Centuries ago, when moons still spoke to each other, two souls defied fate.

The Blue Moon and the Red Moon were reflections of the same world, divided by a veil of ancient magic. Their inhabitants lived under different laws: on the Blue Moon, magic flowed freely like the wind, allowing its inhabitants to shape destiny with their own dreams. On the Red Moon, order was absolute, and the stars dictated the path of each life from birth to death. It was said that both moons were two halves of a single existence, separated to maintain the balance of the universe.

But there was a time when that balance was challenged.

Ancient tales tell of two souls born under opposite moons, drawn to each other as if fate had made a mistake in separating them. No one remembers their names, for their stories were erased from the channels of time. But whispers in the wind and shooting stars still tell of their tragedy.

Legend has it that they met across a forbidden lake, where the waters reflected not only the sky, but also the other moon. On special nights, when both moons aligned, the reflection became so clear it seemed possible to touch it. It was on one of those nights that the lovers saw each other for the first time, separated only by the thin sheet of water.

"You're real..." she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief and hope.

"I've always felt you near, but I've never seen you."

Day after day, night after night, they stood in the same place, defying the prohibition against approaching their reflections. They spoke to each other across the water, laughed with the complicity of those who belong together without having shared a life together, and loved each other without touching.

But time was not kind.

The blue moon and the red moon moved away once more, and with that, the reflection began to fade. What had been an invisible portal between their worlds weakened until it became a mere mirage. Despair gripped them. They were unwilling to lose each other.

"We cannot remain separated," one said, his voice cracking with anguish.

"If you cross the reflection, we will both disappear," the other replied, but his own voice also trembled with doubt.

Still, they decided to defy fate.

They prepared for nights on end, studying the ancient legends that spoke of the portals between moons. They told themselves that if anyone ever made it across, they could too. And when the next alignment came, when the reflection was clearer than ever, they took the first step toward finding each other.

In that moment, the Guardian of Reflections awoke.

No one knows where he comes from or what his true face is. Some say he is a formless shadow, a presence that slips between the moons to ensure they never touch. Others claim he was a human like them, a forbidden lover turned eternal watcher. But their duty is clear: to preserve the balance, no matter the cost.

And when the lovers attempted to cross the reflection, the Guardian caught up with them.

Some versions of the story say the water turned to fire and consumed their bodies to ash. Others claim their souls were locked inside shooting stars, doomed to shine for an instant before vanishing forever. But they all agree on one thing:

They never saw each other again.

The reflection closed. The lovers' story became a warning. And from then on, the moons remained separated, their fates etched in the stone of time.

However, there are those who believe the story didn't end there.

Some nights, when the wind blows in the opposite direction and the stars twinkle more brightly, if you approach the forbidden lake and look closely at your reflection, you can hear a whisper in the water:

"We are still here."

The elders say it is only an echo of the past, a reminder of what happens when balance is challenged. But others, those who believe love is stronger than magic, claim that lovers never completely disappeared. They continue to search for each other throughout time, waiting for the moment when someone will finish what they started.

No one knows if anyone will ever manage to cross the moons.

The sky above the Blue Moon was an ocean of flickering lights. Glowing orbs floated like fireflies, casting pale light over stone paths that wound between crystal skyscrapers and towers capped with silver domes. Lunaris—the Blue Moon's crown jewel—looked like a shattered mirror of the constellations Astra loved.

But even as a kid, she'd felt it: something missing. Her world was all harmony—Lunaris' cold beauty, her people's quiet calm. Yet that emptiness gnawed at her ribs. Like someone—something—waited just beyond the edge of her vision.

Tonight, like so many nights, her feet carried her to the Lake of Shadows.

A sacred, quiet corner far from the city's noise—where water mirrored the sky with unsettling precision. Here, the Blue Moon's reflection burned impossibly bright, its ripples hiding secrets beneath the surface.

Astra knelt at the shore and stared at her own reflection.

"Always end up here," she whispered.

The wind stirred her silver hair—common among her people—and her reflection shivered. Her eyes, deep ocean blue, glowed with the same eerie light as the moon above.

Why do I keep coming back?

But the lake never answered.

This time, something was different.

For a heartbeat, her reflection lagged a beat too long. A flicker. A ripple. Then—normal again.

Astra leaned closer, squinting.

"What the—?"

The air turned icy.

Out of the corner of her eye—another shadow in the water. But when she turned… nothing. Just her reflection, staring back with its usual calm.

Must be tired.

