Rosaline explained everything she had seen to her best friends, her voice trembling with uncertainty.
Margaux, looking unusually serious, said, "I know someone..."
Without wasting time, she led Rosaline and Cassandra deep into the crooked, misty alleys behind the village — to a crumbling shack where an ancient woman lived.
An old lady who once resided in the cursed lands of Ravernthorn.
A woman many whispered about... claiming she was a witch.
A woman said to have the power to see the past, the present... and the grim threads of the future.
The moment the old woman set her clouded eyes on Rosaline, her face twisted into a scowl.
"If you are here to dig up the past," she rasped, her voice like rusted chains dragging across stone, "then turn back. I will not speak of it."
The three girls exchanged nervous glances, their hearts pounding.
What now?
Suddenly, Cassandra fell to her knees, reaching into her bag and pouring out a handful of gold coins, the pieces clinking loudly against the dusty floor.
"Is this enough for you to speak?" she pleaded.
The old woman's gaze darkened.
Her eyes, like two dying embers, stared deep into Rosaline — stripping her soul bare.
A silence fell so heavy it was almost suffocating.
Then, with a voice low and foreboding, she finally spoke:
"You were born under the curse of the Blood Moon.
The mark at the back of your neck — it is no accident.
You are destined to become the Heir of the Throne's Bride.
You reek of death. Two deaths.
You have already crossed paths with death once... and another awaits you soon.
History hungers to repeat itself.
It is upon you... and him... to either change it—or be devoured by it."
She leaned back into the shadows, her voice a chilling whisper.
"Now leave. I have nothing more to say. Fate watches us even now."
Shaken to their very bones, Rosaline and her friends stumbled out of the hut, the old door creaking shut behind them like a final warning.
Confusion gnawed at their minds.
What did it all mean?
That night, restless and desperate, Rosaline confronted her grandmother.
"Grandma... when exactly was I born? Under which moon? Was there anything strange about my birth?"
But Grandma Elira stiffened, her face turning pale.
"No more questions," she snapped.
And no matter how much Rosaline begged, she refused to say a word.
Later that night, as the cold mist blanketed the village, three shadowy figures — Elira and her two closest friends — hurried back to the fortune teller's shack.
Their faces were tight with fear.
"My granddaughter has dreamt of the Vampire God," Elira said, her voice shaking.
"I beg you—give me something, anything, to hide her. To protect her. This time... I must stop him from finding her!"
The fortune teller threw her head back and laughed — a sound so hollow, it froze the blood in their veins.
"You fool," she hissed.
"Even I am bound to him. I am no more than a speck beneath his shadow.
I dare not interfere with what has already been written on the Blood Moon."
Elira's hands trembled. She clutched the folds of her dress tightly, her nails digging into her palms.
The fortune teller's voice dropped even lower, like a curse slithering through the dark:
"This time... he is not the one chasing her.
She is the one destined to run straight into his arms.
You are but a fragile human.
Powerless.
The tides of fate have already turned.
And nothing you do will change what must come."
Elira nearly collapsed at her feet, her heart breaking.
All she had ever wanted... was for her beautiful Rosaline to marry a human.
To live a simple, safe life.
But the heavens had already spoken.
And the Blood Moon would have its due.