THE BOND THAT DEVOURS: A CURSE WRITTEN IN MOONLIGHT

The Bloodmoon always made Nysera uneasy. The villagers called it a celebration, but to Nysera it felt like a funeral. On this night, the moon usually bathed the valley in crimson, and a powerful, magical bond would flare between mates, burning as bright as wildfire. The villagers whispered about it like it was a sacred gift, as if the sky itself could conjure love, but Nysera was no fool; she knew better. She had seen what happened when those bonds turned sour: the last Bloodmoon had left three wolves torn apart in the square, their love burning them alive from the inside out. During the festivals, lanterns swung from poles, throwing red shadows across painted masks and eager faces. Children chased each other, laughing between the bonfires, their wolf-masks slipping sideways. Women tossed herbs into the flames, sending sparks spiraling into the strange crimson night. This was supposed to be a joyful festival. A gift from the moon. She pulled her shawl tighter, slipping through the crowd. Her healer's bag bumped against her hip. Around her, were whispers: half-wolf, strange girl, useful but never truly one of them. They didn't need to say it out loud; their glances said it all. The drums began to beat, a slow, heavy rhythm that she felt deep in her chest and that shook her bones. The sound was meant to wake the wolf inside every villager, stirring their instincts, reminding them who they were under the moon's red glow. Maybe it worked for them, but for her, it felt like a chain tightening around her throat. "Deyra!" A boy's voice called through the noise. Nysera saw the boy right away, a child with a scraped and bloody knee. He was sitting just outside the circle, away from the dancers. His mask was crooked, and he was trying not to cry. Nysera knelt down next to the boy. Her hands were steady as she ripped a piece of cloth from her bag and pressed it against the bleeding scrape. The boy hissed at first, but then relaxed as she tied the bandage tight and clean. "There," she said, brushing back his hair. "By morning, you won't feel it." The boy gave a shy nod and ran back to the dancers. Nysera exhaled. Healing was the only thing that made sense to her. People got hurt, and she helped them. It was that simple. It was nothing like the uneasy feeling in her chest that she was trying to ignore. Then, the beats of the drums changed. A new rhythm rose, growing deeper and stronger, like a heartbeat that wasn't her own. The villagers cheered, voices rising, howls breaking loose. Some tilted their heads back, eyes flashing faintly gold in the moonlight. Others started stomping their feet to the rhythm, moving to form a wide circle around the fire. "The moon chooses tonight!" someone shouted. "The moon chooses!" the crowd replied. Nysera swallowed hard. She had heard these words every year, and they always made her nervous. Wolves prayed for the moon to bind them to their fated mates; they called it destiny, but she'd seen those bonds turn into chains, love twist into terrible obsession, and she wanted no part of it. The moon's power grew stronger, pressing against her ribs. Her heart raced out of rhythm. The very air felt heavy and strange. Clutching her neck, she backed away, catching herself on the stone wall. The fire blurred, and the faces swirled together. And then she saw him. A man, standing away from the fire. He was tall and motionless, and he was watching her. For a second, she couldn't breathe. His eyes gleamed silver. She blinked, and he was gone. The beats of the sound pounded harder, echoing in her chest. Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain cut across her neck. She gasped and crumpled, knees slamming into stone. Heat tore through her veins, black and red lines erupting across her skin like living brands. People around her started gasping. Someone whispered her name. Another screamed. But Nysera didn't hear any of it. All she heard was a voice, smooth and low, that spoke directly into her mind, full of a deep, hidden hunger: Found you. Then, the world spun, and everything went black. Nysera dreamed of wolves fighting, biting and tearing at each other until the ground was soaked with blood. Through it all, a man stood in the shadows, untouched. He wasn't fighting. He was only watching. His silver eyes pierced through her, holding her still. His smile was slow, almost cruel. When her knees buckled in the vision, he didn't try to catch her. He only whispered one word she couldn't escape: "Mine." Nysera woke up with a start. The festival square was empty and quiet. Lanterns were burning low; a trail of smoke rose from the dying fire. Her neck still glowed faintly, as if something unseen had taken root inside her, and the skin felt hot and tender, like a fresh burn. She forced herself to stand. Every step felt like walking through water. And at the edge of the street, he stood. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and light-skinned, leaning against the wall as if he'd been there all night. Shadows clung to him like a second skin, and those same silver eyes from her dream stared at her. He didn't look curious or friendly. He was watching her as if she already belonged to him. Nysera's legs locked. Breath caught in her throat. She couldn't have moved if she'd tried, hands trembling as she quickly held onto the edge of the well. The night was strangely quiet and still; the only sounds were the dying fire sputtering. The pulse on her neck deepened again, and with every beat came a subtle pull, yet impossible to ignore. It was like an invisible string leading straight to him. He didn't move. Arms crossed, one boot against the stone, his silver eyes locked on her with unnerving patience that made her uneasy. "Who?" Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. "Who are you and what did you do to me?" The words came out as a scared whisper. He tilted his head, a faint smirk on his lips. "Nothing you didn't agree to." She caught her breath, wanting to laugh, to dismiss him as another drunk wolf wandering back from the festival, but nothing about him fit that picture. His presence was too sharp, too steady, and too deliberate. Her instincts screamed danger. "Stay away from me," she whispered, clutching her neck. At that, his faint smile widened. He glanced down at the glowing mark on her neck, then looked back into her eyes. "If I could stay away," he said softly, "I would." Those words hit her like stones. She staggered up, forcing her shaky legs to move, and backed toward the narrow lane that led to her home. He didn't follow her. He just stood there and watched her retreat, his silver gaze burning into her spine until she vanished from the square. Her small house was on the very edge of the village, near the forest, away from the main road. Usually, the walk calmed her, but tonight it was suffocating. Every shadow seemed to shift, and every rustle might be him. When she finally got inside, she shut the door and leaned against it, trying to catch her shaky breath. Her one-room home, with its bed, shelves, and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, suddenly felt tiny and weak, as if it couldn't protect her. She lit a candle with trembling fingers. The flame wavered unsteadily, as though it was also afraid of the dark. The pain in her neck was still there. She looked at the glow in the mirror and froze. No wound. No burn. Just light beneath her skin, pulsing like a second heartbeat. This wasn't some harmless festival trick. This was a curse. She remembered her grandmother's voice, soft and serious, way back as a little girl: "Not all bonds are good. Some bonds devour." Under the Bloodmoon, if the wrong souls touch, the curse wakes. One grows stronger, while the other grows weaker, until only one is left standing. Nysera clenched her fists and refused to believe this was happening to her. This was supposed to be just a scary story. Besides, she wasn't even a full wolf like the others and had spent her whole life ignoring that part of herself. The moon shouldn't have been able to affect her. But this couldn't be denied. As Nysera closed her eyes, she could still sense him. It was like a thin, unbreakable string connecting the both of them, then a name rose in her mind, as if her own blood whispered: Vaelric. Her heart skipped. She covered her mouth with her hand. No one had said his name out loud. He hadn't told her, but she knew, without a doubt, that was it. Sleep didn't come easily. When it did, it came with fire. She saw sharp teeth, deep shadows, those same silver eyes staring through the darkness. A voice, smooth as silk, curling around her spine: You can't run from this. She woke up soaked in sweat, the candle almost burned out. The pattern on her neck still glowed faintly, and she felt a deep pain in her chest, as if something vital had been taken from her while she slept. Then came a sound. It was a knock. Three solid knocks on her door. She froze, holding her breath, and stared at the door. No one visited her this late. No one ever had a reason to. Moving slowly, she crept closer, barefoot, and made no sound on the wooden floor. She leaned in and pressed her ear against the door. Complete silence. She whispered, "Who's there?" No one answered. Then, a low voice came from the other side: "Open it." Her blood went cold. It was the same voice that had whispered in her head. Her hands trembled as she tried to reach for the lock. "No," she said softly, stepping back. A short silence. Then, he replied, sounding almost entertained: "Clever girl." Then, his footsteps walked away. Nysera collapsed on the floor, leaning against the door, speechless. Tears welled in her eyes, and she was restless throughout the night. By morning, the pattern had faded, but she could still feel its pulse under her skin. She wrapped a shawl around her neck before leaving the house so no one could see it. People in the village have already talked about her. Healer. Half-wolf. Too strange to trust, too useful to shun. The day passed slowly. She stayed busy, treating cuts, checking on the sick, keeping to herself. If she didn't stare into the shadows or listen too carefully, she could almost convince herself it had been a hallucination. At dusk, the Bloodmoon's red light began to rise again, and the pain in her neck returned. She stepped outside, gripping the knife in her pocket. Her eyes found the trees at the edge of the village. There, half-concealed by branches in the shadows, stood Vaelric Varrow. He was waiting. He was watching. And even though every part of her was screaming to run away, her own heart betrayed her, chest pounding not just from fear, but with a strong, confusing longing.