Crown of the Blood moon

I woke up scared ….. As I knew that night the Blood Moon rose, the palace smelled of iron and ash.

I felt it before the bells rang.

Before the torches were lit along the obsidian walls. Before the priests began their chants and the nobles gathered in velvet and gold, pretending this ritual did not terrify them.

Something ancient stirred beneath my skin.

I stood in the servants’ corridor, fingers clenched around a silver basin, my breath shallow as the stone floor vibrated faintly beneath my bare feet. The Crown was waking. Everyone in Virellion knew the signs—the cold that crawled into the bones, the taste of metal on the tongue, the way the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

The Blood Moon had risen for the seventh time.

“Don’t stop,” Mistress Elayne hissed as she passed me, her sharp eyes flicking toward the arched windows at the end of the hall. A red glow bled through the glass, staining the marble floor like spilled wine. “The Choosing waits for no one.”

The Choosing.

That was what they called it, as if the Crown were gentle. As if it did not burn the unworthy alive.

I lowered my gaze and followed the other servants toward the Great Hall, my heart pounding harder with each step. Servants were not meant to witness the ritual—not directly—but tonight the palace was short-staffed. Too many had fled at sunset, claiming illness or sudden grief. Cowards, I thought dimly, even as fear twisted my stomach.

I had nowhere else to go.

The Great Hall loomed ahead, its towering columns carved with the faces of kings long dead. Their stone eyes watched us as we moved, silent and small, along the edges of power. At the center of the hall stood the altar—a slab of black stone veined with crimson runes that pulsed faintly, like a living heart.

Above it, the Crown floated.

It was not gold, as the songs claimed.

It was bone and shadow, shaped into jagged arcs that seemed to shift when no one was looking. Dark metal veins ran through it, glowing faintly red, as though something inside was struggling to break free.

The Crown of Virellion.

The Blood Moon’s gift. And its curse.

Royal heirs stood in a single line before the altar—princes and distant cousins dressed in ceremonial white, their faces pale beneath the crimson light pouring through the open dome above. Beyond them, nobles filled the hall, whispering prayers to gods who had long since turned their backs on this kingdom.

And on the throne, carved from the same black stone as the altar, sat the king.

King Aurelian did not move.

He never did during the Choosing.

His dark cloak spilled around him like a pool of night, his crownless head tilted slightly forward, shadow hiding his eyes. They said the Blood Moon had already taken pieces of his soul—that each rise left him colder, darker, less human.

I had seen him only once before, from a distance.

That was enough.

A bell tolled.

The first heir stepped forward.

He placed his palm beneath the floating Crown, his jaw set in practiced confidence. The priests chanted louder, the runes on the altar flaring bright—

—and then the Crown descended.

It touched his skin.

He screamed.

Fire erupted, red and violent, consuming him in seconds. When the flames vanished, nothing remained but ash scattered across the altar.

A collective gasp tore through the hall.

One by one, the heirs stepped forward. One by one, the Crown rejected them.

Some were burned. Others were flung backward like broken dolls, their bodies crumpling to the floor, breath stolen from their lungs. Each rejection made the air heavier, the whispers more frantic.

This had never happened before.

I clutched the basin tighter, my fingers numb. The Crown was angry.

I felt it like a pressure behind my eyes, a pull deep in my chest. With every rejection, the sensation grew stronger, hotter, as if something inside me was responding….answering a call I did not understand.

“No…” I whispered, though no one was listening.

The final heir collapsed at the altar, unconscious but alive. Silence swallowed the Great Hall.

The priests exchanged terrified glances.

“The Crown refuses royal blood,” one of them murmured.

A shockwave rippled through the crowd.

The king finally stirred. Slowly, he rose from his throne.

When he stepped forward, the red light caught his face and I understood why they feared him. His eyes were dark, endless, as if the night itself had taken residence behind them. Power rolled off him in waves, cold and suffocating.

“The prophecy,” he said, his voice low, carrying easily through the hall. “Read it.”

A priest’s hands trembled as he unrolled the ancient scroll.

“When the Blood Moon rises for the seventh time,” the priest recited, “the Crown shall reject the unworthy. Only the blood unclaimed by throne or name shall bind it.”

Unclaimed by throne or name. The words struck me like a blade. The Crown moved. Not toward the altar but toward the king.

It turned and began to descend slowly, deliberately toward the edge of the Great Hall.

Toward the servants.…. Toward me.

My breath caught as the air burned hot against my skin. The basin slipped from my hands, crashing to the floor, water spilling across the stone like a shattered omen.

“No,” someone shouted.

The Crown stopped inches from my face. I could feel it now its hunger, its certainty.

The runes along the altar flared violently.

And the king’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and absolute.

“Bring her to me.”

The Crown dropped.

It hovered above my head.

And then the Blood Moon screamed.…….