Bloodmoon Oath

Chapter 1: A Rebel in Silver Ridge The sleepy town of Silver Ridge wasn’t the kind of place where excitement flourished. Nestled at the edge of an expansive forest, its charm lay in its old brick buildings, winding streets, and an air of mystery that clung to every shadow. Yet, for Raven Carter, it was nothing more than a suffocating trap. The same faces, the same whispers, and the same expectations. She had spent most of her 22 years railing against it. Raven strolled down Main Street, her boots clicking against the cobblestones as her leather jacket flapped in the cool breeze. The stares followed her as they always did—sharp-eyed shopkeepers, gossiping housewives, and even the occasional curious teenager. Her jet-black hair, streaked with purple, and her collection of tattoos set her apart like a beacon in a sea of conformity. “You’d think they’d find something better to do,” Raven muttered under her breath as she passed the bakery, the smell of fresh bread momentarily softening her scowl. Silver Ridge was a town of traditions. People clung to their ways like moss to stone. Her family, the Carters, were no exception. For generations, they had been the town’s unofficial historians, keepers of the local lore that gave Silver Ridge its eerie reputation. Raven’s mother, Eleanor, had practically built her life around preserving every scrap of history about the place, from the ancient legends of the forest to the stories of strange disappearances that plagued the town. But Raven wanted none of it. While her mother spent hours poring over dusty books and leading tours for eager visitors, Raven preferred the solitude of the forest or the escape of music blaring in her ears. The Carters had a legacy, but it wasn’t hers. Not in her eyes. She kicked a loose pebble into the street as she approached the family’s large, creaky Victorian home on the hill. The house loomed like a sentinel over the town, its peeling paint and overgrown garden a testament to both its age and her family’s tendency to prioritize history over maintenance. Raven hesitated on the porch, steeling herself for the inevitable tension waiting inside. As soon as she pushed open the heavy front door, her mother’s voice floated from the study. “Raven? Is that you?” “It’s me,” she replied flatly, dropping her bag near the staircase. She knew the routine—no matter how brief her absence, her mother always needed to know where she had been. “Did you pick up the supplies I asked for?” Eleanor appeared in the doorway, her graying hair tied back in a loose bun and a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. She held a leather-bound journal in one hand and a pen in the other, the ever-present tools of her work. Raven shrugged. “No. I got distracted.” Eleanor’s sigh was sharp and familiar. “Raven, we talked about this. The museum—” “The museum will survive without me running errands, Mom,” Raven interrupted. “It always does.” Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned back toward the study, a dismissal Raven was more than happy to accept. She trudged up the stairs to her room, where the walls were lined with posters of her favorite bands and shelves crammed with books—mostly fiction, unlike the historical tomes her mother loved. Flopping onto her bed, Raven let out a long breath. She reached for her guitar, an old acoustic she had picked up at a pawn shop, and strummed absentmindedly. Music had always been her sanctuary, a way to drown out the world and its expectations. The chords filled the room, and for a moment, she forgot the weight pressing down on her. Her peace was short-lived, as usual. The sound of a knock at her door was followed by the voice of her younger brother, Leo. “Hey, Raven. You busy?” She sighed and set the guitar aside. “What do you want, Leo?” The door creaked open, and Leo peeked in. At 17, he was the complete opposite of her—neat, polite, and always eager to please. It annoyed Raven how much he seemed to care about fitting into the mold their parents had set. “Mom’s upset about the supplies,” he said, stepping into the room cautiously. “You know how she gets when the schedule falls apart.” “She can manage without me,” Raven said, leaning back against her pillows. “It’s not like I’m the one obsessed with preserving every ghost story in this town.” Leo frowned. “It’s not just ghost stories. It’s important to people. To her. You don’t have to like it, but—” “Don’t start, Leo,” she cut him off, her tone sharper than she intended. “I’m not interested in carrying the Carter torch or whatever.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Fine. But maybe try not to make things harder for her. She’s got enough to deal with.” With that, he left, closing the door softly behind him. Raven stared at the ceiling, guilt creeping in despite her defiance. She didn’t hate her family, or even the town, not really. She just couldn’t see herself as part of their world. The weight of expectation crushed her, and every time she tried to push back, it only seemed to make things worse. The next morning, Raven found herself drawn to the forest on the outskirts of town. It was the one place that truly felt free, unbound by the watchful eyes and whispered judgments of Silver Ridge. The trees were tall and ancient, their branches weaving together to form a canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground. She wandered aimlessly, her boots crunching on the fallen leaves. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of pine. This was where she belonged, away from the suffocating legacy of her family and the endless gossip of the townspeople. As she ventured deeper, she noticed a clearing ahead. It was a place she hadn’t seen before, despite all her time in the woods. The trees seemed to part deliberately, revealing a circle of moss-covered stones. The air felt heavier here, charged with something she couldn’t quite name. Raven stepped into the clearing, her curiosity piqued. She knelt to examine one of the stones, running her fingers over the strange carvings etched into its surface. They looked old, older than anything she had seen in her mother’s books. A rustling sound made her snap her head up, her heart pounding. “Hello?” she called, her voice echoing slightly. The woods remained silent, but Raven couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. Her instincts told her to leave, but her rebellious streak pushed her to linger. She pulled out her phone to take a picture of the carvings, thinking they might be worth looking into later—if only to prove she could uncover something her mother hadn’t. The wind picked up suddenly, and the trees seemed to whisper around her. Shivering, Raven stuffed her phone back into her pocket and made her way out of the clearing, casting one last glance over her shoulder. The feeling of being watched didn’t fade until she was back on the familiar path home. As she emerged from the forest and the town came into view, Raven felt a strange unease settle in her chest. Silver Ridge had always been full of secrets, but for the first time, she wondered if those secrets might be more than just stories.