The sky over the Crimson Moon wasn't serene or peaceful like the Blue Moon's. Here, darkness was eternal.
No constellations glittered above—just a red glare like smoldering embers, staining the sky perpetual crimson. The ground cracked under volcanic rock. No day. No night. Only crimson eternity.
In this harsh wasteland stood the Fortress of the Sangreal, a bastion of dark stone carved into the heart of a volcanic mountain. Its jagged towers tore into the bloody sky like fangs, connected by suspension bridges of black chains that swayed in the scorching winds.
The forges? Never slept.
Blacksmiths drowned every inch of the fortress. Sweat, fire, metals ripped from the Crimson Moon's guts. The air? Thick—burnt iron and ash.
Hammers vs anvils. Swords vs steel. A symphony of violence.
And him.
Rowan. Atop the tower, skin glazed in forge-glare.
They'd carved him into a weapon since he could grip a dagger. Here, war ain't some choice.
It's survival.
Weakness? Doesn't breathe here. Only the brutal. The ones who bite first.
Five years old. Thrown into the Sangreal Arena—a colosseum where kids drilled combat until their bones screamed. Each dawn, fists before blades. You lose? No dinner. You win? A scrap of honor.
Seven? Got his first sword. Ten? Already dropping grown warriors in sparring rings.
Kids too weak? Poof. Gone by morning. No whispers. No graves. Only the strong breathe Crimson Moon air.
The Sangreal Conclave—those shadow-bastards ruling the moon—drilled it into him since diapers: Your purpose? Fight.
Fight for glory.
Fight for the hollow honor they shove down your throat.
Fight the Celestials—those Blue Moon pricks staring down from the sky like they own the damn cosmos.
"Enemies," they spat. Said his kind stole somethin' sacred from the Sangreal.
Never said what.
Rowan? Never wrapped his head around that faceless war.
Yeah, he'd learned to swing a blade since he could crawl.
Yeah, bled in a thousand training skirmishes.
Yeah, heard the stories—Celestials, those glowin' freaks who supposedly ripped the soul from his moon. Locked it in their Blue World with its azure skies and rivers like liquid glass.
But see one? Never.
Deep down? Doubted he ever would.
Tonight though—
Somethin' itched under his skin.
Leaning on the tower's balcony. Scowling at that blood-soaked sky.
Crimson clouds writhed like embers in the wind, stained by the Crimson Moon's glow—a massive fireball choking the horizon.
Something reeked wrong.
Fingers twitched against his sword's hilt—unconscious tic when his brain buzzed too loud. The blade still crusted with yesterday's training skirmish. Metal cracked where steel had clashed.
On Crimson Moon soil, you settled debates with steel. Spill blood first, think never.
But now? No enemy to gut.
Days now—that hollow gnawing in his ribs. Like a piece of him was missing. Calling from some dead-ass corner of the void.
He didn't believe in gut feelings.
The Conclave's lesson? Weaklings trust feelings.
On Crimson Moon soil, truth's written three ways: strength. Strategy. Blood-soaked sand.
Screw doubt.
Yet—
The night wind howled. His black cape snapped like a war banner. Air thick with electricity pricking his neck.
Someone's eyes. On him.
His grip choked the sword's hilt. Backstep. Eyes raked the shadows. Nothing. Just sentries' distant mutters and the forges' clang-clang-clang.
Not here. Not even close.
Something… out there. Beyond this rusted rock.
A thought-echo hissed in his skull—words in some tongue his bones shouldn't know.
"What if there's shit out there?"
Jaw locked.
He wrenched his head sideways—like trying to shake off a rabid dog.
Crimson Moon was his world. His only truth.
But
Deep in his marrow? Knew these thoughts'd claw back.
Rowan ghosted out of the Fortress. No goodbyes. Stone streets ate his footsteps—quieter, darker, like his flesh knew he was hunting forbidden shit.
No map. Just that hook in his ribs. Pulling harder with every step.
Calling him.
Soon—no more obsidian towers. No war-blasted walls. Just… wasteland.
Bone-dirt. Scab-patch grass. Jagged cliffs threw shadows like twisted giants under the Crimson Moon's piss-red glare.
Then—he reached it.
The Blood River.
A sludge-thick current—rotgut red. Not water. Molasses laced with centuries' worth of slaughter-rust.
Taboo, the elders warned.
Stare too long at your reflection here? You'll see your destiny's carcass… or death's shadow licking your neck.
Rowan? Scoffed at ghost stories.
But tonight—something in his veins itched.
Kneeled at the bank. Dirt bit his palms. Breath steady—chest heaving like a caged animal.
The river spat his reflection back.
Stone-cold eyes. No fear. Wind-tangled black hair framing a face carved for war.
Same face. Same scars.
Then—the water twitched.
Rowan's eyes slitted. Muscles coiled—instinct.
No wind.
No ripple.
The trembling deepened. Like something beneath the sludge was laughing.
Then—
His reflection blinked.
Not him.
Pupils blown wide—
A girl stared back.
Eyes blue. Not Crimson Moon rust-blue. Sky-blue. A color that didn't exist here.
Hair? Silver. Glowing like starlight trapped in water.
Unreal.
But Rowan knew—she saw him too.
Shiver razored down his spine.
His reflection snapped back.
Rowan jolted upright. Heart punching his ribs.
Looked again. Just his face now—stone-cold but shaken.
No mistake.
No goddamn hallucination.
Someone saw him.
And right then—
On the Blue Moon.
Astra's spine iced over.
She wasn't alone either.