They said the moon had bled before — in the days when gods still walked the earth and the sky was a battlefield. But no one alive had seen it until that night.
It rose from the horizon like a wound in the heavens: a perfect sphere of crimson fire, its light spilling across the land in a tide of scarlet. The forests whispered. The rivers stilled. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
And on the highest peak of the Blackthorn Mountains, a lone figure stood silhouetted against that burning sky.
A crown of twisted, branch-like antlers rose from their head — not forged of gold, but grown from living wood, each thorn tipped with a bead of silver sap. Their cloak, black as the void between stars, billowed in the cold wind.
They were called The Thorned Sovereign.
And tonight, the world would remember their name.
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Chapter I — The Sovereign Without a Throne
Long before the red moon rose, the Sovereign had been nothing more than a shadow in the court of kings. Born without a name, they were raised in the Ashen Monastery — a place where orphans were taught to read the language of the stars and the roots of trees.
The monks whispered that the child had been found beneath a dying oak, the branches curled protectively around them, as though the forest itself had given birth.
By the age of twelve, they could read the wind like a map and hear the heartbeat of the earth beneath their feet. But it was the crown — the living, thorned crown — that marked them as something more.
It had grown from their own skull, the first shoots appearing on the night of their thirteenth winter. The monks called it a blessing. The kings called it a threat.
And so the Sovereign wandered, never claiming a throne, never swearing allegiance. They became a myth told in taverns: the crowned wanderer who walked between kingdoms, neither ruler nor subject.
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Chapter II — The Prophecy of the Red Moon
The prophecy was older than the kingdoms themselves:
> *When the moon bleeds red, the Thorned One shall rise.
> They shall stand between the living and the dead,
> And the roots of the world shall tremble.*
Most dismissed it as a fireside tale. But the High Oracle of Veyra did not.
She summoned the Sovereign to her temple, a place carved into the bones of a mountain. There, beneath a ceiling painted with constellations, she spoke:
> “The red moon comes but once in a thousand years. When it rises, the Veil between worlds will thin. The dead will walk. The living will fall. And only you — crowned by the forest — can hold the balance.”
The Sovereign said nothing. They had no desire to be a savior. But the Oracle’s eyes were like mirrors, and in them, they saw a vision:
A world drowned in shadow.
A forest burning.
And themselves, standing alone beneath a bleeding sky.
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Chapter III — The Gathering of Shadows
The first signs came with the frost.
In the lowlands, farmers found their fields blighted overnight, the soil turned to ash. In the cities, people whispered of pale figures walking the streets at night, their eyes hollow, their mouths moving in silent screams.
The Sovereign traveled from village to village, following the trail of decay. Everywhere they went, they found the same thing: the roots of trees blackened, the rivers choked with dead leaves, the air heavy with the scent of rot.
It was then they learned the truth — the red moon was not a blessing. It was a summons.
Something ancient and hungry was waking beneath the earth.
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Chapter IV — The Pact of Thorns
In the heart of the Blackthorn Forest, the Sovereign knelt before the oldest tree in the world — the Worldroot. Its bark was silver, its leaves black as midnight.
They pressed their hands to the soil and spoke the words the monks had taught them:
> “I am your child. I am your blade. Give me the strength to stand.”
The ground trembled. The branches above twisted, lowering the crown of the Worldroot until it touched their own.
Pain lanced through their skull as the thorns of their crown grew longer, sharper, each one pulsing with green fire.
The forest spoke in a voice like wind through dead leaves:
> “You will bleed for me. You will burn for me. And in the end, you will be mine.”
The Sovereign rose, their shadow stretching long across the forest floor. They had made the Pact of Thorns. There was no turning back.
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Chapter V — The Night of the Red Moon
When the moon rose, the world changed.
The Veil between life and death tore like paper. From the cracks in the earth, the dead poured forth — not as mindless corpses, but as shadows wearing the faces of the living.
The Sovereign stood on the peak of the Blackthorn Mountains, the red moon blazing behind them. Their crown burned with green fire, each thorn a blade of living wood.
They raised their hands, and the roots of the mountains themselves tore free, lashing out at the shadows. The battle raged for hours, the sky lit with fire and blood.
But the shadows were endless.
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Chapter VI — The Sacrifice
The Sovereign knew the truth then — the prophecy had never promised victory. Only balance.
They could not destroy the shadows. But they could bind them.
They drove their crown into the earth, the thorns piercing deep into the roots of the world. Their blood flowed into the soil, mingling with the sap of the Worldroot.
The shadows screamed as they were pulled back into the Veil, the cracks sealing shut. The red moon began to fade, its light dimming to silver.
When it was over, the Sovereign was gone.
Only the crown remained, half-buried in the earth, its thorns still pulsing faintly with green light.
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Epilogue — The Legend Lives
Centuries later, travelers still speak of the Thorned Sovereign. Some say they walk the forest still, neither living nor dead, guarding the Veil. Others claim the crown waits for the next child of the forest, the next one who will stand beneath a bleeding moon.
And when the wind moves through the Blackthorn Mountains, it carries a whisper:
> “I am your child. I am your blade. Give me the strength to stand.”