She sighed and flopped onto the grass, gazing at the sky. From here, she could see Lunaris' sacred dome, where the Celestial Council ruled with ancient wisdom. According to them, the balance of the Blue Moon must remain untouched—any disruption deemed dangerous.

But the Council didn't understand.

They didn't feel the pull she did.

Astra never fully bought into that belief.

Why did "perfect balance" leave her feeling so empty?

"If someone's really out there… tell me who you are."

Her words dissolved into the night breeze.

Then—the reflection glowed.

Astra shot upright, heart hammering in her ears. Stared at the water.

But the image stayed clear. Unchanged.

"Must've imagined it."

But something in her gut hissed no.

The Blue Moon's glow marked the start of day. Unlike other worlds, there was no sun here to herald morning. Lunaris bowed to the moon's cycles—something its people had learned to worship.

Astra walked the city's gleaming streets with her best friend, Lior. Tall, silver-haired like her, though his eyes held an uncommon amber hue.

"Back to the Lake of Shadows again?" he teased.

"Can't help it," Astra admitted.

Lior clicked his tongue. "If the Council knew you're still obsessed with that reflection, they'd drag you to those purifying ceremonies."

"I'm not obsessed."

"No? Because it kinda sounds like you are."

She ignored him, eyes on the city. Lunaris' streets were wide, floating light orbs glowing in every corner. Citizens drifted by in blue-toned robes, voices hushed, faces calm. Always calm.

Harmony. Perfection.

Beautiful. But Astra felt like she didn't quite belong.

They reached the Grand Observatory, where Astra spent most days. As an astronomy apprentice, her job was to track the Blue Moon's patterns and cycles.

But her real obsession had always been something else…

The other moon.

Out there on the horizon, in the dark sky wrapping their world… another moon hung.

Not blue. Not glowing with their moon's soft, peaceful light.

Crimson.

Astra stared at it, jaw tight.

The Crimson Moon.

Since she could remember, no one spoke of it. Taboo. Scrubbed from the Council's records.

But Astra saw it. Every damn night.

And deep in her gut… she swore something stared back.

That night, the clouds had scattered, letting the Blue Moon blaze in full glory. The air bit cold, but Astra didn't flinch as she walked the stone path to the Lake of Shadows.

Every step echoed through the stillness, her sandals whispering over silver-leafed ground. The world slept, wrapped in Lunaris' usual calm. But she felt it—something about to snap.

Her heart hammered—too loud, too fast.

It was irrational. No proof. But instinct dragged her back. Like part of her knew tonight would crack everything open.

At the lake's edge, the water was glass-still, mirroring the sky with creepy precision. Astra knelt, palms pressing into damp grass.

Her reflection stared back.

Nothing.

Her breath slowed.

"If there's really someone there…" she whispered, "…tell me who you are."

The reflection flickered.

A chill spider-walked down her spine. This time, she didn't look away.

The water rippled—but the air was dead still.

Astra squinted. Something moved beneath the water's surface—not her reflection. Waves spread slow, warping the image… until she saw it.

The breath died in her throat.

Eyes unlike hers. Not deep blue like her people's. Dark, with a crimson glow at their core.

The image lasted less than a second.

Astra gasped, scrambling back, heart slamming her ribs. The water stilled. Her reflection stared back—normal. Unchanged.

But she'd seen it. She wasn't alone.

Her fingers clawed into the grass as she fought to steady her breath.

Not imagined.

Someone else was there.

Someone had seen her.

And unknown to her—that same night, on the Crimson Moon—Rowan had felt it too.

The sky over the Crimson Moon wasn't serene or peaceful like the Blue Moon's. Here, darkness was eternal.

No constellations glittered above—just a red glare like smoldering embers, staining the sky perpetual crimson. The ground cracked under volcanic rock. No day. No night. Only crimson eternity.

In this harsh wasteland stood the Fortress of the Sangreal, a bastion of dark stone carved into the heart of a volcanic mountain. Its jagged towers tore into the bloody sky like fangs, connected by suspension bridges of black chains that swayed in the scorching winds.

The forges? Never slept.

Blacksmiths drowned every inch of the fortress. Sweat, fire, metals ripped from the Crimson Moon's guts. The air? Thick—burnt iron and ash.

Hammers vs anvils. Swords vs steel. A symphony of violence.

And him.

Rowan. Atop the tower, skin glazed in forge-glare.

They'd carved him into a weapon since he could grip a dagger. Here, war ain't some choice.

It's survival.

Weakness? Doesn't breathe here. Only the brutal. The ones who bite first.

