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Last Updated:
2026-01-06 08:58:18
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The House Beneath the Blood Moon Glitch in the System
Samantha POVThe night air tasted like ash and ice—like the world had been set on fire and then dared to pretend it wasn’t.Lucien set me down on the cliffside, but he didn’t let go of my arms. His grip stayed firm—necessary, almost bruising—like if he loosened it for even a second, I might blow away with the snow.I could feel the tremor in him. Not fear. Not weakness.More like the internal shudder of a perfectly engineered machine that had just met a force it couldn’t out-muscle.Behind us, the mountain was gone.Not exploded. Not collapsed in drama and debris. It had simply… folded inward. A smooth, steaming crater where my mother had been.A hole where my past had lived.A hole where the future I’d been clawing toward had been swallowed whole.I hugged the laptop to my chest. The casing was cold enough to burn through my ribs. It was the only thing I had left that wasn’t grief.My hands shook anyway.Not from the cold.From the memory of Silas’s eyes—two matte-black voids that di
The House Beneath the Blood Moon The Scythe and the Silicon
Lucien POV The air didn’t just turn cold. It collapsed. Not a drop in temperature—an absence. A sudden, violent subtraction. Reality hesitated, as if it had briefly forgotten how to exist in the space we occupied. Sound flattened into a dull, underwater thud. Light lost its depth, draining into a sickly, ashen grey. Even the ancient granite of the mountain seemed uncertain—stone wavering between matter and memory. I knew this sensation. It was a phantom limb of my own history. I had felt it during the charcoal fall of Carthage. During the purge of the Black Monasteries, when sanctuaries were scrubbed not just of life, but of remembrance. This was the atmospheric signature of a High Council decree—the precise moment they decided a thing no longer deserved a future. “He’s here,” I said. The words did not echo. They were swallowed. Behind me, Samantha stiffened. She hadn’t sensed him yet—not the way my kind did. Her mind was still racing through cascading logic trees, riding t
The House Beneath the Blood Moon Fault Lines
Samantha POV Silence isn’t peace. It’s the echo left behind when the blast is over. It’s the moment your ears are still ringing and your lungs burn, while the world hesitates—deciding whether you’re a survivor or just debris waiting to settle. I slid down the front of the console until my spine hit the stone floor. The impact was dull, grounding. My hands were shaking—not the delicate tremor of fear, but the violent aftershock of a system that had run far past safe limits and hadn’t crashed. Yet. I stared at my fingers. They smelled faintly of ozone and glass. I’d erased people. No blade. No blood on my knuckles. Just a keystroke. And the worst part—the part I didn’t know how to forgive yet—was how natural it had felt. Efficient. Clean. Like clearing corrupted cache from a system that refused to heal on its own. Lucien stood a few meters away, still as a drawn line. Blood streaked his jaw—dark, viscous, not his. He didn’t turn. It was as if he knew that if he looked at me to
The House Beneath the Blood Moon Root Access
Fear doesn’t arrive screaming. It slips in quietly—between breaths, between thoughts—disguised as logic. This will kill you. That was the first line of code my brain executed when the Council soldiers breached the vault. Heavy boots. Precision movement. No hesitation. They didn’t shout. They didn’t threaten. They didn’t need to. Their presence alone compressed the air until it felt metallic, dense—like breathing inside a cooling engine. These weren’t guards. They were deletions. The Council’s cleaners. Designed to erase anomalies like me without leaving logs. Lucien moved before the alarm finished screaming. Steel sang as his sword cleared its sheath, silver fire slicing through the red emergency lights. He didn’t shield me like fragile glass. He shifted half a step forward, angling his body like a bulkhead that had decided to become a weapon. “Stay behind me,” he said. The command vibrated through my bones. “No.” Not defiance. Not bravery. Just truth.
The House Beneath the Blood Moon The Architecture of Escape
Samantha POV Seven minutes. That was all it took to dismantle a life. I didn’t pack. I decompiled. The suitcase lay open on the hotel bed like a clean workspace, waiting for decisions to be made. I stood over it and purged every remnant of the girl I used to be. Pastel sweaters—deprecated. Soft cardigans—unsecured dependencies. I kicked them aside, a discarded pile of obsolete libraries. Code written to please users who never deserved admin rights. Black silk slip dress. Minimal. Clean lines. No emotional overhead. Approved. The leather jacket followed. Heavy. Reinforced. It smelled of animal hide and midnight rebellion. I ran my fingers over the seams once, then folded it with care. Kept. I zipped the bag shut. The metallic shriek sliced through the room like a commit pushed to production without rollback. Final. Irreversible. Closed systems always rot. A shadow stretched across the floor—long, predatory, inevitable. Lucien. I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to. The room
The House Beneath the Blood Moon Bloodline Error
Lucien POV Vaelor did not exaggerate. That alone was alarming. I stood on the balcony, the city of Manhattan sprawling beneath me like an intricate circuit board. The victory over the Hales still felt electric in the air, but the silence on the other end of the line was a cold blade cutting through the triumph. “Explain,” I said. The word was a low vibration, the kind that made the glass doors behind me rattle. “The adoption file,” Vaelor replied, his voice sounding like it was being pulled through a gravel pit. “It’s a masterpiece of fiction, Lucien. The Whitakers didn't just lie; they built a bureaucratic fortress around Samantha's origins. Professionally forged, layered, and sealed. Whoever they were working for didn't just want her gone; they wanted her identity erased from the record of existence.” My grip tightened on the marble railing. “The signatures, Vaelor. Who authorized it?” “That’s the thing. They don't belong to mortals. The Whitakers were just well-paid car
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