BLOOD CRESCENT
FAYE
I was aware of the quiet before I even drifted fully asleep. The house was still–or at least, still in the parts
that mattered. I had tried to distract myself earlier, tried to force my mind onto normal things–the training,
the wolves, the way Ethan had been startled–but as soon as my head hit the pillow, everything seeped
back in.
And then I heard it.
At first, I thought it was the wind, or maybe the creak of the old timber in the house settling. But the sound
was too deliberate, too rhythmic. Low, chanting words, strung together in a way that made my chest
tighten. My eyelids flickered, heavy and uncooperative.
The voice was ancient, alien. I didn’t understand the words–not a syllable of them–but I felt their weight pressing in through the dark corners of my room. It was both distant and impossibly close, as if it had
been whispered into my ears from everywhere at once.
I saw myself sitting up, the sheets tangling around me. “Hello?” My own voice sounded fragile, swallowed immediately by the room. No answer came–only the low murmur that made the hairs on my arms rise.
My pulse thumped sharply, irregularly, echoing in my ears. My body moved before my mind could protest- I slid out of bed barefoot, toes pressing against the cold wood floor, and followed the sound instinctively.
I don’t remember thinking. I just walked. Step after step, guided by that persistent voice, the chant threading through my mind, tugging me forward. Each movement felt slow and deliberate, though my legs carried me smoothly, almost mechanically, as if I were already part of the words. My breathing became shallow, my chest tight–but still I walked, steady.
The corridor stretched impossibly, longer than it should have been. The shadows shifted along the walls, flickering as if the darkness itself were alive, leaning closer, watching. My hands twitched at my sides–not in fear exactly, but in response to the sensation running along my skin… a subtle heat that burned at the base of my neck, climbed to my shoulders, and settled in my chest.
At the end of the hall, the floor changed. Stone, cold and uneven beneath my feet, replaced the polished wood I had walked on. The chanting grew louder, stronger, almost insistent. I didn’t hesitate. I kept walking toward it, drawn to the rhythm, to the vibration beneath the words, like a pulse in my own veins.
And then I saw it.
An altar, stark and gray, illuminated by a pale, flickering light that seemed to originate from nowhere. It was carved with symbols that writhed faintly as my gaze fell on them, black lines twisting into shapes | couldn’t name. The voice came from a figure standing behind the altar, cloaked in shadows, face hidden,
hands moving in time with the chant. I couldn’t see her features, but I could feel her focus, her intent,
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reaching for me like a cold hand.
I walked forward without stopping, my body moving of its own volition, feet carrying me closer with that
impossible calm. It felt almost like I was part of something larger, caught in the current of a river I hadn’t
realized was there.
I reached the altar. My hands were steady as I lowered myself onto the stone. It was cold, biting against
my legs and back, but I didn’t care. The chanting swelled, reverberating through my chest, filling me with a tension I couldn’t name. The figure behind the altar raised her hands slowly. My wrists were pinned, cold
stone against my skin. And then, sharp, precise–the cutting began.
Pain flared, hot and electric, searing along my veins, but it was slow, deliberate, methodical. I felt my life draining away in a trickle, warm and sticky along the stone beneath me. My breath came in short, shallow gasps, but I didn’t resist. There was no fight in me–only the overwhelming sense of inevitability.
I saw the blood spreading, dark and vivid against the pale stone, and I understood, at some level, that this was final. That it was meant to be. That whatever force had called me here had its purpose, and I was just
the instrument, the necessary conduit.
The chanting reached its peak–a pressure that seemed to squeeze the air from my lungs–and I felt my vision blur at the edges, the shadows growing longer, darker, closer. I wanted to scream, to move, to do something, anything–but my body refused. My mind rattled against the edges of comprehension, trying to tell me this wasn’t real, that this was impossible, that I had to wake up.
And then I did.
My eyes snapped open. The darkness of my room pressed against me–still, silent, familiar. The sheets were tangled around my legs, damp with sweat, clinging. My heart pounded, hammering against my ribs as if it would break through my chest.
I could hear faint sounds outside the packhouse. I wasn’t on any altar.
I was trembling, curled tight against the sheets, trying to pull myself together. My hands shook as I
pressed them against my face, willing the memory away, hoping it was just a dream.
But the ache in my wrists, the lingering weight in my chest, the sense of inevitability… it was real enough to
leave me hollowed, raw.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
