The moon, red and swollen, peeked through torn night clouds like a wolf stalking its prey. Cold air burned their lungs, carrying with it the coppery scent of fear. The Blood Moon. It came once every five years. Old stories whispered that it was the curse of a jealous God who could not stand the moon's beauty, a spite that bled into the hearts of creatures below, turning beasts rabid and the world itself became infected with its hatred.
Beneath that cursed light, Holt ran. Mud clung to his boots, leaves snapped underfoot, and behind him Mirya pushed Damien forward, her hand firm at his back. Their home was not safe, broken into and swallowed by the chaos. During the Blood Moon, if you had no strong walls between you and the night, you were already dead.
The villagers should have been safe, gathered within the walls of Fort Cloudy Day long before the red night. But the moon came early, and the unprepared were scattered.
"Mother, my feet hurt, how much farther?" Damien gasped.
"Just a little further, Lucy" Mirya said, her voice soft but stretched thin with fear.
Then Holt stopped. Sudden. Solid. Mirya nearly crashed into him.
"What is it?" she asked.
A brief pause, two seconds too long.
"Don't look ahead" Holt said, voice low. "Turn around. Slowly."
A cold blade of instinct ran down Mirya's spine. She turned to Damien, forcing a smile. "We're going this way now."
Damien did not argue, as the three of them turned around to walk away, Damien, plagued with childish curiosity looked back to see what they were turning away from.
A shape. Half-hidden behind a tree, but far too large to be hidden. Skin like tattered stone, eyes white and empty as pearls, tusks jutting from its lower jaw. The kind of monster parents used to frighten children into obedience. The kind that made the dark feel dangerous. The kind that ate seasoned warriors.
Damien gasped. Loud. Too loud.
Holt's head whipped around. His eyes flicked to Damien in alarm, then up to the tree.
Empty. Rustling leaves where it had stood still swaying from something that had slipped away too fast for the eye to follow.
"Are you hurt?" Holt asked.
"I'm sorry… I didn't know, I didn't mean to, Dad..." Damien mumbled.
"It's okay, lad."
Mirya's voice cracked, then doubled, weaving an ancient spell with trembling hands. A blue circle of shifting runes shimmered into being around them before vanishing into the ground. Her knees buckled.
"I've set up a barrier," she panted. "Hold on, Holt. We're not walking away from this"
"It'll be fine. Back in our days ----
BOOM.
A hand as thick as a tree trunk slammed into the barrier, sending ripples through the air. The monster loomed over them, tilting its head in animal curiosity.
Holt's jaw tightened. "It's fast."
the monster screeched, its roar piercing, it swung its arms again, slamming against the barrier as it cracked.
"HOLT! IT'S NOT GONNA HOLD ARE YOU READY ?"
Holt cracks his neck as he declares "Let's end this, Mirya."
Mirya began another chant, this time with only her voice. Holt suddenly blazed with blue light, he jumped around, preparing for battle.
"Watch well, boy," Holt called. "See how your old man fights."
Damien looked up at his parents magic, light, strength-all swirling around them. His eyes shimmered with admiration. He opened his mouth to say something, but the monster's roar and crashing barriers stole the moment.
Holt dashed forward, absurdly fast, his boots barely touching the mud before launching off again. He met the monster's stone flesh with a deafening crack, the impact rattling the air. The monster's jagged arm smashed into Holt's ribs, sending a crack of pain through his side. Blood blossomed across his shirt, but Mirya's chant flared like blue wildfire, runes stitching the wound shut before it could slow him down. Sparks and mud flew with every exchange, each strike driving the beast back. Blow by blow, Holt forced it down, the sheer force of his assault making the creature falter. For a moment, it looked like the tide was turning.
Then, ignoring Holt, it lunged toward Mirya.
Holt was just a step too slow, Mirya too tired to move. The situation was grim.
Without thinking, Damien charged in a heavy right straight packed with every ounce of his weight. His punch snapped the monster's head back, staggering it.
Mirya's eyes widened in shock. Damien felt a surge of pride.
But before he could savour the moment, the monster struck back hard, sending him flying. He flew, air knocked from his lungs, and slammed into the dirt with a bone-jarring thud.
"DAMIEEENNNNN…"
The world bled away. Mud and blood. Holt's ragged breathing. Mirya's scream, swallowed by the monster's roar. The hot spray of something wet across his cheek.
The cawing of crows pierced the chaos as Damien lay on the cold ground, motionless. Footsteps heavy, desperate, rushing past.
Then nothing.
A breath.
A heartbeat.
