The Blood Moon’s Reckoning

The night had settled like a slow, suffocating breath over the ancient glade. Above, the blood moon hung low and heavy, a deep crimson orb bleeding light across the clearing. Its glow twisted through the trees, making long, jagged shadows that reached like skeletal fingers toward the earth. The air was thick and damp, carrying the scent of wet leaves, moss, and something sharper—metallic, iron-like, faintly bitter. A quiet tension threaded through the space, as if the forest itself had paused, holding its breath in expectation.

Torches flickered in a wide circle, their flames trembling as though aware of the forces stirring in the glade. The light bent and stretched along the uneven terrain, catching on gnarled roots and the twisted trunks of ancient trees. It seemed almost alive, flickering with desperation, fighting against the oppressive darkness. The glade itself felt older than time, steeped in rituals long forgotten, carrying echoes of power too old to be understood,