they had lived for centuries. they had fought beside one another, bled for one another, and made promises that even death could not undo. seven souls, bound by a single oath. and for centuries, not one of them had dared to break it. the rules were simple. never betray your own. never reveal what you are. and above all, never spill the blood of one who shares your curse. for an immortal, death was not a punishment. it was a privilege. a mercy reserved for those fortunate enough to escape eternity. they had once believed themselves untouchable. they were wrong. it began on a night when the moon turned crimson, when the wind fell silent and every clock in the city stopped at precisely 11:11. in a forgotten room beneath an abandoned cathedral, seven candles burned around an empty altar. six flames flickered. the seventh went out. somewhere across the city, a glass shattered. somewhere else, a man awoke from a dream he could not remember. and in a house where no mirrors had hung for over a hundred years, a shadow moved when its owner did not. the oath had been broken. they simply did not know by whom. by sunrise, the first sign appeared: a black mark beneath the skin, shaped like a crown of thorns. none of them had seen it before. none of them dared to speak of it. because they all knew what it meant. one of their own had betrayed them. and when the blood moon rose again, the curse would claim its price. seven immortals had sworn to remain together for eternity. now, eternity was running out. and the most terrifying part? the traitor was still among them. watching. waiting. perhaps even grieving alongside the others. after all, betrayal was easiest when the person standing beside you was the one you trusted most. some oaths are written in blood. this one would end in it.
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