Damien Lucius, now fourteen, hands calloused, fingers wrapped around a wooden sword, woke staring up at a pale morning sky. The training yard smelled of dust and sweat.
"That night…" he whispered.
He laid on the ground a beat too long before a voice cut in.
"How long you planning on lying there, kid?"
Damien sat up, groaning. "You said it was only a spar!"
"Quit your whining, runt. I didn't hit you that hard."
"Yeah? Knocked me flat like a damn tree" Damien shot back.
"Pfft."
Damien looked up, his body ached from being knocked out, but his mind, still tangled in the nightmare of that cursed night. He squinted up at his trainer, standing over him like a rusted sword no one dared throw away, scars crisscrossing his skin like a roadmap of battles barely survived.
This was Gelt, a B-Rank adventurer of the Early Moon Guild on the southern edge of the village, one of the ragtag, semi-official groups that had sprung up after the early Blood Moon, when the fort's inaction had driven locals to take matters into their own hands.
"You gonna lie on your ass all day, or you gonna learn something?" Gelt barked.
"Not gonna give you another cheap shot like that," Damien shot back, pushing himself up. At five-eight, built heavy with his father's muscle, he was too damn big for fourteen, probably the reason Gelt agreed to train him.
As he took his stance, Gelt mirrored him. "Keep your eyes open this time, kid."
Feet planted wide, hands gripping the wooden sword's handle, shoulders squared, Damien was ready. Gelt charged forward, swinging a quick slash aimed low. Damien parried just in time, then countered with a fierce slash of his own. Gelt leaned back with casual ease, dodging, then lunged with a thrust while Damien was still mid-swing. Panic flared, Damien loosened his grip, swatting the wooden sword with his bare hand. The wooden blade snapped in two.
Gelt stepped back, eyes wide. "What the fuck, kid?"
Damien, panting, shot back, "How'd you like that, old man?"
"That was stupid," Gelt snapped, voice low but firm. "You know you can't do that with a real steel blade. Never do that again."
Damien pouted, teasing, "You're just mad I beat you."
Gelt chuckled, grabbing another wooden sword. "Don't let that freakish strength get to your head, kid."
Both took their stances, the air thick with tension, weight shifting like a storm ready to break.
Then a crow cawed.
Damien's heart skips a beat, stone skin, blood stains, his father covered in blood, the world spinning as he lies on the forest floor, a crow cawed as it lands down beside him in a pool of his blood.
The crow's call, a cruel reminder.
His knees buckled. Cold sweat slicked his face.
Gelt paused mid-dash, eyes narrowing, sensing what hit Damien.
"You alright?"
Damien, panting hard, forced out, "I'm fine. Let's keep going."
"Breathe, kid. That's enough for today."
"No, I said I'm fine."
"Shut up. Don't push yourself."
Before Damien could get a word in, Gelt was already walking away. "Take tomorrow off, too. I've got a quest."
Damien stayed rooted to the ground a moment longer, surrounded by whispering trees as the evening breeze slid past. Shadows from the tree line crept toward him, swallowing the last light as the sun prepared to rest. The incessant cawing of crows grated against his nerves. He stood there, disgusted by his own weakness.
Finally, Damien set out for home, passing through the village that still stood strong despite everything. Whispers drifted between the weathered homes "The Blood Moon didn't arrive last year. What in the world is happening?". The last Blood Moon, the early one, had come six years ago. The cursed event, said to strike every five years, had skipped a year, leaving the villagers restless and uncertain.
That mystery hung heavy over every conversation. Yet still, the village endured, tilling fields, herding sheep, polishing axes. What else could they do?
He passed Brog's house on his way home, Brog, the gentle giant who'd fought beside him against bullies, hadn't made it through the last Blood Moon. The memory weighed heavy as Damien kept his head low, the village fading behind him.
When he finally reached home, the familiar creak of the old wooden door sounded like a tired sigh in the quiet evening. Holt sat at the table, methodically polishing an ornate dagger, one eye now hidden behind a well-worn patch, a souvenir from battles past.
"Finally back, aye, son? How was training?" Holt's voice was rough but welcoming, like a familiar song.
Damien grinned, pride pushing past the ache in his muscles. "Got knocked down a few times… but I broke his sword."
Holt laughed, a deep sound that bounced off the walls. "Really? I'd pay to see Gelt's face when that happened."
From the kitchen, Mirya appeared, wiping her hands on a rag. A long scar now ran from her collarbone up to the corner of her mouth, a silent testament to battles survived.
"I doubt you'd see much with that one good eye of yours," she said, shooting Holt a sly look.
"Ooh, low blow," Damien grinned,
"but fair," Holt said with a sigh.
