Page 56 of The Blood Moon Hunt

They think I’m weak. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I am weak now. But I won’t stay this way.

I drag myself to my feet, every movement agony, and limp toward the edge of the training grounds. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the dirt, and the air is thick with the scent of earth and magic. My hands clench into fists as I walk, the anger bubbling inside me, hot and relentless.

I think of their faces—the smug smirks, the laughter, the way they looked at me like I was nothing. The humiliation burns brighter than the pain, searing itself into my memory.

I won’t let this happen again.

By the time I reach the edge of the forest, my vision is clear. The tears are gone, replaced by something sharper. Something colder. I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care what I have to do. No one will ever make me feel this way again.

I lean against a tree, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps, and close my eyes. My magic thrums faintly beneath my skin, weak and unsteady, but it’s there. It’s always been there. I just need to learn how to use it. How to make it stronger. How to make it unstoppable.

They’ll see. One day, they’ll all see.

I’ll claw my way to the top. I’ll take power with my bare hands if I have to. And when I get there, they’ll regret ever thinking I was beneath them.

Because I’ll show them what it means to be strong.

I’ll show them what it means to have nothing left to lose.

18 YEARS OLD

The wind howls through the narrow alley, cutting through the threadbare cloak draped over my shoulders. The city is alive with noise—the distant clamor of carriages, the muffled voices of merchants haggling over their wares, and the occasional cry of a beggar. I don’t hear any of it. My focus is on the man in front of me, his back turned as he kneels to light a lantern.

This is my chance.

The spell is already on my lips, a low hum of power building in my chest as I extend my hand. My fingers tremble—not from fear, but from hunger. Hunger for what he has, for the power that pulses around him like a shield, invisible but tangible. The spell leaves my mouth in a sharp whisper, and the man freezes, his hand hovering over the lantern.

“Ronan,” he says, his voice calm, measured, like he’s been expecting this. He doesn’t turn around. “You’re late.”

The words stop me in my tracks, the spell dissipating in the cold air. My stomach twists, but I force my face into a mask of indifference. “I didn’t know we had a schedule.”

The man rises slowly, turning to face me. Master Callan. His eyes are sharp, like knives cutting through the dark. He’s not a large man, but his presence fills the space, a reminder that power isn’t about size—it’s about control.

“You always were impatient,” Callan says, stepping closer. The air between us crackles with tension, his magic brushing against mine like a warning. “Hunger makes fools of us all.”

“I’m not a fool,” I snap, my fists clenching at my sides. The anger bubbling inside me is hot, familiar. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I’ve proven myself. When do I get what’s mine?”

Callan’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something cruel in the way his lips twitch, almost like a smile. “What you’ve earned,” he says, his voice low, dangerous, “is a lesson. Power isn’t given, Ronan. It’s taken. But you... you’re still a child playing at being a warlock.”

The words sting more than they should. I’ve spent years fighting to prove myself—fighting to claw my way out of the gutter I was born into, to be something more than the scrawny kid who begged for scraps on the streets. But to Callan, I’ll always be that boy.

“Then teach me,” I say, my voice steady despite the anger burning in my chest. “Teach me how to take it.”

Callan’s smile finally breaks through, cold and sharp. “Oh, I intend to.”

Callan leads me into the cellar beneath his workshop, the air damp and heavy with the scent of old magic. The walls are lined with shelves crammed full of jars and vials, each one pulsing faintly with energy. At the center of the room stands an altar, its surface etched with runes that glow faintly in the dim light.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Callan asks, his voice echoing in the confined space.

“To prove myself,” I reply, my eyes fixed on the altar.

“Wrong.” Callan steps closer, his shadow stretching long across the floor. “You’re here because you’re desperate. Desperation is the fuel of ambition, but it’s also its greatest weakness.”

I flinch at his words but refuse to look away. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Callan tilts his head, studying me like a specimen in one of his jars. “Good,” he says finally. “Because what I’m about to ask of you will strip away any illusion of morality you might still cling to.”

He gestures to the far corner of the room, where a cage sits, its occupant shrouded in shadow. My stomach tightens as I step closer, the faint sound of ragged breathing reaching my ears. Inside the cage is a man—gaunt, weak, his wrists bound with iron cuffs. His eyes meet mine, and I see the spark of recognition there. He knows me.

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