Fated to Die, Destined to Love

Chapter One: A Curse Written in Blood (Part One) The night Lyra was born, the moon bled. Not with the soft crimson glow that sometimes painted the evening sky before a summer storm, but with a deep, unsettling shade of red that stretched across the heavens like fresh blood spilled upon black velvet. It was a moon no one in the Kingdom of Elaria had ever seen before, and one no one would ever forget. The wind, usually gentle at the beginning of spring, roared through the valley with unnatural fury. Ancient oak trees bent until their branches scraped the earth, their leaves trembling as though they were whispering warnings only nature could understand. The wolves hidden deep within Blackwood Forest fell eerily silent. Even the birds abandoned their nests, disappearing into the darkness before midnight. The villagers believed the Moon Goddess spoke through signs. That night, they believed she was angry. Lanterns flickered along the narrow cobbled streets of Silverwood, their flames dancing wildly despite being sheltered from the wind. Doors were bolted shut. Curtains were drawn. Mothers gathered their frightened children close while fathers stood guard outside with bows and hunting spears, though none of them could explain exactly what they were protecting their families from. Fear had no face. Sometimes it simply arrived with the wind. Far from the frightened whispers of the village stood a modest stone cottage nestled against the edge of Blackwood Forest. Ivy climbed its weathered walls, and wild lavender surrounded the tiny home, filling the air with a calming fragrance that seemed strangely out of place amid the storm. Inside, however, peace was nowhere to be found. A young woman cried out in pain as another wave of labor tore through her body. "Almost there, Elara," the village midwife encouraged, wiping the sweat from the woman's brow. "You're doing wonderfully." Elara gripped her husband's hand so tightly that her nails left crescent marks in his skin. Rowan didn't notice. His entire world had narrowed to the woman he loved and the child they were desperately waiting to meet. "You can do this," he whispered, brushing damp strands of chestnut hair away from her face. Outside, thunder shook the cottage. Inside, a baby's cry finally pierced the night. The sound was beautiful. Hopeful. For one perfect heartbeat, the storm seemed to stop. The midwife smiled as she wrapped the tiny infant in a soft cream-colored blanket. "A healthy little girl," she announced warmly. Tears gathered in Rowan's eyes as he looked down at his daughter for the very first time. She was impossibly small. A few wisps of dark hair curled against her delicate head, already showing hints of midnight black beneath the candlelight. Her tiny fingers opened and closed around nothing, searching for the unfamiliar world she had entered. When she blinked open her eyes, everyone in the room froze. They were unlike any eyes the midwife had ever seen. Not blue. Not green. Not brown. They were the color of molten silver, shimmering softly beneath the crimson moonlight pouring through the window. "A blessing from the Moon Goddess," the midwife whispered. Before anyone could answer, three sharp knocks echoed against the front door. Every person in the room looked up. Rowan frowned. "Who would come out in weather like this?" The knocking came again. Slower this time. Deliberate. The midwife's smile vanished. Without waiting for permission, the door slowly creaked open. A freezing gust of wind swept into the cottage, extinguishing every candle except the one beside the newborn child. Standing in the doorway was an elderly woman wrapped in a long charcoal cloak. Snow-white hair spilled from beneath her hood despite it being spring, and her pale skin was lined with wrinkles so deep they resembled cracks in old stone. But it wasn't her appearance that stole the breath from everyone in the room. It was her eyes. Cloudy. Silver. Blind... and yet somehow watching everything. The old woman stepped inside. No one stopped her. No one seemed capable of moving. "The Seer," the midwife breathed, her voice barely audible. No one had seen the kingdom's Seer in years. Some believed she had died. Others claimed she wandered the forests speaking only to spirits. She ignored them all. Instead, she walked directly toward the newborn child. Elara instinctively pulled her daughter closer. "What do you want?" The old woman's expression softened. "I have not come to harm her." Her voice was quiet, almost gentle, yet it carried an ancient authority that filled every corner of the cottage. "I have come because destiny has called." The room fell silent. The Seer reached trembling fingers toward the infant's left wrist. There, hidden beneath the folds of the blanket, rested a tiny crescent-shaped birthmark. The moment the Seer's fingertips brushed it— The child stopped crying. The storm outside grew louder. And the old woman's face drained of all color. "No..." Her whisper trembled with fear. "No... it cannot be." Rowan stepped forward. "What is it?" The Seer didn't answer immediately. Instead, she closed her blind eyes, as though listening to voices no one else could hear. Minutes passed. The only sound was the rain beating against the roof. When she finally spoke, her words felt heavier than stone. "This child carries the Blood Moon Curse." The midwife gasped. Elara's arms tightened protectively around her daughter. "What curse?" The Seer opened her silver eyes. "The oldest curse in this kingdom." No one dared interrupt her. "Centuries ago, your bloodline betrayed a woman blessed by the Moon Goddess herself. She was hunted, abandoned, and left to die beneath a crimson moon." The fire crackled softly. "In her final breath, she cursed every firstborn daughter born from the family that betrayed her." The Seer's voice became almost sorrowful. "Each daughter would grow to know love..." She looked down at the sleeping infant. "...only to lose her life by the hands of the man she loved most." Silence swallowed the room whole. Elara stared at her daughter as though she had misheard. "No..." "The first man she truly gives her heart to..." The old woman's voice broke. "...will be the one who spills her blood." The words seemed to steal the air from the cottage. Rowan laughed. Not because he found it amusing. Because his mind refused to accept it. "You're wrong." "I wish I were." "There must be something we can do." The Seer lowered her head. "I have searched for forty years." "And?" "There is no cure." Elara's tears finally spilled. "Please..." "There must be a way." The Seer looked at the tiny child sleeping peacefully, unaware that her future had already been written. "There is only one path." "What is it?" "She must never love." The words echoed through the room long after they were spoken. Never love. Not once. Not anyone. For to love would be to die. The storm outside slowly faded. The crimson moon disappeared behind thick clouds. The Seer turned toward the door. "Wait!" Rowan called after her. "Will she be happy?" The old woman paused without looking back. "That..." She sighed. "...depends on whether happiness can exist without love." Then she disappeared into the night. No one in Silverwood ever saw her again. Twenty-two years later... The first rays of dawn filtered through the curtains of the same stone cottage, painting golden streaks across the wooden floor. The storm had long since become a story told in frightened whispers. The curse had not. Lyra sat before the small window of her bedroom, carefully braiding her long raven-black hair over one shoulder. It reached almost to her waist, catching hints of blue whenever sunlight touched it. A few loose strands framed her oval face, softening features that might otherwise have appeared too serious for someone her age. She paused, studying her reflection. Her silver eyes stared back at her. Beautiful. Unusual. Lonely. Most people noticed her eyes first. The villagers often claimed they looked like moonlight trapped inside glass. Children once thought they were magical. Adults thought they were a reminder. A reminder that some people were born different. A reminder that some destinies could never be escaped. Lyra traced the faint crescent-shaped mark on the inside of her wrist before pulling her sleeve over it. It was easier if no one saw it. It was easier if no one remembered. Although... They always remembered.