Somewhere between death and memory. Somewhere beneath the blood moon.
They never let her die gently.
Each time, her body was different — sometimes a child, sometimes a woman. But the pain was always the same. Fire behind her eyes. Blood on her hands. And his name, torn from her lips like a curse.
Lucien.
She never remembered him at first. That was the cruelest part of the punishment.
He would find her. Again, and again. He'd watch her fall in love with him —softly, slowly, like drowning. And just when she began to feel it too, the dreams would return.
Flashes of another life. Another death. Another betrayal.
And by the time she remembered what he'd done —what she had done —it was already too late.
The blood moon would rise. The cycle would complete. And someone always bled.
It wasn't fate. It wasn't love.
It was a curse.
And this time, as the red light spilled across the sky, as her soul stirred in a new body, in a new century, a whisper echoed through the void:
"Let this be the last time."
But curses don't end with time.
They end with blood.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
"Some loves don't die.They wait.Bleeding through centuries,until they're remembered —or destroyed."— Unknown