The Fallen Moon: Predestined Sin

Chapter 12: The Tracking Curse

The afternoon we returned to Bloodspear territory, the old witch-healer took one look at the curse mark on Caine's left shoulder and froze, her stone pestle hovering in midair.

Setting her mortar down, she gestured for Caine to shed his battle coat. The thin, black thread-like pattern had already crawled from his collarbone to the edge of his shoulder blade. It bled a faint, dark crimson beneath his skin, looking like a red-hot wire buried deep within his veins. The witch-healer pressed two fingers firmly against the edge of the mark, but the dark lines remained entirely unyielding.

"This is no ordinary tracking curse," she said, drawing her hand back as her bone bells chimed softly. "It is a blood-binding curse. The caster has bound their own bloodline to the victim. To break it, you must either obtain the caster’s blood or wait for them to die."

I leaned forward slightly. "And if we can do neither?"

"Then the curse will remain with him for the rest of his life." The witch-healer looked at me. "When you touched the mark, what did you feel?"

"A sharp sting, like the prickle of static electricity."

"The Moon Priestess bloodline and the blood-binding curse are naturally incompatible. If he gets too close to you, the curse flares; if he strays too far, it inflicts agonizing pain. The caster is exploiting your destined bond as a beacon. No matter how the pain manifests, they will be able to lock onto Caine's location."

Caine pulled his battle coat back on, his fingers hesitating slightly as he fastened the collar. "Is there a way to suppress it temporarily?"

"Applying Moondrop pollen mixed with silverleaf over the curse can delay the spread of the pattern, but it only buys you time." The witch-healer took a clay jar from the shelf and set it on the table. "Change it once a day. You must find the caster within two weeks—or ensure they can never track you again. The range of the blood-binding curse is tied directly to the reach of the pain. If you travel far enough, the pain will fade, and the tracking signal will weaken. If you go far enough for the pain to disappear entirely, the connection is severed. From here to the northern ice fields should be just far enough."

Inside the tent, there was only the faint, steady crackle of the embers.

"The northern ice fields are where the Abyss Clan banishes their traitors," Caine spoke up. "If the caster is hiding there, then the tracking curse on Victor’s blade must be connected to the Child of the Blood Oath."

"Then we head to the northern ice fields," I said.

The old witch-healer looked up at me, unlooping a string of bone bells from her waist and placing them on the table. "Take this. The Moondrop pollen preserved within the bells will maintain its potency even in the extreme cold. I have nothing else to give you."

I picked up the bone bells. They felt almost weightless in my hand. Delicate runes were etched onto the surface of each bell, gleaming with a translucent, silvery glow under the dim embers.

"This belonged to your son."

"Before he passed, he asked me to give it to the first human who asked for his name." She turned back toward her shelves, leaving me with only her silhouette. "Thirty years have gone by. You are the first."

That evening, Allen Greymane stopped me at the camp entrance. He wore the fresh, pristine uniform of the patrol team, his expression carrying a repressed urgency, as if he had finally resolved to speak his mind.

"Patriarch Ashton. Marcus told me that breaking the blood-binding curse requires the caster’s blood. While my uncle Cole was conspiring with Victor, he frequently mentioned a stronghold called the 'Northern Sentry.' He marked it as abandoned in the logistics reports, but every time it was mentioned, he filed those reports separately. I never understood why, but now I do—it wasn't abandoned. It was their secret meeting place." His back was ramrod straight, his hands clenched at his sides with pale knuckles. "If possible, please find all the evidence of my uncle’s treason."

"I promise you."

He turned to leave, but stopped abruptly. "Patriarch, the whetstone... do you still have it?"

"Yes. Slipped inside my boot."

The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but a look of profound relief, as if the dust had finally settled. He turned and left.

As night descended, I went to the main tent to find Caine. He stood before the tactical table, a map of the northern border spread out across the wood. Hearing my footsteps, he glanced up at me briefly before returning to marking their route.

"Do we leave tomorrow?" I asked.

"We depart the day after. Marcus needs a day to reorganize the camp's defenses. After Cole's death, his faction scattered, but several loyalists still man the sentry towers. Reg's replacement is also one of Cole’s old guard, and Marcus will use this opportunity to sweep them out." He paused slightly. "You didn't come tonight just to ask about our departure."

"I didn't. I have a question for you." I stepped up to his side, looking down at the mark he had carved with a dagger into the map—the edge of the northern ice fields. "The witch-healer said that if we stay far enough apart, the tracking signal will break. Why didn't you choose that path?"

A heavy, prolonged silence stretched between us. The embers popped softly in the iron basin, casting swaying shadows of his profile across the map before settling back into stillness.

