Excerpt from “Sacred Blood of the Moon” prologue.

Wet, gurgling screams pierce the cool, still air of the night. The contrast between the serene, shimmering moonlight and the warm fireflies dancing about, against the cries of terror, creates an acrid, sickly atmosphere. Ivy crouches behind a bush, peeking cautiously from its concealing branches as she watches the High Priestess, cloaked in silver and sapphire robes, raise her hand with a commanding, yet graceful, motion. The air before her ripples in a shimmering wave, revealing an invisible wall that parts at her command.

The gurgling cries continue from the torn throat of a woman writhing on the ground before the Priestess and her Gaelai women, spitting and coughing blood onto the earth. The Priestess steps through the barrier, followed closely by the other women, to the base of a towering yew tree on the other side. They surround the woman, clasping hands and forming a sacred circle.

The dying woman is one of the betrayers. Ivy has heard the stories of these outsiders, how they abandoned the Goddess long ago, bringing danger and ruin to their lands. Anger swells within her as she clenches her tiny fists. Why have they come to answer the call of this wretched outsider? This situation is their fault. Ivy glares at the woman while the Priestess and the Gaelai women chant around her, their magic slowly knitting her wounds together in a soft, golden light. The woman’s wet, gurgling cries diminish as the injuries begin to heal. With the final chant, her wounds vanish entirely, and the woman gasps for breath, her eyes wide with fearful disbelief. Hands scramble to grasp her throat, gulping air again and again.

Yet, the woman refuses to look at those who just saved her life; she keeps her eyes fixed on the ground, ungrateful and ashamed. Ivy’s anger bubbles inside her as she witnesses this ungrateful outsider receive a miracle from her Goddess without a hint of humility or gratitude. Why do they even help those who come crying out for assistance?

As Ivy wrestles with her frustration, a faint sound reaches her ears. She turns to see a small figure peeking from behind the sprawling branches of the Great Yew. It's a toddler, her face smudged with dirt, glistening tears streaming down her cheeks, and mixing with the snot running from her nose. With a quivering voice, the little girl calls out to her mother, the whimper filled with heart-wrenching urgency.

The woman’s demeanor shifts at the sound of her child’s voice. She turns quickly, arms outstretched, a primal reaction fueled by maternal love. “Mama,” the toddler cries, her voice trembling with fear and longing as she bolts toward her mother. In an instant, they are locked in an embrace, a chaotic yet tender fusion of blood, dirt, and tears. The mother rocks her child back and forth, murmuring soothing words, each gentle motion enveloped in profound, sorrowful relief.

Watching this poignant moment unfold, Ivy’s perspective shifts. This is why, she concludes. This is why the Goddess extends her grace to those who have forsaken her despite their failings. This is why the Priestess, with unwavering determination, continues to respond to the calls of those in distress. Ultimately, they are human, and that simple truth is the only thing that matters amid such suffering and love.

Ivy watches as the woman reaches out a reluctant, shaking hand to grasp the charm the Priestess offers. “To protect you,” the Priestess says softly yet insistently. The woman takes it, clenching it into her fist while still staring at the ground, unwilling to meet the Priestess’s gaze. She turns her back and walks away wordlessly, her child cradled in her arms. Ivy cannot help but quietly wish for her to turn around and say ‘thank you,’ to feel any pull to soften and reunite with the Goddess. Her skin itches with hope at the thought of witnessing the miracle of a lost child of the Moon returning home, but the woman does not look back. Ivy’s heart aches as a tear escapes her, and her hope dwindles as the woman walks farther away. Yet, as she sees the mother speckle her daughter's face with grateful and relieved kisses, her heart aches a little less. Hope is not entirely lost; a speck of it remains.