The abandoned TriBrid Princess

The Blood Moon’s Shadow

The night bled red across the horizon.

Astravale’s towers burned crimson beneath a swollen moon, its glow washing the marble in hues of rust and wine. The air felt heavy, charged — the kind of silence that presses against the ribs until even breath sounds like thunder.

Serenity could not sleep.

She sat upright in her bed, the blanket twisted around her legs, eyes fixed on the strange light creeping through the window. The moon had changed. It was no longer silver and pure — it pulsed with a dull, living heartbeat that seemed to echo inside her chest.

Down in the courtyard, bells tolled once — not for warning, but for reverence. Tonight marked the Festival of the Blood Moon, an old rite that honored the balance between life and death, light and dark. The people celebrated with torches and song, but Serenity could feel something beneath the music — a low hum that wasn’t joy. It was hunger.

She pressed her palms to her ears, but the sound didn’t fade. It came from within her.

“Make it stop,” she whispered.

The pendant at her throat grew warm. When she looked down, the crescent shimmered red instead of silver, the same red as the moon. A sudden rush of energy tore through her — so fierce it stole her breath. Her heartbeat quickened, every thud echoing through her bones until her skin felt too small to contain it.

A voice slid through her mind, soft and ancient.

“Child of three, the moon remembers you.”

Serenity gasped and stumbled from her bed. The world blurred — every candle flared brighter, shadows stretched longer. She could see the air moving, could hear the roots of the castle groaning deep beneath the stone. The wind outside whispered her name again and again until she pressed her hands to her head, shaking.

“Stop it! Please!”

But the whispers didn’t obey. They converged.

Her reflection in the mirror flickered — eyes flashing first silver, then crimson. A ripple passed through her veins like liquid fire. She felt her teeth ache, sharpen. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

And then — c***k. The glass shattered outward.

The explosion of sound snapped through the stillness of the castle. Guards shouted below; footsteps echoed on stone. But Serenity didn’t hear them. She stood frozen amid the shards, the pendant now glowing steadily, almost serenely, as if mocking the chaos.

Her gaze lifted toward the window. Outside, clouds swallowed the moon, yet its crimson light still poured through, bathing her in color that looked too much like blood.

“Serenity!”

Her father’s voice broke the trance. The door burst open, and King Alaric strode in, cloak half fastened, sword drawn. Queen Liora followed close behind, hair unbound, face pale.

When they saw her — the shattered mirror, the floating motes of red light still crackling in the air — they stopped.

Alaric sheathed his sword slowly. “By the gods,” he breathed. “What have we done?”

Serenity turned to them, tears streaking her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to. It just—” She clutched her chest. “It hurts, Father. Everything hurts.”

Liora rushed forward and dropped to her knees, gathering the child close despite the heat radiating from her skin. “Shh, love, it’s all right. You’re safe.”

But Serenity wasn’t safe. The energy kept building, trembling under her skin like lightning looking for an escape.

“Call Eryndra,” Alaric said grimly. “Now.”