Blood and Moonlight

The full moon hung heavy in the sky like a watchful eye, casting a pale silver glow over the crumbling ruins of Blackmoor Castle. Its walls, veined with creeping ivy, stood as a silhouette against the night—jagged and broken, like the soul of the man who called it home.

Isolde had heard the warnings whispered in the village below.

"The lord of Blackmoor does not age."

"He walks by moonlight but casts no shadow."

"No woman who loved him ever returned."

But still, she climbed the winding path through the forest, her crimson cloak trailing like blood in the darkness. She wasn’t drawn by fear. She was drawn by memory.

The first time she had seen him, it was under the same moon, a year ago to the night. She had been picking belladonna at the forest's edge when a sound—soft, sorrowful music—had led her deeper into the trees. There, by a ruined fountain bathed in moonlight, he had stood. Tall, graceful, eyes darker than pitch, and skin like cold marble. His name was Dorian.

He had not touched her that first night, only looked at her like a man starving who dared not taste. But something had passed between them—something ancient, unspoken. She came again the next night. And the next. Until the world began to feel less real without him.

Now she stood at the threshold of his home, where cold air whispered through cracks in the stone and the scent of old roses lingered in the damp.

He waited by the great hearth, its fire long dead, cloaked in shadow. When he stepped into the light, her breath caught. He looked as he always had—elegant, untouched by time—but his eyes held a deeper sorrow.

“You came,” he said softly, as though he hadn’t dared to hope.

“I had to,” she whispered. “Tell me why you ran from me.”

Dorian turned his face from her. “Because I am not a man, Isolde. I am a curse that walks.”

She stepped closer, her hand trembling as it reached for his. “Then let me bear it with you.”

He shook his head. “You do not understand. I was born of war and blood and betrayal. I fed on the innocent once, centuries ago. And though I no longer hunt, the hunger never leaves. If I love you… I will lose you.”

Her voice did not waver. “And if you do not? You lose me still.”

At her words, something cracked within him. He pulled her close, his hand trembling at the curve of her back. “I have waited centuries… not for salvation, not for forgiveness—but for someone who would look into the dark and not run.”

“And I have searched for a love deeper than the grave,” she said, pressing her forehead to his. “I found it in you.”

He kissed her then, not with the desperation of a man fearing loss, but with the reverence of one who had finally found meaning. Outside, the wind howled through the broken battlements like a warning, but neither of them heard it.

The moonlight bathed them in silver, and in that light, something ancient stirred.

But the night was not finished with them.

From the shadows of the chapel, a figure emerged—a woman in tattered silk, her eyes milky with death. Her voice rasped like wind through bone.

“You made a promise, Dorian. One bound in blood. You cannot love again while I still roam.”

Isolde turned, her breath caught in her throat. “Who is she?”

“My wife,” Dorian whispered, shame thick in his voice. “Long dead… but not gone. She cursed me to this half-life when I betrayed her for another. She returns to drag away any heart that dares to beat for me.”

The ghost glided forward, her hands outstretched. “He is mine. His eternity was sealed in blood, beneath this very moon.”

Isolde stepped between them. “Then take me too. If his punishment is to walk alone, I will walk beside him.”

The specter hissed, recoiling at her courage. “You would join him in damnation?”

“I would join him in love.”

For a heartbeat, the world held still.

Then the ghost shrieked, her form splintering into light and shadow. The curse, bound by jealousy and hatred, cracked under the weight of Isolde’s sacrifice. The castle trembled, dust falling from its weary stones.

When the silence returned, the ghost was gone. The air felt warmer. Lighter.

Dorian fell to his knees, tears streaking his pale cheeks. “You broke it. You broke the curse.”

Isolde knelt beside him. “No. We did.”

And for the first time in centuries, dawn kissed the windows of Blackmoor Castle.