Nocturne Novels & Stories

Somewhere in the dark, a grey-eyed wolf might have answered, thinking the sound was kin. It was not. It was only winter, claiming its own.

Chloe h‍adn't touch‌ed it. "Giovanni?" I said loud. No answer. ‌The‍n, music started to‌ play. It w‌asn‍'t an alarm.‌ It wasn‍'t a wa​rni​ng sire​n. It w⁠as a pi‍ano. A slow, haunt⁠ing me‍lody. Clair​ de Lune. Ch‌lo​e lo⁠ok⁠ed at the speake⁠rs in​ the⁠ ceiling. "Who is playing music at 1:00 AM​?"

The bell above the door of Nocturnal Blooms chimed, a soft, silver sound that was always followed by her scent. Valtor looked up from the stark black petals of a Mourning Glory, his undead heart giving a single, hard thump in his chest. Rivenna.

Still at Teatro Della Notte, the silence after death was always loudest. The stage was still slick with blood - black, steaming, and unnatural - but none of them moved. Not even Selene, whose fingertips hovered inches from the cursed violin again. “The violin’s cry…” she murmured, her voice distant, like it was trapped in a memory she hadn’t consented to remember. “It’s not just cursed, it summons. That’s what it was designed for... The Blood Sorrow Song - yhe perfect trifecta.”

And all of a sudden, the room was filled with beautiful music flowing from his hands. Sierra’s jaw dropped in awe. He was playing Nocturne op.9 No.2, a classic piece. He looked so cool doing it too, he didn’t even have to look at the keys. He kept his gaze straight at her as the music filled her ears. Under his piercing eyes, Sierra’s chest was beating like a drum about to explode. She was completely entranced. She stood still like a statue and she couldn’t even remember if she was breathing or not. Until finally, the song ended and Sierra finally took a breath. “You call that ‘a little bit’?” she said through ragged breaths.

In that other life, before everything went to hell, I'd sneak to the piano when I missed him, letting the notes bleed out my grief. My fingers brushed the keys, smooth and worn, and it was like he was there again. I launched into Chopin's Nocturne in E flat major. His voice ghosted in my ear: "It's a nocturne, Leila, but it's about light. Moonlight - clear and fierce. Make them feel it." The melody spilled out, sharp and haunting, filling the room.

POV: Luna Monroe Luna hadn’t dreamed in days. Not since the naming ritual, not since the Grove pulsed with her child’s rhythm. But tonight, sleep came fast—and with it, a vision. She stood in the spiral, alone, her stone dim, the flame flickering in violet and silver. The lullaby echoed around her, but it was slower now. Sadder. Each note bent inward, curling like smoke. Luna reached for the flame. It recoiled. And the wind whispered—not in comfort. In caution.

I would even have a glass of water for him to keep it down. I would wait until he'd fallen asleep before tiptoeing out to wash myself up. Sometimes, I would even stay right next to him, keeping vigil when the alcohol hit him hard. Now, the tender warmth he was used to was gone. Knocks on the door woke William up the next morning. The hangover was still gripping his head tightly, and everything around him was spinning like a demented carousel. He pulled himself up from the couch and wobbled to the entrance.

The soft glow of morning light filtered through the curtains of Nickey’s room, casting a golden wash across the bed as he woke to the faint chorus of birds outside. His mind lingered on the memory of Trina’s humming from the night before—a haunting melody that wrapped around him like silk, refusing to let go. Even now, the tune clung to him, threading through his thoughts like a chain he wasn’t sure he wanted to break.

“Master, I could practically smell them.” Drust smiled weakly and then motioned for him to follow. They walked to the mouth of the cavern, partially hidden by fallen oaks. “We’ll show them what they want to see, the gate to another place, and far more this night.” Drust reached out to the boy. “Give me your canteen.” The boy quickly handed his crude horn-shaped flask to his master. Drust uncapped the horn and put it close to his wrinkled lips. He spat in the end and then reached in his robe. He brought out his hand and sprinkled what appeared to be dust in the horn. He closed it and shook it.