Chapter 375: Blood Under the Twin Moons
Blood Under the Twin Moons
The darkness stretched out and unforgiving across the eastern edge of the Moonstone Kingdom. Above, two moons hung, their alien light curving over the battlefield like the keen eyes of deities. One was pale yellow—gentle, near-sorrowful—while the other smoldered with a feeble bluish flame that colored the dark sky in icy tones. Combined, they sent long, superimposed shadows across the ground, their merged light combining sorrow with chill.
Under the watchful eyes of the heavens lay the Vellore army camp. It was a monster of steel and ego by day—flags fluttering, soldiers jeering, the ring of swords on shields ringing out in disciplined bravado. Tonight, it was just an injured corpse gasping quietly.
The familiar din of tramping feet, raucous drinking songs, and the constant buzz of warriors itching for battle was missing. Rather, the air had something else in it—something denser. The night itself felt thick with fear. One patrol clanked by with dim armor, their eyes buried deep in fatigue. Fires burned low, making half-hearted attempts at light. Silence was not broken by laughter, but by the raw cough of a wounded man or the muffled, pitiful cry of one who could not keep his hurt concealed.
The breeze came on a whiff of stench born of what had happened hours ago. Burnt skin. Blood. A festering taste that lingered on every draw of air. The eastern frontier had turned into a cemetery too large to be buried.
Tonight, Moonstone had released an unkind hand. By some clever stroke—or heavenly cruelty—they had goaded the ferocious beasts of Starlight Forest into blood-madness, guiding them like a living tide against Vellore’s troops. It was no steel-honored war, but rampant savagery. The Vellore men, taken unaware, had been attacked and splintered by fangs and claws.
Men had resisted—of course they had. The warriors of Vellore were not cowards. Swords had flashed, arrows had been launched, cries had filled the night like panicked prayers. But even valor shatters when attacked by beasts spawned in the madness of the forest. This night, valor had been balanced and proved wanting.
The losses ran deep. Whole squads were strewn in shreds across the blackened forest. Several senior officials had died—torn asunder before their men’s eyes. Most of the army’s officers had wounds that would never really heal. Hundreds of men now groaned on bloody stretchers, their bodies shattered, while countless more would never stand up again.
The reality was straightforward, and each soldier understood it in their shaking bones: if Moonstone attacked tomorrow, Vellore would struggle by mere virtue of having its monarch-level cultivators alive.
At the center of the camp, a huge tent loomed like an isolated citadel of fabric. Lanterns burned inside, golden light seeping faintly from its seams. From outside it offered majesty, but inside, the air was denser still.
The inner room was upholstered in plush cushions and furs, indicators of riches and authority. But the men sitting there did not complement the splendor surrounding them. Officials and commanders lounged on cushions, their bodies bruised, ripped, or bandaged up in makeshift manner. Blood odor was not contained outdoors—it permeated even in here, an ever-present reminder.
At the head of it all, resting on a raised cushion, was King Gary of Vellore. His own presence was meant to be unshakeable. His green hair, loosely tied, glimmered in lamplight, the features brilliant against white pants and open robe. His chest, chiseled with strength wrung from years, lay naked for everyone to see, the curves of his muscles etched with masculine pride. And yet, that form bore the scars of tonight’s horror. Bite marks disfigured his arms, claw wounds ran across his chest, raw and tender despite the finest care his healers could provide.
It was unthinkable. A monarch-grade cultivator, so gravely injured. But the creatures of Starlight Forest had taken no special interest in king or commoner. Even Gary, the Lion of Vellore, had been repelled.
He held a goblet of wine firmly in one hand, the wine deep red and glinting in the lamplight like blood. He sipped slowly, the bitterness leaving its mark upon his lips. His black eyes burned with pent-up rage, each mouthful swallowed like flames.
Silence dwelled close about him. Some of his officers grumbled softly, but the oppression of loss smothered speech before it could draw breath. Among them was Edric, his wide body slumped back on pillows. His robe was loose, revealing the bruises that splattered his body. A jagged slash along his back was bandaged carelessly. His eyes—usually bright, restless—were dull tonight. He gazed into the dark air, as though entranced by a thought he couldn’t shake.
The silence broke when the heavy flap of the tent was flung open. Cold air gushed in, bringing the night smell.
All eyes swiveled toward the door.
A man stepped in, outlined by the lamplight. His boots scraped over the rug, mud and blood encrusted. His breathing was labored, his cloak rent and clinging wetly to his shoulders. He pushed back his hood, and lamplight showed a face hard and gaunt, eyes wide with urgency.
The officers stood at attention. Whispers hissed between them.
Gary dropped his goblet, eyes slanting. His voice sliced the silence, thick with authority.
".You."
The man bent low, his chest expanding and contracting with strain.
"Your Majesty," he croaked, voice rough from the haste of his travel. "Forgive my entrance. But I had no time for politeness."
Gary’s gaze intensified. Recognition sharpened his tone.
You are Veynor—the chief of my scouts." His voice was a low growl, the edge of a blade. "The one with eyes in every shadow of Moonstone."
The officials murmured among themselves. Veynor had not appeared in weeks. He was the whisperer, the one who gave them every move of their foe. For him to storm into the king’s tent, messy and grim-faced, spoke of disaster.
Gary placed his goblet down slowly, deliberately. His jaw clenched, the veins in his hand bulging as his fingers curled into a fist.
"Coming in such haste," Gary growled, his voice dark, "means that something has gone awry—once more."
Veynor’s gaze darted around the room, seeing the wounded commanders, the bandages, the dull hopelessness. He bowed his head lower, his voice shaking but firm.
"Yes, Your Majesty. And the beasts were only the beginning...":
The tent grew quiet once more, each man holding his breath, hoping for words that would shatter what little remained of their strength.