bc

《Thorned Moon》

book_age18+
0
FOLLOW
1K
READ
fated
kickass heroine
drama
werewolves
high-tech world
like
intro-logo
Blurb

On the Western continent ravaged by werewolves, Elowen Veyra—an orphan purchased from an Eastern port by a High Witch in exchange for rare spices—faces her 18th-year full moon night. As a novice witch, she must hunt and sacrifice a werewolf to the Moon Goddess before dawn, or suffer divine punishment. Her gift defies convention: she transforms bitter potions into intoxicating elixirs, wields a silver chalice as her sacred tool, and is accompanied by a noisy yet loyal snow-white goose familiar.

chap-preview
Free preview
Chapter 1: The Blessing of the Moon
Elowen Veyra stood in the dimly lit chamber, her fingers hovering above the ancient symbols etched into the stone altar. The air was thick with the fragrant blend of rosemary and honey, mingling with the faint scent of moonlit dew. She took a deep, steadying breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she prepared to cast the ritual that would mark her as a novice witch. “O goddess of the moon, grant me your favor,” she whispered, her voice barely a murmur over the flickering candlelight. Seven silver candles encircled her, their flames casting a soft, dancing light on the statue of the moon goddess. The goddess’s eyes, made of cat’s-eye stones, seemed to pierce through Elowen, as if reading her very soul. From the shadows, her mentor, Lady Amber, watched silently. Amber’s presence was both comforting and intimidating. With her golden hair and her sharp green eyes, she was known across the land not just for her immense magical power, but for her wit that could both soothe and sting. A powerful witch, Amber had taken Elowen in after finding her, an orphan from the East, with nothing but a fierce determination to learn. “Relax, child,” Lady Amber’s voice came from the dark corner of the room, soft yet carrying a quiet authority. “You're overthinking it. Magic flows from inspiration, and inspiration comes from the gods. Just let go.” Elowen nodded, doing her best to calm her nerves. She had always been fascinated by tales of powerful witches, their feats of magic, and their control over forces beyond imagining. But now, standing on the precipice of becoming one herself, the weight of the responsibility felt heavier than she had anticipated. Her hands moved with the precision of someone who had practiced the ritual countless times, even though her mind was a whirlwind of doubts. The herbs—so many herbs—were poured into the cauldron, and she watched, breathlessly, as the potion bubbled and steamed, releasing a rich scent of earth and something sweet, almost intoxicating. The very air seemed to thrum with energy. “Are you sure about this?” Lady Amber’s voice cut through her concentration. “Once you start, there’s no going back. Magic can change everything.” Elowen paused, looking up. Her dark eyes met Lady Amber’s piercing green ones. “I have to try. I need to find the werewolf and prove myself. I need to do this.” Lady Amber’s expression softened for a moment, a flicker of something rare in her gaze—a genuine concern. “Very well. But remember, child, magic is a double-edged sword. It can heal, but it can also destroy.” Elowen nodded. With her mentor’s words echoing in her mind, she refocused on the ritual. She began chanting the ancient words, each syllable drawing the power up from deep within her. As the magic swelled inside her, the candles around the altar flickered brighter, casting an eerie glow. The moon goddess's statue seemed to come alive, her cat’s-eye eyes glowing faintly with an otherworldly light. Just as Elowen felt the magic reaching its peak, a sudden chill swept through the room. The candles flickered out one by one, plunging the chamber into complete darkness. Her heart raced, fear and confusion swirling in her chest. “Lady Amber?” Elowen’s voice trembled in the silence. “Don’t worry,” came Lady Amber’s calm voice from the darkness, “It’s just a test. The moon goddess is testing your resolve.” Elowen’s breath hitched. It was like something straight out of the stories, where the gods would test their chosen ones in moments of great peril. Was this part of the ritual? Or had something gone wrong? The silence stretched, and for a brief moment, Elowen wondered if she could still go on. Was this truly the goddess testing her, or was something darker lurking, waiting to claim her? Then, as if responding to her thoughts, the