Five years old. Thrown into the Sangreal Arena—a colosseum where kids drilled combat until their bones screamed. Each dawn, fists before blades. You lose? No dinner. You win? A scrap of honor.

Seven? Got his first sword. Ten? Already dropping grown warriors in sparring rings.

Kids too weak? Poof. Gone by morning. No whispers. No graves. Only the strong breathe Crimson Moon air.

The Sangreal Conclave—those shadow-bastards ruling the moon—drilled it into him since diapers: Your purpose? Fight.

Fight for glory.

Fight for the hollow honor they shove down your throat.

Fight the Celestials—those Blue Moon pricks staring down from the sky like they own the damn cosmos.

"Enemies," they spat. Said his kind stole somethin' sacred from the Sangreal.

Never said what.

Rowan? Never wrapped his head around that faceless war.

Yeah, he'd learned to swing a blade since he could crawl.

Yeah, bled in a thousand training skirmishes.

Yeah, heard the stories—Celestials, those glowin' freaks who supposedly ripped the soul from his moon. Locked it in their Blue World with its azure skies and rivers like liquid glass.

But see one? Never.

Deep down? Doubted he ever would.

Tonight though—

Somethin' itched under his skin.

Leaning on the tower's balcony. Scowling at that blood-soaked sky.

Crimson clouds writhed like embers in the wind, stained by the Crimson Moon's glow—a massive fireball choking the horizon.

Something reeked wrong.

Fingers twitched against his sword's hilt—unconscious tic when his brain buzzed too loud. The blade still crusted with yesterday's training skirmish. Metal cracked where steel had clashed.

On Crimson Moon soil, you settled debates with steel. Spill blood first, think never.

But now? No enemy to gut.

Days now—that hollow gnawing in his ribs. Like a piece of him was missing. Calling from some dead-ass corner of the void.

He didn't believe in gut feelings.

The Conclave's lesson? Weaklings trust feelings.

On Crimson Moon soil, truth's written three ways: strength. Strategy. Blood-soaked sand.

Screw doubt.

Yet—

The night wind howled. His black cape snapped like a war banner. Air thick with electricity pricking his neck.

Someone's eyes. On him.

His grip choked the sword's hilt. Backstep. Eyes raked the shadows. Nothing. Just sentries' distant mutters and the forges' clang-clang-clang.

Not here. Not even close.

Something… out there. Beyond this rusted rock.

A thought-echo hissed in his skull—words in some tongue his bones shouldn't know.

"What if there's shit out there?"

Jaw locked.

He wrenched his head sideways—like trying to shake off a rabid dog.

Crimson Moon was his world. His only truth.

But

Deep in his marrow? Knew these thoughts'd claw back.

Rowan ghosted out of the Fortress. No goodbyes. Stone streets ate his footsteps—quieter, darker, like his flesh knew he was hunting forbidden shit.

No map. Just that hook in his ribs. Pulling harder with every step.

Calling him.

Soon—no more obsidian towers. No war-blasted walls. Just… wasteland.

Bone-dirt. Scab-patch grass. Jagged cliffs threw shadows like twisted giants under the Crimson Moon's piss-red glare.

Then—he reached it.

The Blood River.

A sludge-thick current—rotgut red. Not water. Molasses laced with centuries' worth of slaughter-rust.

Taboo, the elders warned.

Stare too long at your reflection here? You'll see your destiny's carcass… or death's shadow licking your neck.

Rowan? Scoffed at ghost stories.

But tonight—something in his veins itched.

Kneeled at the bank. Dirt bit his palms. Breath steady—chest heaving like a caged animal.

The river spat his reflection back.

Stone-cold eyes. No fear. Wind-tangled black hair framing a face carved for war.

Same face. Same scars.

Then—the water twitched.

Rowan's eyes slitted. Muscles coiled—instinct.

No wind.

No ripple.

The trembling deepened. Like something beneath the sludge was laughing.

Then—

His reflection blinked.

Not him.

Pupils blown wide—

A girl stared back.

Eyes blue. Not Crimson Moon rust-blue. Sky-blue. A color that didn't exist here.

Hair? Silver. Glowing like starlight trapped in water.

Unreal.

But Rowan knew—she saw him too.

Shiver razored down his spine.

His reflection snapped back.

Rowan jolted upright. Heart punching his ribs.

Looked again. Just his face now—stone-cold but shaken.

No mistake.

No goddamn hallucination.

Someone saw him.

And right then—

On the Blue Moon.

Astra's spine iced over.

She wasn't alone either.