"Do you remember the first night, when I called you my prisoner of war?"

"I do."

"Half of that was for the Council, but the other half was entirely true. I never believed in the destined bond, nor did I believe in the Moon Goddess. My mother married a man who blindly trusted the Goddess's decree, only for him to cast her away in the end. I swore to myself that if the destined mark ever branded my skin, I would carve it out with my own hands."

"You tried?"

"On the first night, while you were fast asleep. The mark vanished the moment my dagger sliced through the flesh, but once the wound healed, it reappeared." He let out a faint, dry laugh. "The Goddess refused to let me go. But then you stood before the Council and said you would kill me yourself if given the chance. That was the night I finally understood. The Goddess didn't bind you to me to grant me a mate. She handed me a mirror. You made me realize I was repeating my father's mistakes because I refused to accept that the tragedy was never the Goddess's doing—it was human choice. Destiny is shaped by our choices, not ordained by gods."

He raised his right hand, his fingertips gently brushing away a stray lock of hair near my ear. This time, he didn't pull back.

"So, I will not choose to run and hide apart from you. No matter how fierce the blizzards of the northern ice fields are, I am going with you. If the caster wants to use me to track you, then let them come. When they finally reveal themselves, they will find that they are no longer facing a helpless princess waiting to be bound to a pyre. They will face you."

Outside the tent, the waning moon climbed to the zenith of the sky. I reached up and hung the bone bells around Caine's neck, the silver-white bells resting flat against his collarbone, rising and falling gently with his breaths.

"This is the old witch-healer's son's bone bells. Thirty years ago, my mother asked him for his name; thirty years later, she handed it to me. Now, I give it to you." I rested my palm against Caine's chest, the bells jingling softly between us. "The cold in the northern ice fields cuts to the bone. The Moondrop pollen inside will delay the curse's spread. Besides, I will be right beside you—no matter where the caster hides."

He said nothing. His fingers slid through mine, pressing over the bone bells and holding the back of my hand flat against his chest, right where his heart beat steady and strong. The bone bells chimed once, soft and clear.

On the morning of our departure, no war drums echoed through the camp. Marcus had arranged everything with meticulous care: two hardy Greymane warhorses bred to withstand the northern cold, half a month's rations, a map of the ice fields sealed on wolf pelt, and the freshly sharpened Bloodmoon Dagger. He handed the reins to me at the camp gates, the usual cool detachment in his gray-blue eyes replaced by a heavy solemnity.

"Cole's contact at the Northern Sentry used the codename 'Raven.' The Speaker sent word that someone within the Council uses the exact same codename. If both 'Ravens' are the same person, then he is not just a member of Seville's faction—he is a traitor hidden deep within the Council."

"Relay the news to Irene Ironblade."

"She has already been notified. Irene said the moment you find hard evidence in the ice fields, the Council will launch an internal purge." He paused. "If the curse on Caine's left shoulder worsens along the way, you must turn back. Seville's faction can wait, but his life cannot be gambled with."

"He won't turn back."

"I know," Marcus said, looking over at the broad, straight back of the Alpha as Caine checked his saddle near the gate. "That is why I am telling you. He won't listen to anyone else. Only you."

I swung myself onto the warhorse. Caine rode up to my left, the pale green tint of the herbal salve faintly showing beneath the bandages on his shoulder. The old witch-healer stood by her medicine shed, crushing herbs. As we rode past, a soft chime drifted over on the wind—she wore no bells on her wrist now; the sound came from the string around Caine's neck. As he rode, the bells struck against his collarbone, answering her with every step.

We crossed the northern border of Bloodspear territory and entered the neutral forest. The hooves of our Greymane mounts beat against the frozen pine needles in a dull, steady cadence. By dusk on the third day, we had covered a third of the distance. Caine spread out the map, marking the location of the next way station.

Suddenly, he stiffened. His left hand clamped tightly over his shoulder, his knuckles turning white.

"Does it hurt?"

"It's not pain. It's a chill." He looked down at the black, thread-like lines peeking out from the edge of his collar. The dark lines were crawling slowly, like the needle of a compass shifting directions. "The caster is moving. They are heading straight toward us."

A distant howl echoed from the depths of the forest. It was entirely unlike the calls of the Bloodspear Pack—sharper, cold, carrying an ancient, desolate echo. Our Greymane warhorses pawed at the frozen earth in agitation.

I pressed my palm against the hilt of the Bloodmoon Dagger. "He knows we are here."

"He does. This is his welcome," Caine released his grip on his left shoulder, the corner of his mouth curving into a cold, razor-sharp smile. "Right on the border of the northern ice fields."