Queen Seraphine awoke drenched in sweat and something darker—something slick and warm pooling beneath her. Her eyes fluttered open to the dim glow of moonlight filtering through stained-glass windows shaped like weeping angels. Outside, the wind howled like a mourning beast.
She sat up slowly, her belly round and heavy despite only being three weeks pregnant. That alone should have been impossible—but nothing about this child was natural.
A low hum filled her ears, rhythmic like a heartbeat, but deeper. Older.
Seraphine pressed a hand to her abdomen, feeling the thrum vibrate through her bones. A shiver crawled up her spine. She wasn't alone.
"Who's there?" she whispered into the darkness.
No answer came—not in words. But the sensation of being watched settled over her like a funeral shroud.
She rose from the bed, her nightgown soaked in crimson, though no wound marred her body. She stepped barefoot across cold marble tiles toward the balcony where the blood-red moon loomed above the obsidian towers of Virelle.
It was the Blood Moon—the first of the Triad Moons, marking the beginning of the prophesied Devouring Cycle.
Seraphine had read the ancient texts as a girl, curled in the candlelit corners of the royal archives. She'd dismissed them then as myths meant to frighten children. But now, standing beneath its malevolent glow, she remembered every word:
"When the sky bleeds red and the womb turns black,
The Devouring Child shall rise from the mother's back.
Not born to live, but born to feast,
She will gnaw until her mother ceases."
Her breath hitched. Was it possible?
The voice returned then—not from outside, but from within.
"Mother…"
Seraphine gasped, clutching her stomach. The voice was soft, singsong, almost sweet. But there was something else beneath it—something sharp, like teeth wrapped in velvet.
"Who are you?" she asked aloud, trembling.
"I am your daughter," the voice replied. "And I am not ready yet."
Seraphine staggered backward, her legs giving out beneath her. She collapsed onto the floor, her vision swimming. Blood pooled around her again, black and thick like oil, spreading across the marble like ink spilled on parchment.
She screamed, but no sound came out.
Then came the laughter—tiny, high-pitched, echoing from inside her chest.
"Shhh… don't cry, Mother. You wanted me, didn't you?"
Tears blurred her vision. She clawed at her gown, desperate to see, to understand, to stop whatever was happening to her body. Her reflection in the polished surface of a silver mirror showed none of the pain twisting inside her. She looked untouched. Whole.
But she knew better.
She crawled to the edge of the bed and pulled the bell rope hanging beside it. Moments later, a knock sounded at the door.
"Your Majesty?" called a voice—her personal nurse, Elira.
Seraphine could barely speak. "Come in."
Elira entered, pale-faced and anxious. When she saw the blood, her lips parted in shock.
"My queen, what happened? Are you hurt?"
Seraphine tried to speak, but her throat felt sealed shut. She pointed to her stomach.
Elira knelt beside her, placing a gentle hand on her belly. Then she flinched.
"What is it?" Seraphine managed to whisper.
Elira's face paled further. "There's… movement. But—it's too early. And it feels wrong."
Seraphine nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "She spoke to me."
Elira hesitated. "Who did?"
"The child."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, Elira stood. "I'll fetch Lady Nyxara. If anyone can help, it's her."
"No," Seraphine said, suddenly certain. "Not yet. First, I need to know what I've done."
Elira bowed and left, leaving Seraphine alone once more beneath the blood moon.
The voice returned, softer now, almost tender.
"You gave me life, Mother. Now let me grow."
Seraphine closed her eyes, whispering to herself, "What have I brought into the world?"
Outside, the wind carried the distant wail of a newborn—a sound that should not have existed at this hour, nor anywhere near the palace.
But it was not a cry of joy.
It was a cry of hunger.