The manor of Thornwell had gone eerily quiet after that night.
No birds sang near its walls anymore. No villagers dared cross its gates.
The world outside whispered of the Red Son — the cursed child who could silence storms and twist flame to his will.
But within those ancient stone halls, a strange kind of peace lingered.
Clara would hum lullabies as she moved through the candlelit corridors, Lucien balanced on her hip, his crimson eyes half-lidded with calm. She treated him not as a monster, nor a miracle, but as a boy — fragile, tender, infinitely precious.
Sir Alaric watched them both like a man standing at the edge of redemption. His armor, once polished with pride, now hung untouched in the armory. Each night he sat beside Lucien's cradle, whispering stories of honor and war, hoping some fragment of humanity would root itself inside the child's supernatural core.
But the whispers in the village grew like mold.
They said the knight had fallen under a witch's charm — that Clara, the housemaid turned mother figure, had bewitched both father and son. That the child had begun to haunt dreams and bend minds.
The priest declared: "A kingdom ruled by a beast cannot stand."
And so rebellion began to fester again — this time not with torches, but with plans.
---
That evening, the red moon rose again.
The same moon that had birthed Lucien.
He was playing in the nursery, his laughter echoing like bells through the manor. Clara smiled as she watched him, but Alaric could not shake the weight in his chest. The moonlight pouring through the window turned Lucien's pale skin almost translucent, and his eyes shimmered like liquid fire.
Then the air shifted. Cold. Heavy. Watching.
Lucien stopped laughing. Slowly, he turned toward the window.
His reflection did not move.
Clara gasped, clutching the pendant around her neck. "Alaric…" she whispered. "Do you see that?"
The reflection smiled — but Lucien did not.
The candles guttered out, plunging the room into a trembling dark.
The baby's cry came, sharp and low, vibrating the floorboards. The window cracked. The mirrors along the hall shattered — yet Clara felt no fear, only the sudden, inexplicable need to protect him. She held Lucien close, whispering over his tears, "You're safe, my love. You're safe."
The reflection's grin faded. The air stilled.
When the candles reignited, Clara's eyes filled with tears. "He wasn't angry," she said, breathless. "He was frightened."
Alaric knelt beside them. "He's growing stronger," he murmured. "Every moon feeds him."
Lucien looked up at his father, small hands reaching out. The glow in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something softer. Alaric took him in his arms.
For a long moment, there was silence — broken only by the slow, rhythmic heartbeat of the man who refused to see his son as a curse.
Then, from the courtyard, came the distant clang of a bell.
One toll.
Two.
Three.
The signal of uprising.
Outside, shadows moved through the fog — cloaked figures carrying crosses, blades, and holy symbols.
Alaric stood, sword in hand once more. Clara trembled, but Lucien merely looked toward the door, unblinking. His little fingers clenched the air as if he already knew.
"Father," he said softly. "They're coming for you."
The door shuddered under a blow.
---
What came next would be remembered in Gravenmoor for centuries.
The villagers broke through the gate. Their torches burned red, like miniature moons. But when they entered the manor grounds, the air thickened — alive, trembling. The fire twisted into shapes that weren't fire. Shadows moved where no man stood.
And in the midst of it all, Lucien's laughter began again — soft, musical, inhuman.
One by one, torches went out. Crosses turned to ash. Swords rusted in their hands.
When dawn broke, not a single villager remained. Only the wind, whispering through the ashes of what had been hatred.
Inside, Alaric found Clara asleep in a chair, Lucien curled against her chest, peaceful as the eye of a storm.
He sank to his knees and pressed a trembling kiss to the boy's brow. "If the world fears you, my son," he whispered, "then I shall teach the world to kneel."
Lucien stirred in his sleep, his lips curving faintly — almost a promise.
Outside, the red moon faded into pale dawn.
But its memory stayed, etched into the stones of Thornwell.
And beneath that fragile morning light, the curse began to breathe again.