Echoes of the Crimson Moon

 Echoes of the Crimson Moon

In the small, mist-shrouded town of Velaris, nestled deep within an ancient forest, an eerie phenomenon occurred once every hundred years. On a night when the moon turned blood-red, the air would fill with whispers, faint yet chilling, as if the forest itself were telling a story. The locals called it the Crimson Moon and regarded it with equal parts awe and fear. For on that night, the boundaries between the living and the dead grew thin, and long-buried secrets clawed their way to the surface.

Echoes of the Crimson Moon.

Ilyra Selwyn, a historian and archivist from the capital, arrived in Velaris just days before the fabled event. A skeptic by nature, she had spent her career debunking myths and unraveling folklore. The Crimson Moon fascinated her not because she believed in spirits, but because of the sheer consistency of the legends. For centuries, records had described the whispers, strange apparitions, and the unshakable sense that the town was being watched.

Ilyra set up camp in an abandoned chapel on the edge of the forest, armed with journals, audio equipment, and her sharp wit. The townsfolk avoided her, muttering that outsiders had no business meddling with the Crimson Moon. Only one person dared approach her: Ronan Kael, a woodsman with a weathered face and piercing green eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he warned, his voice low. “The forest doesn’t take kindly to intruders on that night.”

Ilyra brushed him off. “The forest is trees and dirt. Whatever happens under this so-called Crimson Moon has an explanation, and I intend to find it.”

Ronan shook his head. “It’s not the forest you should fear. It’s what the moon reveals.”

The night of the Crimson Moon arrived swiftly. The sky was an unnatural shade of black, and the air felt heavy, as though the world itself was holding its breath. When the moon crested the horizon, its crimson glow bathed Velaris in an otherworldly light. Ilyra stood at the edge of the forest, her recording equipment ready, her journal open.

At first, the whispers were faint, like wind rustling through the leaves. But as the moon climbed higher, the voices grew louder, more distinct. They weren’t random murmurs; they were words, fragments of sentences spoken in tones of anguish, regret, and anger.

Ilyra’s pen raced across the page. “Amazing,” she murmured. “Localized auditory hallucinations triggered by the moonlight. Or perhaps seismic activity creating infrasonic frequencies—”

A sudden snap of a twig silenced her musings. She turned, heart pounding, to find Ronan standing behind her.

“You hear them, don’t you?” he asked grimly.

“I hear something,” Ilyra admitted. “But it’s nothing more than an atmospheric phenomenon.”

Ronan stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “You’re wrong. The voices are real. They belong to the forgotten.”

Ronan led Ilyra deeper into the forest, despite her protests. The whispers grew louder, weaving together into a haunting symphony. Shadows danced among the trees, moving in ways the light of the moon shouldn’t have allowed. Ilyra’s skepticism wavered as her surroundings seemed to twist and blur, as though the forest itself were alive.

Finally, they reached a clearing dominated by a massive, gnarled oak tree. Its roots clawed the ground like fingers, and its trunk bore deep scars, as if it had been struck by lightning countless times. At the base of the tree lay a stone altar, cracked and weathered with age.

“This is where it began,” Ronan said.

“Where what began?” Ilyra demanded, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound composed.

“The blood pact,” he replied. “The founders of Velaris built this town on stolen land. The forest wasn’t just a place to them; it was alive, sacred. They made a deal with the spirit of the woods, a guardian they called Erythraea, to ensure their prosperity. But they broke the pact. They took too much, and the forest cursed them.”

“What does that have to do with the whispers?” Ilyra asked, though she already feared the answer.

“The Crimson Moon is Erythraea’s reminder,” Ronan said. “A chance for the forgotten—those who died because of the broken pact—to speak.”

Before Ilyra could respond, the whispers swelled into a deafening roar. Shadows coalesced into forms—vague, humanoid figures with hollow eyes and translucent bodies. One stepped forward, its presence cold and suffocating.

“You carry their blood,” it said, its voice echoing like the rustle of dead leaves.

Ronan stiffened. “I carry the truth. And I’m here to end this.”

The figure turned its hollow gaze to Ilyra. “And you? Why do you trespass?”

“I—I’m here to understand,” she stammered. “To learn the truth.”

The figure tilted its head. “Then listen.”

Images flooded Ilyra’s mind: the settlers of Velaris felling trees, poisoning rivers, and desecrating sacred groves. She saw Erythraea—a towering, ethereal being of bark and flame—pleading with the settlers to honor their pact. And she saw their betrayal, the guardian bound in chains of iron and fire, buried beneath the altar.

When the vision ended, Ilyra collapsed to her knees, gasping for air. “She’s still there,” she whispered. “Erythraea is still trapped.”

“Yes,” Ronan said. “And the only way to break the curse is to set her free.”

The whispers grew frantic, warning and pleading in equal measure. The shadows pressed closer as Ronan approached the altar, drawing a blade etched with ancient runes.

“Wait!” Ilyra cried. “What happens if she’s freed? Will she forgive us?”

Ronan didn’t answer. With a swift motion, he plunged the blade into the altar. The ground trembled, and the gnarled oak split down the middle, releasing a surge of blinding crimson light.

From the light emerged Erythraea, her form both terrifying and beautiful. She towered over them, her voice a low, resonant hum. “You have broken the chains,” she said. “But your debt remains.”

The shadows screamed and dissolved into the earth, their whispers silenced. Erythraea turned her gaze to Ronan. “Your bloodline holds the weight of this crime. Are you willing to pay the price?”

Ronan nodded without hesitation. “Take me.”

“No!” Ilyra shouted. “There has to be another way!”

Erythraea regarded her for a moment, then spoke. “The price is not negotiable. But know this, mortal: you have seen the truth. Carry it with you, and let it guide your kind.”

With that, Erythraea extended a hand toward Ronan. He stepped forward, meeting her touch with unwavering resolve. His body dissolved into light, merging with the guardian. The forest grew still, and the crimson glow faded, leaving only the pale silver of the moon.

Ilyra returned to Velaris a changed woman. She chronicled the events of that night, ensuring the truth of the Crimson Moon would never be forgotten. The town, now free of the curse, began to heal, its people learning to live in harmony with the forest.

But on quiet nights, when the wind whispered through the trees, Ilyra could still hear echoes of the Crimson Moon—a reminder of the price paid to restore balance, and the man who had given everything to make it so.