidden you deeper…"
The soldiers didn't wait. Chains snapped around Isla's wrists. Cold metal kissed her skin, burning like ice.
One rider threw her into the back of a black-covered carriage already streaked with dried blood.
As the door slammed shut, Isla looked out through the iron bars and saw her aunt sobbing in the road, surrounded by villagers who watched and said nothing.
Not even when the wheels began to turn.
Not even when the forest swallowed the carriage whole.
Not even when the Blood Moon rose high enough to make the rivers shine red.
Isla clutched her knees in the dark, her breath shallow, her heart beating a rhythm older than language.
And somewhere in the distant hills, deep beneath the roots of the land, Castle Vespermoor awakened.
The Bride was coming.
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