I never believed the stories my grandmother told—about the Blood Moon rising, the dead walking, and the chosen one who would kneel beneath the crimson sky. But tonight, the air tastes like rust, and the stars are gone. I’m standing in the graveyard where she’s buried, drawn here by dreams I can’t explain. My hands tremble as I brush dirt from her tombstone, revealing a symbol I’ve seen before—in my nightmares. It’s glowing.\n\nA whisper slithers into my mind, ancient and hungry. You are late, Herald.\n\nBehind me, a corpse sits up. Its eyes are hollow, its mouth opens in silence. More stir in their graves. I should run. But my feet won’t move. The moon above pulses like a heart, and for the first time, I feel it—something deep in my chest answering its call.\n\nThis is no accident. I was meant to come here.\n\nAnd I’m not alone.