The dagger pressed against Alessandra’s throat was cold—cold as the obsidian altar beneath her knees. Her captor’s grip was firm, yet trembling ever so slightly, the way a hunter holds his prey when the kill feels too easy, too quiet. The dim torches lining the cavern walls struggled against the oppressive darkness, the feeble flames casting fractured shadows over the rows of robed cultists chanting rhythms older than stone itself.
Alessandra’s breath was shallow as the world around her spun into chaos. Drops of moisture trickled from the jagged ceiling above, each bead echoing with ominous weight as it struck stone. The sacrificial gown they had forced her to wear clung to her figure like second skin—a flowing, sleeveless black tunic adorned with gilded, serpentine lines that caught the torches’ light when she moved. The fabric pooled around her bare feet. Her dark hair was braided in loose coils and studded with jet beads, framing her face like a crown—mocking her, a queen in defeat.
“The Moonstone has chosen her,” the high priest thundered, his voice cutting through the guttural chanting. He raised his arms, engulfed in ceremonial ribbons dyed crimson and gold. “Summons from before the time of mortals—awaken!”
Alessandra’s fingers trembled against the ropes securing her wrists. The Moonstone pendant—the hated thing that had brought her here—still hung from her neck. It shimmered faintly as the priest uttered words she didn’t understand, and neither did the young mercenary who now stood as her killer.
“Do it,” the priest barked at him. The mercenary, dark-skinned and clad in piecemeal armor that bore scars of an unending war, clenched his jaw. His eyes—thick with guilt and indecision—flickered to Alessandra’s face. “I… I’m just here for—” he began, but the priest was merciless. “There’s no room for weakness, Dane. End her life, or you will join her on the altar!”
Something stirred deep within her bones, a memory alien and vehemently familiar at once. Her heartbeat seemed to sync with the chant—then, louder, against it. Louder still, until she couldn’t hear the mercenary’s excuses or the priest’s threats—only the pounding drum of her heart, sounding like war.
A sudden light exploded through the cavern, brighter than fire. The pendant grew hot against her chest, burning through the thin fabric. Cultists reeled back, shielding their faces. Even Dane dropped the dagger in stunned silence.
And then it spoke.
“She is not yours to take.”
The Fracture Recalled
Alessandra’s mind was gone for a moment—or perhaps a lifetime, spinning backward through a cascade of memories not entirely her own. She was no longer bound on an obsidian altar but perched in a flickering hall of mirrors, wearing a different life: silks the color of midnight ink, embroidered with silvered constellations. Her hair was long, unbound, and kissed by starlight. Another voice—a calmer one this time—whispered from beyond her thoughts.
This is not the first time they’ve tried to kill you, Alessandra.
The memory fled as her awareness returned to the altar. Her body moved before her brain commanded it. The pendant flared, incinerating the ropes at her wrists. Alessandra lunged for Dane, knocking him off-balance even as the shocked glint returned to his eyes. He scrambled back but didn’t reach for his blade.
“Hold her! Stop her!” the priest screamed, but the cultists hesitated—none dared to approach her. The torchlight flickered into near darkness as shadows erupted from Alessandra’s torn bonds, swirling into viscous forms that slithered and roared with ghostly hunger.
She stood—barefooted and furious, stripped of everything but her wits and her will. Her gown, though defiled by its ceremonial intent, now looked like battle armor in this half-light, its gold tracing resembling veins of latent power. She turned to the priest, meeting his gaze with the intensity of something ancient, something awakened.
“Did you think you could summon me and survive?” she asked, her voice layered with something beyond mortal comprehension.
He faltered for the barest second. It was all she needed.
The Crescent Blade
The swirling shadows obeyed her instinctively, rushing toward the priest and his followers like sentient fragments of nightmare. Alessandra bent low, seizing Dane’s forgotten dagger. The weapon was crude but sharp enough to free the pendant from her neck. She held the Moonstone high, and its light scorched the cavern’s interior like the wrath of dawn.
The cultists scattered—some consumed wholly by the shadows she no longer controlled. The priest, scorched and screaming, stumbled toward an exit hidden in the stone. Alessandra moved to pursue but faltered when Dane grasped her arm.
“You don’t understand,” he rasped, trembling. “The Moonstone—it’s bonded to you now. If you leave this place—”
“Then I’ll find out what happens,” she interrupted, her tone steady. “Stay here and rot if you wish.” She tightened her grip on the blade and strode toward the light of the surface, each step heavier, more certain, as ancient power coursed through her veins.
Whatever the Moonstone had awakened within her, Alessandra knew one thing above all: a reckoning was coming. Whether she was its herald or its victim, only time would tell.
Genre: Dark Fantasy
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Black Lingerie Set with Bow Details and Lace-Up Thigh-High Stockings: The Ultimate Seductive and Empowering Look
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