Chapter 3 – Blood and MercyUntitled Episode
895 Words
Valois had not slept in three nights.
He told himself it was the council’s endless decrees, the border patrols, the unrest among the lower clans—but the truth sat heavier: the memory of gold eyes vanishing beneath a black river.
He stood now in the citadel’s east tower, overlooking the valley below. The forest stretched like an ocean of bone and ash, and somewhere within it, he could still feel her heartbeat. It had been centuries since anything mortal had left such a mark on him.
A soft voice broke his trance.
“You’re distracted, my prince.”
Valois turned. Lady Seraphine, the court seer, stood in the doorway. Her gown shimmered like spilled ink, her gaze clouded by the milky veil of prophecy.
“I’m thinking,” he said.
“You’re remembering,” she corrected, gliding closer. “The Moonblood lives.”
Valois’s hand tightened around the railing. “You’re certain?”
Her lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The river whispered her name to me.”
He faced her fully. “What name?”
“Luna.”
The sound struck him like a blade turned inward. He shouldn’t have cared. Names were nothing. Yet this one lingered, soft and defiant, echoing in the hollow place where his soul should have been.
“What does the prophecy say?” he asked quietly.
“That her blood will wake what sleeps beneath the night,” Seraphine murmured. “And that the one who spares her will pay the price.”
Valois’s gaze darkened. “I don’t believe in curses.”
“Then why do you look like a man already cursed?”
He didn’t answer. The seer inclined her head and left him to his silence.
When the door closed, Valois drew a slow breath. He could smell her still—rain, wildflowers, fear. If the Moonblood had truly survived, the council would hunt her down. And yet, he had already made his choice the moment he cast her into the river.
Mercy was a weakness the undead couldn’t afford. But that night, it had felt like rebellion.
Far below the citadel, Luna woke to thunder.
The storm had rolled in before dawn, washing the camp in cold light. She slipped from her tent, cloak drawn tight around her shoulders. The pack was stirring—grumbling, sharpening blades, pretending not to stare. Word of the failed patrol had spread. So had whispers of what she’d done.
Kane’s voice cut through the murmurs. “Luna!”
He stood by the firepit, flanked by Mira and two elders. Their faces were grave.
“The council meets today,” Kane said. “They’ll want answers.”
“They can have them,” Luna said.
“Not from you,” Mira warned softly. “You’re still healing.”
“I don’t need healing.”
But she did. The mark on her wrist still pulsed, faintly glowing even beneath the dirt. She hid it beneath her sleeve before anyone noticed.
The meeting was held in the old temple ruins, where cracked statues of forgotten gods stared from the shadows. Luna stood at the center as the pack circled her. Elder Hadrin leaned on his staff, his blind eyes pale as frost.
“You faced the vampires,” he rasped. “And lived. How?”
“I ran,” Luna said.
“Did you fight?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
She hesitated. The truth pressed like a blade at her tongue. “One of them spared me.”
A ripple of disbelief moved through the pack.
Hadrin’s voice sharpened. “Spared you? Vampires do not spare wolves.”
“This one did.”
“Then it was a trap,” Kane said bitterly.
“Maybe,” she whispered.
“Maybe?” Kane’s control slipped, his anger raw. “Your mercy endangers us all. If they’re toying with you, they’ll use you to find us.”
“I didn’t ask to be spared,” Luna shot back. “Would you rather I’d died?”
“Yes,” said Hadrin coldly. “Better a dead wolf than a marked one who invites ruin.”
The mark—he had seen it. The chamber went still.
Hadrin raised his staff. “The Moonblood curse. It should have ended generations ago. You are an omen, girl.”
“I’m not a curse,” Luna said, voice trembling.
“Prove it,” the elder growled. “Leave before the night returns. If you are truly innocent, the forest will decide your fate.”
Kane’s face hardened, torn between duty and love. “Go, before I can’t protect you.”
She wanted to scream, to beg—but pride held her upright. Without a word, she turned and walked into the rain.
That night, she made camp by the river. The forest was silent, watching. Her fire burned low, her thoughts lower still. She traced the mark on her wrist, remembering the vampire’s eyes, the strange ache in her chest when he had let her go.
Somewhere across the valley, Valois stood on his balcony, staring into the same storm.
Two souls bound by blood and mercy, each wondering why they hadn’t killed the other.
And in the depths of the forest, something ancient stirred—a pulse beneath the soil, slow and waking. The night had begun to change.
- Writer