Damien chuckled, shaking his head. Still, every time he caught sight of those scars and that patch, he felt the unspoken weight beneath the laughter, a quiet reminder that their family had danced on the edge of death and kept moving forward, battle-worn but unbroken. A reminder of his own weakness branded onto the people he loved the most.
Holt leaned back in his chair, the dagger catching the lamplight. Damien broke the silence. "You're not in the forge as much these days, Dad."
His father's mouth curled into a proud smile. "Some noble from the fort city commissioned this at an absurd price. Even sent the materials along. Delivery's tomorrow, so I'm taking it easy for once." He tilted the blade so the dragon carvings caught the light, the ruby in its pommel glowing like a captured ember.
"Ain't she a beauty?" Holt asked, smug.
Mirya stepped up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I hope you're talking about me."
Holt glanced back at her, lips curling into that familiar lopsided grin. "Well, you're not adorned with rubies," he teased, "but you've got your charms."
Damien rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. For a moment, the three of them stood there in that easy stillness, the smell of oil and steel wrapping around them like an old, familiar blanket.
Holt eventually straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. "Alright, I'll give this beauty one last polish, then pack her up for the delivery."
He was about to head back into the forge when Damien spoke up. "Gelt's got a quest tomorrow, so he won't be able to train me."
Mirya didn't miss a beat. "Does that mean you'll be free? I've been meaning to send someone to Brook's for a few errands."
Damien shook his head quickly. "No. I want to go with Gelt. Join him on the quest."
That earned him a sharp look from Holt, and a sigh from Mirya.
"You're not ready," Holt said flatly.
"You're still too young," Mirya added, softer but no less firm.
Damien's jaw tightened. "I'm not a kid anymore. I can help."
"You can help," Holt cut in, "by not getting yourself killed."
The words hit harder than they were meant to, a reminder wrapped in fear. Damien looked away, shoulders tense, but the fight had gone out of his voice.
"Fine," he muttered.
The room felt quieter after that. Holt went back to the forge, Mirya busied herself with the hearth, and Damien slipped away.
That night, he lay restless in his bed. Sleep wouldn't come.
Through the window, a crow perched on the crooked branch of the old oak. Its head tilted slightly, one glassy, almost lifeless eye fixed on him, unblinking. The moonlight silvered its feathers, throwing jagged shadows that crawled across his walls like reaching hands.
His mind kept circling the same thought, sharpening it into something reckless. By the time the crow gave a slow, throaty caw, the decision had already settled in his chest like a stone.
If they wouldn't let him go with Gelt... then he'd just have to find a way to go anyway.
The next morning, Damien woke to the kind of sunlight that told him he'd slept in. His room was warm and still, the shadows short and sharp. By the time he stumbled out, rubbing his eyes, the home was already alive with movement.
Holt was in the main room, laying out a worn leather satchel and inspecting the dagger one last time. It gleamed in the sun, ornate carvings twisting around the hilt, a ruby catching the light like a droplet of blood.
"Up at last," Mirya snapped from the doorway, arms crossed. "Do you plan to sleep through the whole year, or just today?"
Damien mumbled something halfway between an apology and a yawn.
"Let him be," Holt said without looking up. "Sleeping in once in a while won't kill him."
Damien moved toward Holt, rubbing his eyes, while Holt fastened the dagger into the satchel. "Are you leaving, Father ?" Damien asked, trying to sound casual.
Holt didn't answer immediately. "Yeah," he said at last, voice low, almost reverent. "This dagger took me weeks. The payment… it's enough to buy materials for the forge for months, to keep this family fed and clothed. I won't pass this up."
Mirya wiped her hands on her apron, leaning against the doorway, her voice soft but edged with concern. "It's been a while since you travelled. Are you sure the roads are safe now?"
Holt grinned, shrugging. "It'll be fine. I'll be riding with the merchant caravans. The father of the boy Damien… had that little quarrel with, he's heading that way too. They'll keep an eye out."
Damien glanced toward the road, imagining the long, dusty trail to the city, and the merchant's son who he had not talked to since their last encounter.
When he was gone, the house seemed quieter, though the air between them still hummed faintly from the scolding. Mirya busied herself at the table, sorting through small bundles of cloth. Damien plopped by the door-frame.
"I forgot to ask… when will Father be back?" he asked.
"Fort Cloudy Day is about two or three days' travel," Mirya replied without looking up. "So he should be back in about a week."
Damien hummed, acknowledging it. "You said you had errands for me?"
