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THE CRIMSON ECLIPSE

Author: Ana belle
last update Last Updated: 2025-06-26 21:34:16

The sky burned crimson.

Above the Nightveil mountains, the eclipse began—not gradual, not gentle, but all at once as if the moon itself bled and screamed. A red halo swallowed the sky, just like the one etched into the memories of the few who had witnessed Veyra's birth. The same cursed light, the same choking magic.

Veyra stood at the edge of the stone clearing in the heart of Nightveil territory, her breath shallow, her fingers twitching with the pressure in the air. Magic surged through the soil. It whispered up her bones.

Zarek appeared beside her, jaw clenched, his hand brushing against hers. Behind them, Rune, Zevi, Lioren, stood ready, their postures tense, eyes scanning the warped horizon. A storm was coming—no rain, no wind. A storm of soul and shadow.

Then everything went still.

From the center of the clearing, where sacred rituals had been performed and blood had been spilled, the air cracked.

Like glass.

A rift tore open—not with noise, but silence. That aching, terrible s
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  • THE CURSE OF THE FIFTH MATE   THE FUNERAL OF STORMS

    The Moon Tree stood at the heart of Nightveil's sacred grounds, where the veil between life and death was thin but gentle, a place not of darkness—but remembrance.Its roots stretched deep into the earth, its leaves shimmered silver even under a sunless sky, and its branches whispered with a light that never faded, even when all other stars seemed to dim.It was here they laid Zevi to rest.The funeral procession moved in silence, not because it was demanded, but because grief had stolen all sound from their throats.Veyra walked at the front, barefoot, her white hair flowing unbound down her back, her hands clasped tightly around the small carved stone that bore Zevi's name.She wore no crown, no cloak of power.Only the weight of loss clothed her.Behind her, her mates followed, their heads bowed.Zarek, Rune, Jon, Lioren even Kael who had been away for so long was present, each of them bearing a torch that guttered and hissed in the cold wind.The villagers of Nightveil gathered in

  • THE CURSE OF THE FIFTH MATE   THE DAY THE MOON WEPT

    The wind tasted wrong.It howled across the lands in shrill, discordant waves, carrying with it the scent of blood, fear, and something far older—something wrong.From the highest peaks to the deepest valleys, the ground trembled with the pulse of a broken world.The Veil—the sacred barrier between the living and the dead, between the realms of the mortal and the cursed—was unraveling.Nyros had begun his final assault.Nightveil's towers swayed under the unnatural pressure. The stars dimmed. The moon itself wept behind a shroud of black clouds.And all across the land, wolves fell into madness.Reports flooded in—wolves turning feral, their minds lost to the dark magic bleeding into their blood.Packs that once stood united fractured in hours.Friends tore each other apart with claw and tooth.In the war chambers of Nightveil, Veyra stood frozen before a map littered with black stones, each marking another town, another village, another life slipping away.The door slammed open.Jon

  • THE CURSE OF THE FIFTH MATE   THE SEVERING

    The chamber had been prepared carefully—every stone blessed, every ward drawn in blood and silver, every shadow banished by sacred flame.At the heart of it all, on a raised platform of cold black stone, sat the relic that would end it: the stone blade, ancient and humming with silent power.Veyra stood before it, bare-footed, wrapped in a simple tunic of white linen that fluttered slightly with every shallow breath she drew.Her hands were steady, though every instinct inside her screamed against what she was about to do.The false bond tied to her—the thread Nyros had forced into existence—was a poison buried so deep it had become a second heartbeat.To cut it free would be to cut into herself.Behind her, her mates watched with expressions carved from stone. Jon and Rune flanked the doorway like sentinels, every muscle tensed, ready to move at the slightest sign of danger.Lioren stood closer, his eyes shadowed with guilt and love, silently pleading with the Fates that this ritual

  • THE CURSE OF THE FIFTH MATE   A STORM TO GATHER

    The Nightveil stronghold stirred slowly under the weight of the rising sun.Stone corridors, once cold and silent, now echoed with the muted sounds of life—warriors readying for the days to come, healers tending to those wounded not by battle, but by darker wounds of the soul.Veyra stood on the balcony outside the room she had been given, the wind pulling at the loose strands of her hair. From here, she could see the sprawl of Zarek's territory—the watchtowers, the great hall, the training fields.It was a kingdom hardened by necessity, built not just to endure, but to survive whatever storm might come.And now, it would be the heart of a war unlike any they had known.Behind her, soft footsteps approached.She didn't have to turn to know it was Jon. His presence was as familiar to her as breathing."They're gathering," he said quietly, standing beside her at the railing."Zarek's summoned his generals. Packs loyal to Nightveil have sent their scouts. News of Nyros is spreading."Vey

  • THE CURSE OF THE FIFTH MATE   THREAD OF TRUST

    The first light of dawn broke over the horizon, casting the camp in a soft golden glow. For the first time in what felt like endless days, the darkness pressing in around them seemed to waver, pushed back by something brighter. Something stronger.Hope.Veyra stood at the edge of the clearing, the breeze tugging gently at her hair. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the crisp, clean air. For a moment, she allowed herself to simply exist—no battles, no curses, no visions of ruin.Just the sound of the wind in the trees and the steady, comforting heartbeat of the world beneath her feet.Behind her, she heard the soft murmur of voices—the low rumble of Jon, the lighter laughter of Rune, the quiet steadying of Lioren's breathing.They were healing. Slowly, but surely.She turned and watched them for a moment, warmth blooming in her chest. They had all stayed by Lioren's side through the night, refusing to leave him even for a second. It wasn't just loyalty. It

  • THE CURSE OF THE FIFTH MATE   BETRAYED AGAIN

    The tension in the pack was a living thing, thickening with every passing hour.Where once there had been easy camaraderie among Veyra's mates—shared glances, quiet smiles, touches of silent reassurance—now there was only a wary distance. Words came slower. Touches were hesitant. Each man watched the others out of the corner of his eye, as if searching for cracks beneath the surface.Veyra felt it most from Lioren.He sat apart from the others by the fire, head bowed, shoulders slumped forward in a way that didn't match the warrior she knew. His hands, once so sure and steady, now trembled slightly as he stirred the embers. He rarely spoke unless directly addressed, and even then, his voice was strained, brittle, as if every word cost him something.At first, Veyra thought it was just exhaustion. They were all running on fumes. The battles they'd fought, the losses they'd suffered—they weighed heavily on them all.But it wasn't just weariness in Lioren. It was something darker. Someth

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