Luther's gaze lingered on the red moon above the open ceiling, its light spilling over the marble like blood over white silk. His voice lowered, rougher now — as if it scraped through memories he'd buried too deep for too long.
"The last time this moon burned red…" he whispered, "the air smelled of celebration. Not death."
And before he realized it, he was back there — that night, two decades ago.
The halls had been alive that evening.
Music echoed across the crimson-lit spires of the old colony, the laughter of vampires young and old blending with the rhythm of a thousand heartbeats. Lanterns hung from every balcony, crimson ribbons fluttering in the warm wind. The red moon — rare, sacred — had risen over their skies like a divine blessing.