"Yes, how are Will and Brook? have you been playing with them these days?" Mirya asked
"I'm not a kid, Mom, I don't 'play'!," Damien grumbled, "Will is helping his father on the fields, he works harder than most grown men."
"You could learn a thing or two from him then," Mirya teased. "And what about Brook?"
"With her parents. The weavers. She says she'll take over the shop when she's older." Damien said, a touch impatient, not seeing the need for small talk.
"Smart girl. Knows where she's going." Mirya said as she lifted a wrapped bundle from the table and pressed it into Damien's hands. The cloth smelled faintly of the forge soot, oil, and iron.
"Your father finished this for her family. Take it to her," she said.
Damien hefted the bundle, curiosity tugging at him.
"What is it?"
"Weaving tools," Mirya said, already turning back to her work. "Don't dawdle. And for once, try not to get distracted on the way."
As Damien left the house, he walked past his father's forge, a small, weathered shed set a little ways from the house. The smell of coal and iron lingered even from outside, and as he glanced at the darkened doorway, the idea he had spent the night shaping finally solidified.
The wrapped bundle of weaving tools clutched in one hand. His boots crunched against the village path, the morning sun catching the edge of the sword strapped at his hip. He had taken one of his father's swords. Not to steal, at least, not exactly, but enough to arm himself. After delivering the tools to Brook, he would find a way to join Gelt on the quest, without telling his mother. The thought made his chest tighten with a mix of excitement and guilt.
The village path wound past fields and thatched homes, alive with the low murmur of people at work. The sword at his hip felt heavier than the bundle in his hand, a constant, thrilling reminder of what he planned.
As passed Will's farm on his way to Brook's, he spotted the boy standing lazily in the middle of the field, skinny and pale, a mop of blond hair glowing in the sunlight. Will's hands rested on his hips as he surveyed the cattle, more absent-minded than focused.
Will glanced up when he noticed Damien and the sword at his hip, curiosity flickering across his face.
"Damien," Will called softly, trying to keep his tone casual. "That… sword, is that yours?"
Damien grinned faintly. "Yeah. Just helping out a friend." Though his mind raced faster than he could speak. He had no intention of telling Will the real reason yet.
Will said, squinting at the blade. "That's one of your father's, isn't it? What are you doing with it?"
"Uhhhh…" Damien hesitated, eyes dropping to Will's earnest gaze. He couldn't bring himself to lie. With a long sigh, he muttered, "Ugh… wait. I'm coming down there."
He slid down the small hill to Will's patch of land, brushing dust off his clothes as he approached. Will shifted nervously, unsure what to expect.
"Come here," Damien said. They settled beneath the shade of a nearby tree, the low murmur of cows and the jingling of their collars filling the air.
Damien leaned in, lowering his voice. "Here's the plan…" And he spun the tale, a grand, reckless scheme that made use of the sword at his hip, his thoughts racing with excitement.
"What?!" Will gasped, eyes wide. The absurdity of it left him half in awe, half in disbelief.
Damien's lips curved into a satisfied grin. "Yep. Exactly that."
"No way you're planning to -- Will started, then Damien shot him a quick look.
"Shh! Keep it down!"
After a brief pause to process Damien's plan, Will's eyes lit up, and to Damien's shock he stammered, "I… I wa-want to go as well!"
Damien blinked, incredulous. "What are you talking about, Will? It's an adventurer's quest! It'll be dangerous!"
Will straightened, trying to sound braver than he felt. "Th-then… you shouldn't be going either! And… I'm older than you, Damien."
"No way," Damien said firmly, shaking his head.
Will's voice wavered, a hint of guilt threading through it. "If… if you won't take me, I'll tell your mother."
Damien blinked, caught between offense and realization. Slowly, he softened, reading the resolve in Will's eyes. "Are you sure about this, Will?"
"Yes," Will said, swallowing hard. "I… I don't want to spend my life herding cattle."
With a nod, Damien agreed.
Will handed off the remaining chores to little Thomas, his younger brother, who scurried off to tend the cattle with a curious glance back at the two older boys. Damien and Will set out together, the bundle of weaving tools in Damien's hand and the sword still strapped to his hip. Their plan was simple or so they thought, deliver the tools to Brook, then find Gelt at the Early Moon Guild.
The path twisted through the village, dust rising under their boots, the sun climbing higher. When they finally reached Brook's house, the sound of looms and laughter spilled out from the small workshop. Brook herself was a whirlwind, hair tied messily, a mischievous grin perpetually on her face.
"Finally!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "What took you so long?"
Damien handed over the weaving tools. "Here, your parents asked us to deliver these."
Brook's eyes lit up as she accepted the bundle. "Thanks! You two are lifesavers." She glanced at Will, who shrugged, trying to look nonchalant but failing.
