The Thornwell Manor had grown quieter since the night of the red moon.
Too quiet.
No songs rose from the servants' quarters. No laughter wandered the halls. Even the great clock in the east wing seemed to tick slower, as if time itself feared to pass within those walls.
It had been five months since Lady Eleanor Thornwell gave her final breath to bring forth her son. Five months since the moon had bled across the sky and the forest had howled as though mourning creation itself.
The villagers said the night had changed the air—that Gravenmoor now slept beneath a curse that breathed.
And in the highest room of the manor, beneath layers of lace and silence, the curse took the shape of a baby.
---
Lucien Thornwell, heir of blood and omen, lay in a cradle carved of silver and sorrow. Angels adorned its edges, but their faces were cracked, their wings chipped as though struck by unseen hands. The curtains were always drawn tight around him, for sunlight made him cry—not from fear, but fury, as if the light itself dared offend him.
The nursemaids learned to move quietly around him. His sleep was never deep; his eyes fluttered beneath their lids like he dreamed of things no child should ever see. When he stirred, the candles dimmed, their flames shrinking as if shamed.
Once, Clara—the youngest maid—swore she saw frost blooming across the cradle even though the hearth roared. She touched the wood, and her fingers burned cold.
Lucien laughed then, soft and sweet.
But his laughter did not echo like a child's.
It echoed like something remembered.
---
Old Mother Cera, who had been midwife to the Thornwell line for forty years, refused to step foot in the manor again.
> "That baby was not born," she told the villagers, her hands trembling. "It was called."
But rumor moves slower than grief.
And Thornwell Manor was steeped in grief.
Sir Alaric Thornwell—the father, the widower, the last of his name—spoke little since that night. His once-strong voice had turned hollow, his armor left to rust in the corner of his chambers. He would spend hours by the nursery door, just listening.
Sometimes, he thought he heard another sound besides his son's breathing—something faint, a whisper, a second heartbeat.
One evening, as dusk spilled red across the nursery, Alaric entered to find tiny footprints near the cradle. Bare. Damp. Leading toward the window. He lifted the baby from his bed, but the child slept soundly, serene as an angel in a painting.
When he turned back, the footprints were gone.
---
On the night of the fifth month, the red moon returned.
It rose through the fog like an open wound in the heavens, staining the forest and every roof tile of Thornwell Manor in crimson light.
Inside, Clara kept watch over the baby. The candles trembled; the rosary she had hung above his cradle swung gently without breeze. She hummed softly to keep the silence from devouring her courage.
Lucien stirred.
His little hands reached for the crucifix above him.
It swayed harder.
Then snapped.
The beads scattered across the floor, bouncing in every direction like fleeing souls.
The flames of the candles shuddered once—then died.
And in the darkness, Clara heard it.
A heartbeat.
But it wasn't the baby's.
It was coming from the walls.
> "He remembers…" a voice breathed, soft as the wind through bone.
The cradle began to move. Slowly at first. Then faster.
The baby opened his eyes.
Red. Burning faintly beneath the dark.
He didn't cry.
He only stared at Clara, his tiny lips curling into the faintest, most unnatural smile.
The shadows on the floor began to stretch toward her, crawling like living things. She stumbled back, clutching her cross, whispering prayers that melted into screams.
The door burst open.
Sir Alaric stormed in, blade in hand.
But when his eyes fell upon the cradle—
The child lay still. Peaceful. Fast asleep.
Only the crucifix hung crooked, twisted upon the wall.
And the air smelled faintly of iron and ash.
---
That night, the priest from the next parish was summoned to bless the manor.
He came with incense, holy water, and trembling hands. He sprinkled every corner, muttering verses that quivered like dying light.
But when he reached the nursery, his chant faltered.
The water hissed as it touched the cradle.
Tiny burn marks blackened the wood.
> "This house," he whispered, "is claimed."
He refused to stay the night.
---
Sir Alaric stood alone at his wife's grave until dawn, staring into the woods. The trees seemed to pulse in rhythm with the wind—as if something vast and unseen breathed beneath their roots.
When he finally returned, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He entered the nursery.
The cradle rocked once. Slowly. Gently.
Though no one stood near it.
Lucien Thornwell was awake. His eyes gleamed softly in the dark, like coals waiting for breath.
> "He's only a child," Alaric whispered, voice breaking. "Only a child…"
But the forest outside was already howling.
The wolves had gathered again beneath the red moon.
And as their cries rose into the night,
the baby in the cradle smiled—
as if he understood.