Blood-Moon Rebellion

Sera’s knees hit the cold stone with a sharp crack, echoing through the vast basilica of Saint Argen. The air was thick with incense, the scent curling like tendrils, clinging to her skin. Around her, robed priests chanted the Silver Oath in a language so ancient it made her bones ache. Their voices were a steady hum, soothing, rhythmic, and deafening all at once. She could barely breathe, trapped in the tightness of her collar, but she knew she had to remain still.

Above, the sacred Mirror stood—a towering monolith of silver and glass, said to reflect the soul of the chosen. Tonight, it would reveal who would bear the Blood-Moon Mark.

The crimson eclipse began as a sliver in the sky, but it grew rapidly, swallowing the moon whole, casting a blood-red hue over the cathedral. Sera’s heart raced as she felt the weight of history pressing on her shoulders. She swallowed her terror, pressing her hands together in silent prayer, but it felt hollow. There was no salvation here. Only duty. Only fate.

The Mirror flared to life, glowing bright as the moon’s blood touched its surface. The crowd murmured in awe. The priests, unmoving, awaited the sign.

Sera's shoulder burned.

She flinched, the sharp sting of heat spreading across her skin. The mark on her shoulder, the one she’d tried to ignore for years, flared with molten light. It was a perfect red crescent, a brand of her birth, and now it responded to the call of the Mirror. Her breath caught in her throat, a thin thread of panic winding its way into her chest.

"By the Silver Oath, the Blood-Moon Girl is chosen," the High Priest intoned, his voice deep and sonorous. His words fell heavy, binding.

Sera stood, forced to keep her gaze lowered, her body trembling despite her effort to appear calm. She could feel the eyes of the crowd on her, pity and jealousy mixed in their gazes, and she despised them for it. For the way they celebrated her as both a savior and a sacrifice.

She wanted to scream, to tell them all that she was more than this—more than a mark on her skin, more than a ritual to be endured. But her voice was bound, sealed behind a collar of obedience. Instead, she whispered under her breath, barely audible, "I will survive this."

As she was led away, her eyes caught something—a silver figure behind a crystal reliquary. His form was almost completely obscured by shadows, but she saw enough. He wasn’t just a statue. His eyelids twitched ever so slightly.

Her heart stopped.

The gaze of the figure seemed to pierce through the glass, his eyes locking with hers. A shiver ran down her spine, an impossible connection sparking to life in her chest. She shouldn’t feel this. She shouldn’t feel anything for a statue. But the pulse of his gaze was undeniable, a forbidden certainty that clawed its way through her soul.

The figure was not just a statue. He was alive. And for a fleeting moment, she understood. This—the collar, the Mirror, the mark—was not her destiny. She had been chosen, yes. But not for the reasons they thought. And the man behind the glass… He was the key.

Her captors would never allow it, but somewhere deep within her, the realization settled like a weight she couldn’t ignore. Bondage was not her fate. Somewhere, in the forgotten corners of the world, the heart of the man in the crystal would beat in time with hers.