Brook darted around, poking Will and laughing at his awkward attempts to avoid eye contact. "Don't just stand there like a stick!" she teased, jabbing his shoulder.
"I-I'm fine," Will stammered, cheeks red.
"Sure you are," Brook grinned, tapping his forehead. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"
Damien snorted, leaning against the doorway. Brook shot him a mock glare. "Don't smirk, Damien! This is my spotlight!"
Will groaned, caught between embarrassment and amusement, while Brook laughed, clearly enjoying every second of it.
As they turned to leave, Brook's gaze caught the glint of metal at Damien's hip. Her brow furrowed. "Wait. what's that?" she asked, stepping in front of them.
Damien's stomach tightened. "Uh… it's just a sword," he muttered, hoping to sound casual.
Brook tilted her head, her sharp gaze not letting him off so easily. "Just a sword? That one looks… familiar. Where did you get it?"
Damien hesitated, a tight knot forming in his chest. He tried to lie, but Will, unable to hide the truth, gave a guilty glance.
"Damien… you're planning something, does it have to do with Gelt's quest toady?" Brook said, her grin sharpening.
With a shocked expression Damien exclaimed "How do you know about that!"
"A girl's got to know things," Brook says with a smug face "Also, he buys his fabric here."
Damien's face paled. "Please, don't tell anyone. Not yet. I'll… we'll be careful, I promise."
Brook studied them both, her eyes gleaming with amusement and curiosity. Then, suddenly, she smiled and crossed her arms. "Fine. I won't say a word… but only on one condition."
Both boys leaned in, caught by the sudden seriousness in her tone.
"You owe me a favour. Something I ask for, and you can't refuse," she said.
Damien and Will exchanged a glance. Internally, they both acknowledged what they'd been warned about Brook's nature, the way she could twist a situation to her advantage, always three steps ahead. They nodded, almost in sync, knowing this was the price of her silence.
"Deal," Damien said quietly.
"Deal," Will echoed, still a bit pale but firm.
Brook's grin returned, all teasing and mischief. "Good. Now off you go. I expect stories when you come back."
The boys walked on, the weight of their secret and the sword at Damien's hip pressing on them, the first true step of their reckless plan now fully in motion.
The boys arrived at the Early Moon Guild just as the sun leaned over the village, revealing the crooked, timber-framed building. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and something sharper, steel and wood polished and polished again. Outside, adventurers moved like ants in a hive: carrying packs, shouting orders, testing swords against shields, and occasionally breaking into raucous laughter. A few shady-looking figures lounged near the walls, trading knives and whispering in hushed tones. This wasn't some noble hall, it was a ramshackle gathering of misfits, a place where promises were as fleeting as the wind.
Damien's heart thudded, sword at his hip, as they stepped over puddles of mud and ash. Gelt emerged from the chaos, a tall figure wearing dented armour underneath a cloak, and hands resting on the hilt of a worn long-sword. His eyes narrowed when he saw Damien.
"Damien! What are you doing here?" Gelt barked, voice cutting through the din.
"I'm going to join you," Damien said, firm, though his chest thumped against his ribs.
"No way, your father will kill me," Gelt muttered, running a hand through his unkempt hair.
"It's fine. See this sword? My father gave it to me to go and help you," Damien said, lifting the blade. Sunlight caught the ruby in its hilt, glinting like a captured ember.
Gelt squinted, studying it. "Hmm… that is your father's sword. Alright, you can come along. But who's the bag of bones next to you?"
"This is Will," Damien said, nodding toward his friend. "He's coming too."
Gelt rubbed his face, exhaling through his nose. "Can he fight?"
"Uhh… for sure! He's… an archer," Damien said quickly, hands twitching nervously. Will nodded nervously in agreement.
A dwarf with a scar across one eye snorted and muttered, "Ha! We'll see about that." Others in the guild glanced their way, curiosity flickering in the shadows of their hoods. Some smirked, others whispered bets on whether these two village kids would survive a single day outside.
Gelt sighed, then gave a hand signal to the guild. "Ah, fine. These two runts will be joining us. Someone give the blond one a bow."
Will and Damien exchanged wide-eyed glances. Nerves twisted with adrenaline, and for a second they felt like intruders in a world far bigger than any village field.
Gelt turned to his makeshift team: a shady mage muttering to himself, a swordsman who looked like he'd already had one foot in the grave, a dwarf wielding a war axe bigger than he was, and two scrawny village kids. His grin spread wide, eyes glinting with amusement and anticipation.
"Let's go hunting, boys,"