The night had fallen deep, swallowing Eldermoor in a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling of the torches. Tomas and the six other sons formed a circle in the clearing, their faces grim, illuminated by the eerie red glow of the rising blood moon.
Each bore the mark of the seventh son—a birthmark shaped like a crescent, a sign of their cursed yet powerful lineage. Tomas felt the weight of generations on his shoulders. The village's fate hinged on this night.
From the forest's edge, a low growl echoed. The shadow that had haunted their dreams was coming, and it wasn't just a beast—it was something older, hungrier. The air thickened with the scent of decay and magic twisted with malice.
Tomas's voice broke the tense quiet. "We are the sons of Eldermoor. Tonight, we fight not just for ourselves, but for every soul this darkness threatens."
Their hands grasped wooden stakes, silver blades, and ancient charms, weapons forged to pierce the veil between worlds.
Suddenly, the shadows surged forward, revealing grotesque shapes—creatures twisted by dark sorcery, eyes glowing like embers, claws dripping with venom.
The battle began.
Blood mixed with earth and moonlight as screams pierced the night. Tomas moved like a force of nature, guided by instinct and the power that surged through his veins. But this was no ordinary fight. Each strike carried the risk of losing more than life—it could cost their very souls.
As the moon reached its zenith, Tomas saw it—the source of the darkness—a massive, crucified figure hanging from the twisted branches, its eyes blazing with hatred and sorrow. The curse of the seventh son was tied to this entity, and only by confronting it could they hope to end the nightmare.
But the price of victory might be higher than any of them imagined.
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