The hidden paths of the grove delivered them at dawn to the edge of a rugged valley few maps dared to mark. Mist clung to the jagged cliffs, and the air carried the sharp bite of pine and distant woodsmoke. Thorne moved ahead, scouting silently, his ears pricked for any sign of pursuit. Behind him, Elara walked with new confidence—barefoot still, but no longer fleeing like a frightened girl. The Crimson Lust hummed beneath her skin, quiet now, content to wait until it was needed again.
They had been traveling for two days since leaving the nymphs, following routes that twisted impossibly through the landscape, shortening journeys that should have taken weeks. Lirael had not lied: the grove's favor was a powerful shield.
At the valley's heart lay a ragged encampment—tents of patched canvas and cured hides clustered around a central fire pit, ringed by sharpened stakes and trip-lines. Banners of faded crimson and black hung from makeshift poles, the old colors of the Kingdom of Veloria before the Church of the Pale Sun had declared them heretical. Men and women moved with the wary efficiency of those long accustomed to hiding.
Rebels.
Thorne had spoken of them during the journey: scattered remnants of noble houses, deserters from the Church's armies, common folk driven from their villages for refusing to surrender their old gods. They called themselves the Crimson Thorn, and they had been fighting a losing war for nearly a decade.
A sentry spotted them first—a wiry woman perched in a tree, arrow already nocked. She whistled sharply, and within moments a dozen blades glinted in the morning light.
"State your business," barked a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and a captain's bearing. His hand rested on the hilt of a longsword, eyes flicking between Thorne's obvious werewolf traits and the glowing marks visible on Elara's exposed collarbones.
Thorne stepped forward, hands open. "We seek Captain Rowan. We bring word from the Whispering Woods—and an offer."
The captain—Rowan, apparently—studied them for a long moment. Recognition flickered in his eyes when he saw the faint vine-mark Lirael had left on Elara's wrist, a subtle sigil of passage.
"The nymphs let you through," he said finally. "That's something. Lower your weapons."
The circle parted, and they were led into the camp.
Rebels watched from every side: a one-eyed archer sharpening arrows, a pair of young twins mending chainmail, an older woman stirring a pot of thin stew. Suspicion hung thick in the air, but so did desperation. These people were starving, cornered, and running out of hope.
Rowan brought them to the central fire, where a rough-hewn table served as a war council. Maps were spread across it, marked with Church strongholds and recent losses. A handful of lieutenants gathered—hard-eyed men and women who had clearly seen too many friends die.
"You have the look of outcasts," Rowan said without preamble. "And you walk paths no mortal should know. Speak plainly: what are you, and what do you want from us?"
Elara stepped forward. The firelight caught the filigree of her Crimson Lust, making it shimmer like fresh blood.
"My name is Elara. I was born under the Blood Moon. The Church branded me heretic and drove me from my home. I have walked the hidden ways, tasted forbidden power, and I have come to fight."
A murmur rippled through the gathered rebels. Some crossed themselves instinctively; others leaned forward, hungry for any spark of hope.
Rowan's gaze was steady. "Pretty words. We've heard promises before. The Pale Sun's inquisitors burn villages for less than what you wear on your skin. Why should we risk sheltering you?"
Thorne growled low in his throat, but Elara placed a hand on his arm.
"Because I can give you something the Church fears more than swords," she said quietly. "I can give you proof that their god is a lie."
She extended her hand over the fire. The Crimson Lust stirred, rising gently—not the wild surge of ecstasy, but a controlled warmth. The flames leapt higher, shifting from orange to deep blood-red, dancing in patterns that formed the old sigils of Veloria's forbidden gods. Gasps echoed around the circle.
One of the lieutenants, a sharp-featured woman named Kaelin, whispered, "It's true… the old magic lives."
Rowan did not flinch, but his knuckles whitened on his sword hilt. "Magic won't feed my people or stop a crossbow bolt. Show us something real, girl, or we send you on your way."
Elara met his eyes. "Give me one night. Let me sit with your people, hear your stories, share your fire. If by dawn you do not believe I can help you win this war, we'll leave—and take the Church's hunters with us as a distraction."
A long silence stretched. Finally, Rowan nodded.
"One night. But you'll be watched."
As the day wore on, Elara moved among the rebels—not as a seductress, but as a listener. She helped the twins mend armor, speaking softly of her own exile. She sat with the old cook, learning the names of those who had fallen. She listened to Kaelin recount the burning of her village, the screams still echoing in her nightmares.
Thorne scouted the perimeter, ensuring no Church patrols had followed, but even he felt the shift in the camp's mood. Hope was a dangerous thing, but it was spreading.
When night fell, the rebels gathered around the fire—not for revelry, but for the ritual they performed whenever new blood joined their ranks. It was simple, solemn: each person cut their palm and let a drop of blood fall into a shared cup of watered wine, binding them in trust and shared fate.
Rowan offered the dagger to Elara first.
She took it without hesitation, slicing a shallow line across her palm. Blood welled—darker than it should have been, shimmering faintly with crimson light. When her drop hit the cup, the liquid flared bright for a heartbeat, then settled.
One by one, the others followed. Thorne's blood was thick and hot; Kaelin's carried the scent of smoke. When the last rebel had added their drop, Rowan raised the cup.
"To the fallen," he said. "And to those who still fight."
They drank.
The moment the wine touched Elara's lips, the bond snapped into place—not sexual, but deeper. She felt them: their grief, their rage, their stubborn refusal to kneel. And in return, they felt her—her loss, her awakening, the unyielding fire that now burned in her veins.
Tears tracked down more than one weathered cheek. Kaelin's hand found Elara's and squeezed tight.
Rowan set the cup down, voice rough. "You're one of us now, Elara of the Blood Moon. What would you have us do?"
Elara looked around the fire at the faces illuminated by its crimson glow—faces that had been wary strangers hours ago, now kin bound by blood and truth.
"First," she said softly, "we survive the winter. Then we take the fight to them."
A low cheer went up, muted but fierce.
Later, when most had sought their bedrolls, Rowan lingered by the fire with Elara and Thorne.
"The Church will come for this valley eventually," he warned. "We've held them off twice, but they grow bolder."
Elara nodded. "Then we won't be here when they do. The nymphs showed me paths—old ways beneath the mountains. We can move your people, regroup, strike where they least expect."
Rowan studied her for a long moment. "You're young to lead armies."
"I'm not leading yet," she said. "I'm learning. But I promise you this: the next time the Blood Moon rises, the Pale Sun will tremble."
Rowan offered his hand. She took it, grip firm.
"Welcome to the Crimson Thorn, Elara."
As the fire burned low, Elara leaned against Thorne's warmth, watching the stars wheel overhead. No ecstasy tonight—no wild unleashing of power. Just the quiet strength of new bonds forged in blood and fire.
But she felt the Crimson Lust stirring, patient and hungry, waiting for the next moon.
The rebels had given her an army.
Soon, she would give them a war.
And the Church would learn what happened when the moon bled.