candles reignited one by one, their light returning and casting a soft, warm glow throughout the room. Elowen felt a rush of energy—familiar, yet new. A tingling sensation spread through her skin, a sense of power filling her every fiber. It wasn’t just magic; it was purpose. Lady Amber stepped from the shadows, her eyes glimmering with approval. “Welcome to the world of magic, Elowen,” she said, her voice tinged with pride. “Now, let’s see what you can do.” Elowen smiled, a sense of quiet confidence blooming inside her. She had passed her first test. The journey ahead would be long and dangerous, but she was no longer just a girl dreaming of magic. She was a witch. And she would find the werewolf, no matter the cost. Elowen felt as though she were stitched into a curse—thread by thread, soul by soul. In the world of witches, magic was never granted freely. Especially not to the weak. Especially not to the young. For them, power came with blood, and the price of inspiration was always sacrifice. Her very first spell wasn’t a simple charm, nor a glowing ritual of moonlight—it was the "Rebirth of the Goat," a grim recreation of the ancient rite once performed by Medea herself. The old goat's limbs, sawed and slashed, were flung into a cauldron seething with heat and flame. Its blood hissed upon contact, sizzling over iron, bubbling into a red foam laced with herbs. The scent was maddening—raw, coppery flesh clashing against mugwort, bone ash, and fennel. Around her, other apprentice witches laughed, unbothered by the gore. Their hands, steady and stained, performed the spell with ritualistic precision. The result? Soft, bleating lambs rising from the steam like sacred rebirths, summoned by divine will—or so it seemed. But Elowen... Elowen stirred. And stirred. And stirred again. Her spoon clattered against bone fragments. Her arms ached. Her forehead glistened. Still, her cauldron remained stubbornly silent. No lamb. No spark. Only steam—white and curling—rising like a mocking ghost. And then the smell changed. It grew rich. Fragrant. Unreasonably... appetizing. Witches began to sniff. One leaned over. Then another. Someone licked their lips. And without warning, they gathered around her pot—not to observe, but to feast. “Delicious,” one muttered, slurping with joy. “Is that cumin?” Elowen’s heart collapsed inward. Had she failed? Was she not chosen? Not magical? But the truth was stranger. Her spell had not failed—it had mutated. Transfigured. Her magic didn't follow rules. It refused to. It turned sacrifice into supper. And that was only her first disaster. Next came the flying salve test. An essential of any proper witch’s toolkit, the salve was meant to be smeared along the arms or legs. Under the light of the full moon, it would lift the body skyward with grace and freedom. The other girls had already soared off the ground like graceful crows, giggling as they looped through the air. Some plucked silver eggs from treetop nests. Others did loops just to show off. Elowen, meanwhile, was not flying. She was chasing. Her "salve" had transformed—again—into fluffy, floating puffs. They drifted lazily through the air like enchanted cotton candy, shimmering faintly under starlight. She ran after them with a net in hand, swatting and cursing in frustration. One witch caught a puff, bit into it, and blinked. “Sweet,” she said. “And oddly... fizzy.” Another grabbed two and stuffed them into her mouth like marshmallows. Elowen wanted to cry. Then—by sheer luck—an elder witch passed by, caught one of the sugar-like blobs, and popped it into her mouth. Moments later, the woman rose into the air, blinking with mild surprise. “Oh,” she said. “It... works.” Laughter erupted around them. Elowen collapsed onto the grass, breathless and dazed. She wasn’t rejected by the goddess. Just... misinterpreted. Her magic didn’t follow tradition. It improvised. It rebelled. It bent the laws of ritual, refused structure, and sang in an entirely different dialect. And maybe—just maybe—that was the beginning of something dangerous.

editor-pick
Dreame-Editor's pick

bc

Saving the Hybrid's Past

read
243.7K
bc

The Unwilling Forsaken Luna

read
1K
bc

My Quadruplet Bullies To Mates

read
42.8K
bc

All Yours Daddy.

read
11.0K
bc

Love Beyond Numbers

read
3.3K
bc

My Legendary Alpha Mate

read
86.6K
bc

The Luna He Rejected (Extended version)

read
445.6K

Scan code to download app

download_iosApp Store
google icon
Google Play
Facebook