A warrior born under a blood moon.

The moon was an ill omen to some, a harbinger of chaos and war. But to the elders of the Mountain Clans, it was the sign of a prophecy fulfilled—the birth of the warrior who would alter the fate of kingdoms.

In the heart of the rugged highlands, where the winds howled like restless spirits, a child’s first cry echoed through the valleys. His mother, Aelira, lay weak but resolute, clutching her newborn son in trembling arms. The village shaman, an ancient figure draped in furs and beads, nodded solemnly.

“He is the one,” the shaman whispered. “The blood moon’s child. He will know no fear, no defeat. He will bring both salvation and destruction.”

Aelira looked down at her son, his piercing silver eyes glinting even in infancy. She named him Kael. And thus, the warrior’s legend began.

(I)The Warrior’s Training

From the moment Kael could walk, he was trained in the ways of war. The elders of the Mountain Clans did not coddle their warriors, and Kael was no exception. By the age of five, he could wield a wooden sword; by ten, he could outmatch grown men in sparring. His body bore the bruises of relentless training, but he never wavered.

The prophecy followed him like a shadow. Some revered him, others feared him. He was the boy born under the blood moon, the one whispered about in hushed tones by warriors and seers alike. But Kael did not care for destiny—only strength. Only victory.

The Mountain Clans were fierce, yet divided, their warriors scattered among warring tribes. Kael’s father, Lord Drevan, sought to unite them, to forge an army mighty enough to challenge the lowland kingdoms that threatened their lands. But unity came at a cost. Rivals lurked among their own people, and the ambitious sought to usurp the prophecy for themselves.

(II)The Betrayal and the Rise

On the eve of Kael’s sixteenth year, treachery struck. A faction within the clans, fearful of the prophecy and jealous of Drevan’s power, betrayed them. The assassins came in the dead of night, their blades thirsty for blood. Drevan fought valiantly but fell beneath their swords. Aelira perished protecting her son, her final words a whisper in his ear.

“Live, my son. Become what you were meant to be.”

Kael did not weep. He did not break. He ran, escaping into the frozen wilderness, where he bled and starved and raged. The boy died that night; the warrior was born.

Years passed, and whispers spread of a ghost in the mountains, a lone warrior who hunted the betrayers one by one. Kael had become a specter of vengeance, his name feared among those who had wronged him. His legend grew, not as a boy of prophecy, but as a force of reckoning.

(III)The Blood Moon’s Return

Fate wove its threads, and the blood moon rose once more. By then, Kael had Gathered an army—not through prophecy, but through fire and blood. Warriors from scattered clans, outcasts, and exiled kings rallied behind him. He was no longer the boy of whispers; he was Kael, the warlord.

On the fields of Verenthia, where the mountain met the kingdom’s border, Kael faced the betrayers and their lowland allies. The sky burned red as the battle raged, his warriors cutting through enemy ranks like a storm given flesh. No prophecy dictated his blade; only the fury of a warrior who had forged his own destiny.

The battle ended with Kael standing atop a mound of fallen foes, his sword drenched in crimson, the blood moon painting his victory in the sky above. He was not a savior. He was not a destroyer. He was both.

And so, the warrior born under the blood moon fulfilled his fate—not by divine will, but by his own hand.