Blood Of The Moon

The sky had turned to ash.

I remember that day with a clarity that haunts my dreams—the day the world ended and something far worse began. The smoke from burning cities painted the heavens in shades of gray and crimson, as if the very sky was bleeding. My mother's hand was cold in mine as we ran through the streets of what used to be New York, now nothing more than a graveyard of twisted metal and crumbling concrete.

"Don't look back, Elena," she had whispered, her voice cracking with fear she tried desperately to hide from me. "Whatever you do, don't look back."

But I looked back. I was only seven years old, and I didn't understand why we were running from the monsters that had suddenly appeared among us. They had been hiding for millennia, the stories would later tell us. Shape-shifters who could take the form of wolves, creatures of nightmare given flesh and bone. They had walked among humans since the dawn of time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

I saw them that day. Massive beasts with eyes that glowed like embers, teeth like daggers, and claws that could tear through steel as easily as paper. They moved with supernatural speed, their bodies shifting seamlessly between man and wolf, always choosing the form that would cause the most devastation.

My father had tried to protect us. He was a big man, a construction worker with hands that could crush stone. But when one of the creatures—they would later call themselves Lycans—came for us, my father lasted less than ten seconds. The beast tore through him as if he were made of paper, his blood spraying across the pavement in a crimson arc that I can still see when I close my eyes.

"Run, Elena!" My father's final words echoed in my ears as his body crumpled to the ground. "Take your mother and run!"

We ran. God, how we ran. Through alleys filled with the dead and dying, past buildings that crumbled like sandcastles, through the chaos of a world that had been turned upside down in a matter of hours. My mother held my hand so tightly that I could feel the bones grinding together, but I didn't complain. I was too terrified to feel anything but the primal urge to survive.

We made it to the outskirts of the city, to an underground bunker that my father had prepared years ago. He was always paranoid, always preparing for the worst. "The world is fragile," he used to say. "One wrong move and everything falls apart." I used to laugh at him, tease him about his doomsday preparations. I never laughed again.

For three months, my mother and I hid in that bunker. We had enough food and water to last a year, and the walls were thick enough to block out the sounds of the world dying above us. But we could still feel it, somehow. The vibrations of explosions, the shudder of the earth as buildings collapsed, the distant screams that seemed to pierce through the concrete.

"Your father was a smart man," my mother would say, holding me close in the darkness. "He loved us so much. He wanted to make sure we would survive."

But survival came at a price. We had to ration everything, and my mother would often go without food just to make sure I had enough to eat. I watched her grow thinner and thinner as the weeks passed, her once-rosy cheeks becoming gaunt, her eyes losing their light.

"We can't stay here forever," she said one night, after we had been in the bunker for what felt like an eternity. "They'll find us eventually. We need to find a way to survive among them."

I didn't understand what she meant at the time. I was a child, still clinging to the hope that everything would return to normal, that the monsters would disappear as suddenly as they had appeared. But the monsters didn't disappear. They took over.

When we finally emerged from the bunker, the world we knew was gone. The Lycans had established a new order, a brutal hierarchy that placed humans at the very bottom. Those who survived the initial attack were rounded up and divided into categories based on their usefulness. The weak, the sick, and the elderly were immediately executed. The young and strong were either forced into slave labor or sent to the whorehouses to be used as the beasts saw fit.

My mother and I were among the survivors. We were herded into massive holding pens with thousands of other humans, stripped of our identities and reduced to numbers. I was given the number 7842, and my mother was given 7843. That was who we were now. We weren't Elena and Maria anymore. We were numbers.

"You must be strong," my mother whispered to me as we waited in line to be processed. "You must survive, no matter what. Do you understand, Elena? No matter what happens to me, you must survive."

I didn't understand what she was trying to tell me. I was still young, still naive enough to believe that we would be together, that everything would somehow be okay. But my mother knew better. She had seen the way the Lycans looked at the women, the predatory gleam in their eyes. She knew what was coming.

They separated us that day. The women and young girls were taken to one area, the men and older boys to another. I screamed for my mother, reaching out for her as the guards dragged us in opposite directions. She was crying too, tears streaming down her face as she called out to me.

"Remember what I told you, Elena! Survive! Promise me you'll survive!"

I made that promise. I would survive, no matter what it took. But I had no idea how difficult that promise would be to keep.

In the years that followed, I learned to adapt. I learned to keep my head down, to avoid eye contact with the Lycan guards, to make myself as small and invisible as possible. I learned to sense danger before it came, to read the subtle shifts in the air that signaled an approaching storm. I learned to survive.

But surviving was not the same as living. Every day was a struggle, a constant battle to stay alive in a world that had been designed for my destruction. I watched friends and allies die around me, their lives snuffed out as casually as a candle flame. I learned to harden my heart, to keep people at a distance, because losing someone you care about is the worst kind of pain.

I was sixteen when I met Tatiana. She was a few years older than me, with dark skin and warm brown eyes that held a spark of defiance that the Lycans hadn't managed to extinguish. She was assigned to the same work detail as me, cleaning the grand hall of one of the Lycan ruling families. We bonded over our shared hatred of our oppressors, over our determination to survive in a world that had tried to break us.

"Stick with me, kid," Tatiana used to say, wrapping a protective arm around my shoulders. "I'll look out for you. I'll make sure you make it through this."

And she did. She was like the big sister I never had, always watching my back, always making sure I didn't get noticed by the wrong Lycan. She taught me everything I knew about surviving in this new world—how to read the moods of our captors, how to find extra food when rations were short, how to keep my spirit alive even when everything seemed hopeless.

I started to think that maybe I could make it. Maybe, if I just kept my head down and followed the rules, I could survive long enough to see freedom. Tatiana gave me that hope, and in a world where hope was a luxury, it was the most precious gift she could have given me.

But hope is a dangerous thing. It makes you soft, makes you forget the harsh reality of your situation. And reality, as I was about to learn, is always waiting to bring you back to earth.

Everything changed on my eighteenth birthday. It was supposed to be just another day, another day of scrubbing floors and trying to stay invisible. But a new assignment came down from the palace, a summons for a handmaid to serve in the private chambers of one of the Lycan royals.

They chose me.

I should have known something was wrong when I saw the way the other servants looked at me, the mix of pity and fear in their eyes. I should have run, should have tried to escape while I still had the chance. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The Lycans had eyes everywhere, and resistance meant death.

That was the night everything changed.

The night I met him.

The worst of them all.