When The Crimson Moon Rises

Two

ARDEN

I woke up on the floor.

Not in some graceful, movie way either—just face-first in the carpet, cheek pressed into the floor and even my neck bent wrong. Pain shot down my shoulder as I groaned and pushed myself up. The couch sat above me like it was laughing at me for falling off.

A string of drool clung to my chin. Gross. I wiped it away with the sleeve of my T.shirt. The video game controller buzzed weakly beside me, beside it was what used be a pile of junk food, now reduced to trash.

Right. I’d spent half the night mashing buttons trying to ignore my need for sleep. At all cost, i had wanted to avoid falling asleep.

“Damn it,” I muttered. “That dream again.”

It was always the same: I stood in the middle of nowhere—sky black with the ground shifting under my feet. Then the shadow came. Wings like smoke, arms like a man’s, but the face wasn’t visible,it was more like a fog was wrapped around the creature.

And every time, it grabbed my throat. It's fingers would be tight around me. My lungs burning like I was really choking.

Even in the morning, I could still feel it—like the feeling had followed me into daylight.

Obviously, i didn't believe that creatures like that really existed,to me they were just tales passed down from generations to generations to scare children.

But there was once a time,when,Mom used to tell me stories about creatures like that. Stories about winged guardians and sea monsters hiding under the cliffs in Stormpoint. I’d curl under her blanket, pretending I wasn’t scared while she told them like bedtime lullabies.

But the older I got, the more her stories changed. They stopped sounding like fairy tales and started sounding like warnings.

When I was little, Mom’s voice was everything—her bedtime stories about Sky-Beasts and Sea-Guardians, her promises that magic was real if you knew where to look.

She told them like secrets she shouldn’t be sharing, and I believed every word. I believed her when she said the world was bigger than the map. I believed her when she said she’d never leave.

But she did.

Sometimes I let myself imagine what life would be like if she’d stayed. Maybe Dad wouldn’t drink himself to sleep every night. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like half of me was missing. Maybe our apartment in L.A. would feel like a home instead of just walls trapping two strangers together.

But that’s all it is—maybe.

The truth is, she’s been gone for years. And the longer she’s gone, the harder it is to believe she’ll ever come back. She was supposed to be the one who kept her promises. The one who made things steady.

But that was just daydreaming. Reality was simpler: if she wanted to be here, she would be.

At least, that’s what I told myself on the days when I missed her so much my chest ached.

I stood up slowly, brushing crumbs off my T-shirt, and walked toward my room. The hallway was dark, but light spilled out from my dad’s half-open door. I looked inside even though I didn’t want to.

He was slumped in his recliner, an open bottle on the floor beside his hand, another empty one leaning against the chair. The whole room smelled like whiskey. His chest rose and fell, He was passed out again.

I sighed. It wasn’t anything new. It had become part of the background of my life, like the sound of cars outside our window. Dad drank when the silence got too heavy and when thoughts of Mom became too much.

“Dad?” I whispered.

One of his eyes opened, bloodshot and tired. “Arden?” His voice was slurred.

“Yeah. Just heading to my room.”

He gave a weak nod, then sank back into the chair. “Good. Get some rest.”

I stood there for another second, watching his chest rise and fall, then I slipped away.

The hallway led me back to my room, it was a cramped little box filled with stacks of clothes, books, and a few cracked posters that had survived since middle school.

The blinds let in a little of Los Angeles sunlight. But I yanked the cord until the whole room was filled with light.

Boxes lined one wall, they were half-packed with my things. It was college moving day. But not the glamorous kind you see in movies, where the whole family drives off smiling into a new beginning. Mine was just me, throwing clothes into cardboard boxes and pretending I wasn’t questioning every choice that had led me here.

The glow of my laptop still lit the desk across from me, and with it, the email I couldn’t bring myself to close.

ACCEPTED: Arden Vale

The words stared back like they were mocking me. Honestly, I was still in disbelief that I had been accepted.

I’d applied to a few schools, and most rejections came fast. My grades weren’t bad, but they weren’t good enough to stand out. And honestly? I hadn’t cared enough to push harder.

But then the letter came knocking.

Not from UCLA, not from any of the L.A. schools I’d halfheartedly hoped for. No, this one was stamped with a crest I hadn’t seen in years. Stormpoint University..

Stormpoint.

The name alone made my stomach twist. It wasn’t just some random coastal town. It was where I used to live. Where Mom used to tuck me in at night with those strange bedtime stories about sky and sea, about battles and forbidden love. The place we left after she vanished without a trace.

I should’ve torn the letter up. Should’ve tossed it in the pile of recycling with the grocery ads and takeout menus. But instead, I’d opened it with shaking hands.

And somehow—I’d been accepted.

I didn’t even remember applying. Maybe Dad had filled something out in a haze of hope, maybe I’d clicked a box online months ago and forgotten. But there it was: a neat, professional letter telling me I had a place waiting at Stormpoint University. No scholarship. No free ride. Just a seat in their classrooms if I chose to take it.

And against all logic, I was taking it.

----

I shoved another sweater into the half-open box, though the truth was, packing sweaters for coastal weather made no sense. Stormpoint wasn’t exactly known for its chilly climate—it was known for fog, cliffs, and sec

A knock came against the doorframe. It was Dad again, this time with a coffee mug in hand.

“You just about ready to hit the road soon?” he asked, leaning his shoulder against the wall

I eyed the clock. Still morning. It was too early for my stomach to already be twisted in knots.

“Almost,” I muttered, shoving another T-shirt into the box like I was punishing it.

Dad took a slow sip. He hadn’t shaved, and his hair stuck up in every direction, but there was something weird in the way he looked at me. Like he was memorizing this moment—me and the boxes around.

“You don’t have to go, you know,” he said quietly.

I froze. The words hit harder than I expected.

Stormpoint. The dream. Mom’s stories. The letter. All of it surged up at once, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my voice calm.

“Yes, I do,” I said finally, without looking at him.

The silence went on for a while and it was broken only by the sound of him setting his mug down on my dresser.

“Your mom used to—” he started, then cut himself off, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Never mind.”

I turned to him them “Used to what?”

He shook his head, retreating a step. “Forget it.”

But the way his eyes flickered—haunted, guilty, maybe even afraid—told me it wasn’t something I should forget.

I wanted to push, to demand answers, but the words were stuck. Instead, I bent down, taped the last box shut, and forced a smile.

“Guess I’m ready,” I said.

Dad picked up the mug again, nodding slowly. “Then let’s get you there.”

And just like that, it was set. Stormpoint wasn’t a decision anymore. It was a destination