Cult of the Crescent Curse

Prologue

The wind howled like something dying.

It tore down the jagged slopes of the Senkte Mountains, carrying ash and frost in equal measure, rattling the iron torches that lined the narrow path. High above the world below, where the air thinned and the land itself seemed to recoil, the Daywalker Castle loomed.

It did not belong in this realm.

Black stone walls rose from the mountain’s spine like broken teeth, etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly beneath the surface—as if the castle itself breathed. Silver-veined banners snapped violently in the wind, each bearing the same crescent symbol split clean down the middle.

A promise.

Or a warning.

The hooded figure did not slow as he approached.

His boots struck the obsidian steps in measured rhythm, cloak whipping behind him like a living shadow. He had made this journey many times over the years. Long enough to know that hesitation was noticed here.

And punished.

The massive doors groaned open before he touched them.

They always did.

Inside, the air shifted—thick and cold, laced with something metallic that clung to the back of the throat. Moonlight filtered through the towering stained-glass windows, fractured into pale shards that spilled across the black marble floor.

At the far end of the great hall, the throne waited.

And so did the man seated upon it.

Senika.

Lord of the Daywalkers.

Even from a distance, his presence pressed down like a physical weight.

His dark hair was combed straight back, blunt ends falling past his shoulders in sleek, inhuman perfection. Sharp features carved his face into something beautiful and terrible all at once—a blade of a nose, hollow cheeks, and lips so cracked they looked permanently stained with old blood.

But it was his eyes that stopped men’s hearts.

Red.

Not bright.

Not glowing.

Dead.

And ever watching.

The hooded figure lowered into a moderate bow as he approached the glowing throne of moonstone.

The stone seat pulsed beneath Senika’s fingers.

Watching. Listening.

“For all of the resources I have squeezed into your little dome of religion…” Senika’s voice slithered through the chamber, soft and venomous, “…I would have expected a better outcome.”

The hooded figure kept his head dipped.

“My lord,” he said carefully, “the infliction of the Crescent Creek pack worsens daily. I assure you—we strangle their hope as well as their ability to produce wolves.”

For a moment, the only sound in the hall was the low hum of the moonstone.

Senika sighed.

It was a disappointed sound.

“I don’t want them impaired.” His voice sharpened like glass. “I want them obliterated.”

The temperature in the room dropped.

“If you don’t understand the importance of wiping out their bloodline,” Senika continued, rising slowly from the throne, “I will find someone else more capable of the job.”

The cloaked figure hesitated—

Only for a breath.

But Senika noticed everything.

“My lord,” he said quickly, bowing deeper now, “after all these years, the initial pack is still in my care. And the efforts to destroy the small fraction who remain—I fully immerse myself in daily—”

“And yet,” Senika cut in, voice suddenly lethal,

“it is not enough.”

The moonstone throne dimmed as he stepped away from it.

As if even the light feared him.

The hooded figure dropped lower.

“What would you have me do, my lord?”

Senika did not answer immediately.

Instead, he moved toward the towering balcony at the far end of the hall. The doors creaked open on their own, revealing the barren wasteland below—miles of ash-choked earth and skeletal forests clawing at a colorless sky.

Nothing lived there.

Not for long.

“The oracle’s prophecy has not changed,” Senika said at last, his voice quieter now… but far more dangerous.

“She is still coming.”

A slow, cold dread pooled in the pit of the cloaked figure’s stomach.

Behind him, the moonstone flickered.

“Even weakened,” Senika continued, gazing out over the dead lands, “the Crescent warriors continue to present the biggest threat in this war.”

His fingers curled slightly against the balcony rail.

“My men have created lore. Rumors.” A faint, cruel smile touched his cracked lips. “Stories that they have been given… special powers.”

The wind screamed through the open balcony.

“If you cannot control the situation,” Senika said softly, “find a way to destroy them.”

Entirely.

The cloaked figure swallowed.

There was only one question left.

He lifted his head just enough to speak.

“…Which pack, my lord? The remaining Crescents?”

For the first time since he had entered the hall—

Senika turned.

Those dead red eyes locked onto him.

And smiled.

“Both of them.”

The words fell like a death sentence.

“The Crescents that linger…” Senika said quietly.

A pause.

“And yours.”