Page 1 of The Blood Moon Oath

Prologue

SELENE

The brisk October air bites at my skin as we make our way down the winding path from the club, leaving behind the pulsing lights and pounding bass of Halloween night. I clutch my arms around myself, glancing sideways at the mysterious woman leading us through the shadows. She hasn't offered her name, and no one has asked, though I can feel the tension radiating from the warlocks beside me.

We finally arrive at Adrian’s manor, an imposing stone structure that rises against the darkened sky, looming and ancient with the quiet, formidable power of an old fortress. As Adrian unlocks the heavy doors with a flick of his wrist, the woman watches with interest, her face betraying nothing.

The grand hall stretches out before us, every inch of it draped in elegance and dark beauty. At Adrian’s gesture, the fire springs to life in the hearth, its glow spilling over the polished wood floors and casting long shadows that danceacross the walls. The soft light illuminates the carved moldings and towering shelves of books that seem to go on endlessly, and despite the welcoming warmth, a chill runs down my spine.

The woman steps into the hall with calm, assessing strides, her gaze sharp as she takes in the space. Her presence is striking, like something both regal and dangerous. Her face is framed by dark, sleek hair tied back at the nape, though a few loose strands escape, catching the glow of the fire. Her high cheekbones and sharp jawline cast shadows across her face, accentuating eyes that seem to hold secrets untold. Her dress, a deep midnight blue that clings to her frame with understated elegance, lends her an air of timelessness, like she could belong to another world entirely. She doesn’t have to say a word to command attention; it radiates from her in waves, a strength I can sense is deeply rooted.

Adrian gestures to the seating near the fire. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” he says, his tone formal, though I can see the tension in his shoulders.

As she lowers herself into a velvet armchair, her three warlocks remain standing behind her, silent sentinels who watch our every move with expressions as unreadable as their mistress’s. They, too, have an aura of restrained power, and the subtle elegance of their attire only adds to the impression of quiet but deadly strength. They’re dressed in dark, fitted coats that reach just past their knees, each tailored precisely, with hints of silver buttons and understated patterns in the fabric.

Beside me, Ronan stands with arms crossed, his gaze sharp as he assesses each of her warlocks in turn, clearly sizing them up. Damien is watchful, his expression a blend of curiosity and suspicion. Lucien stands a bit further back, observing with a calculating gaze, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh as he studies thenewcomers.

Adrian takes a seat across from the woman, leaving just enough space for me to sit beside him. Reluctantly, I do, though I feel every ounce of tension in the air as if it’s a palpable force pressing down on us. After a beat of silence, I look at her, the question spilling out of me before I can stop it. “Who are you?”

She regards me with a faint, mysterious smile. “I’m Isadora.”

The name settles like a weight in the room, and Adrian’s eyes flash with recognition. “You’re one of the Mothers.”

She nods slowly, a hint of pride flickering in her gaze. “Yes. Though the title may not mean as much to those who have long forgotten the Mothers' existence.” She pauses, glancing at the men behind her. “These are my warlocks—Rowan, Emrys, and Caelan. They are bound to me by oath.”

Each man gives a slight nod at his name, though none speak. Their eyes are sharp, calculating, fixed on the warlocks standing at my back with an intensity that borders on territorial. There’s an unspoken challenge in the air, a silent acknowledgment of power and prowess, but also of history that runs deeper than any of us can yet see.

Ronan snorts, crossing his arms with a hard look at Isadora’s men. “And exactly what kind of allegiance do you and your warlocks swear by?” His tone is laced with sarcasm, as though daring them to make a move.

Emrys, the warlock with the salt-and-pepper beard, arches an eyebrow, his gaze chillingly calm as it settles on Ronan. “An allegiance not so easily defined by the likes of you.”

Before the hostility can escalate, I lean forward, casting a sharp glance at Ronan. “Enough.”

A silence stretches between us before Isadora’s voice cuts through, low and measured. “There was once a council of witches known as the Mothers. Our purpose was to protect thebalance between realms, though our powers were taken from us long ago by warlocks who sought to consume our very souls.” Her words linger in the air, heavy with old pain.

“The Order,” Damien murmurs, as though piecing together an old memory.

Isadora nods. “Yes. But while the Order drained our powers, they didn’t destroy our spirit. The council continued on in name, led by our ancestors who held onto a vision—a vision from one of the last witches before she was burned alive. She foresaw that our loss of power would be temporary.”

Her words send a chill through me, and I glance at Adrian, who is listening intently, his jaw tight.

Isadora’s gaze shifts to me, steady and assessing. “What you did, Selene, when you drained the Order of their powers—it wasn’t just an act of rebellion. You released what had once been taken from us. That power was never destroyed, only held back, and now it has found its way to the descendants of witches.”

Lucien’s voice breaks through, tinged with skepticism. “And what exactly does that mean for us?”

Isadora’s gaze sharpens. “It means that those with even a hint of witch blood will begin to awaken to their powers. But with that awakening comes a risk. History is bound to repeat itself, and the new witches will be hunted unless we do something to protect them.

“Without training, without protection,” Isadora continues, her voice cold and clear, “these witches will become targets. The soul of a witch is... unique, as you know. And warlocks will not be able to resist the draw of it, just as they couldn’t centuries ago. It’s only a matter of time before the true hunt begins again.”

I feel a tightening in my chest, and my gaze shifts to the men around me. Damien’s jaw is set, his hands clenched.Lucien’s eyes are narrowed, staring into the fire as though wrestling with the implications.

“There are more warlocks than you may know of,” Isadora continues, her voice level. “The factions are as varied as they are powerful, each with its own customs and beliefs. The ones that participated in your Hunt, Selene, are only one faction among many. And I assure you, others are not so forgiving.”

“More forgiving?” Ronan scoffs, eyes narrowing at Isadora’s men. “So, what, are you telling us your lot has the moral high ground?”

Adrian’s voice cuts through the tension. “There are warlocks who once pledged their allegiance to the Mothers. Some fought against the Order’s cruelty and tried to protect witches when they could.” He gestures subtly to the three men at Isadora’s side. “I believe you three are descendants?”

Rowan, Emrys, and Caelan stand taller at this, their expressions as cold as stone but filled with a silent pride as each nods in turn.

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