Blood and Moon

Chapter 3 – The Village That Forgets

The church bell tolled three times as Lara stepped outside.

The village always felt strange after the third bell — too quiet, as if everyone feared to name what they truly feared.

At the end of the street, two women stood by the well. When they saw Lara, their conversation stopped mid-word.

Their eyes followed her as she passed, one of them tracing a trembling cross over her chest.

It wasn’t better at the shop.

Old Andor, who used to joke with her as a child, measured out the bread in silence.

When Lara thanked him, he said only in a low voice:

“Best not to go near the forest, girl.”

She tried to smile, to make it sound like old gossip.

“Why? Have they seen wolves again?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, as if he regretted speaking at all, he whispered:

“Not wolves. Something else.”

That afternoon, Lara went to the library.

The building was one of the oldest in the village — mold crept along the walls, and dust hung thick on the shelves.

Still, she had always come here when she needed to understand things no one wanted to explain.

In the village chronicles, buried among brittle records, she found a worn, leather-bound book.

Its title was barely legible: Notes of the Bloodmoon Circle.

The pages were yellowed, but the ink still gleamed faintly.

On the third page, she read:

“When blood and moon are born together, the line between man and beast fades.

The chosen one bears the mark — a mark that neither iron nor prayer can erase.”

Beneath it, a drawing: a crescent with a deep, slanted line — the exact same symbol engraved on the ring.

Lara’s hand tightened over the page.

At the edge of the parchment, in faded handwriting, someone had added another note:

“The last to bear the mark rose to defend the village… and damned himself.”

The lamp flickered.

Outside, the wind picked up, and the window frame gave a soft, scraping sound — as if someone were dragging a finger across the glass from the other side.

Lara flinched and quickly closed the book.

When she looked up, a shadow moved behind the window.

No face, no shape — only a glint of silver, like a pair of eyes reflecting the light.

And then it was gone.

Only then did Lara notice the figure standing in the doorway.

It was Father Michael, the village priest.

“It’s late, Lara,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Those books are not meant for you.”

“Why?” she asked. “What is everyone hiding?”

For a moment, his expression darkened.

“Not every past deserves to live again,” he said.

Then he closed the door and turned the key in the lock.

Outside, the full moon reappeared from behind the clouds.

Lara stared at the cold glass, and in her reflection she saw something strange — the color of her eyes shifting, for just an instant, to a pale, silvery hue.