Everyone was gathered in the clearing beneath the silver moon, the broken remnants of the main house smoldering behind them. No one knew what would happen—what Kael was becoming.
They stood paralyzed, eyes fixed on the figure in the center.
Kael descended slowly from the air, as if gravity bowed to him. He landed soundlessly, walked to the gate, and retrieved the blade he had thrown. Each movement was deliberate—ritualistic, yet laced with something unstable.
A thin cut on his arm dripped blood.
He deepened it.
Deliberately, methodically, he dragged the blade across the wound again. Blood poured freely. Then, with a sudden twist—
He began to move.
He spun.
Once. Twice. Then again.
Barefoot, Kael danced across the stone, his blood painting wide arcs around him. Each step carved crimson loops into the earth. The blade flashed like silver fire, slicing through air and moonlight alike.
Terrifying. Haunting.
Beautiful.
His coat flowed like wind-torn banners. His blade caught the moonlight like a priest's relic. He flipped once, landing in a perfect crouch—and blood scattered like petals across sacred ground.
No one dared breathe.
Far away in the woods, Lyra clung to the veiled woman who carried her—swift, impossibly fast. Wind tore at her face. Her ankle throbbed. But something deeper twisted in her chest.
A feeling.
Something was wrong. So, so wrong.
Back in the clearing, Kael slowed.
He dropped to one knee. His hand gripped the blade tightly, lowering it against the crossguard like a silent prayer. He knelt in the center of a bloody spiral, utterly still.
Then—
The moon changed.
Silver turned to scarlet.
A wave of crimson bathed the clearing. Every eye turned upward.
The moon bled.
A murmur of dread passed through the crowd. The ground trembled beneath their feet.
Kael lifted his face.
Only his eyes shone—glowing red in a face eclipsed by shadow.
Daran stepped back. Even Auren faltered.
The very air felt wrong—like the space between heartbeats had stretched too long, and the world had forgotten to breathe.
At the edge of the woods, Lyra saw the red moon.
She gasped.
From the ruined rooftop, she saw everything—her family, the guards, the wounded children huddled together.
And at the center, him.
Kael.
She saw the blade rising near her father's throat.
Her heart stopped.
"FATHER!" she screamed, her voice slicing through the silence.
Auren turned. His eyes widened.
Kael's blade had already begun its deadly arc.
"FATHERRR!" she screamed again, voice cracking.
And then—
It stopped.
The veiled woman appeared at Kael's side.
Her hand rose—not to strike, not to pull—but to call.
She touched Kael's wrist with featherlight grace.
He froze.
A shiver passed through him, like a ripple across glass.
Kael stared at her—not in rage, not confusion—
Recognition.
But of what… no one knew.
Behind them, the blood moon blazed. Watching. Waiting.
Kael dropped his blade.
His trembling hands reached up and gently touched the woman's veiled face.
Tears slid silently down his cheeks.
No one moved. No one spoke.
The air was thick with questions.
Then Kael collapsed—like a puppet whose strings had been cut—folding into himself on the cold ground.
Unconscious.
Lyra stepped forward.
Not in fear.
Not in jealousy.
But in pain.
An ancient ache stirred in her chest. Not from envy… but memory. Or mourning.
Something about them—Kael and the veiled woman—called to something inside her.
A story she hadn't lived… and yet remembered.
The woman looked up at the red moon.
She breathed in slowly.
And the crimson faded.
Silver returned.
Relief spread across the courtyard in a wave—but no one spoke.
Not until Lyra approached her.
"Please," she said softly, "can you tell us what just happened?"
The woman sat beside Kael's still form. She lowered her veil slightly—not revealing her full face, but enough to show calm, watchful eyes.
She looked into the firelight.
And spoke:
"In Hindu mythology, there are three primary gods—Lord Brahma, the Creator; Lord Vishnu, the Protector; and Lord Shiva, the Destroyer. The cosmos is divided into three realms: Swarg, the realm of gods; Narak, the underworld of demons; and Dharti—the human world."
Silence fell like snowfall.
"The demons grew greedy. They no longer wanted only Narak. They wanted it all—Swarg, Dharti… the very breath of creation. Wars followed. When the gods triumphed, the demons left something behind…"
She paused.
"Darkness. Not just shadow. Something deeper. Something that remembers."
Lyra listened, spellbound.
"To protect mankind, the gods sent chosen souls. Guardians. Warriors. Seals. From them, the House of Light was born."
Her voice grew heavy.
"But light casts long shadows. And even the gods do not always agree on what must be protected… or destroyed."
She looked down at Kael.
"Kael was never just a warrior. He was a key. A seal. A weapon made to do what the gods could not."
Daran whispered, "And what is he now?"
The woman did not answer.
Because no one truly knew.
Only the blood moon knew…
What had just been set free.