Story 1152: The Blooded Grove

It rained blood in the Grove of Hollow Roots every year on the same night—the final night of the Harvest Moon.

No one planted seeds there. Nothing should have grown. Yet the trees towered tall and twisted, their bark black as ash, their leaves dark red and thick like wet velvet. The ground was soft, not with soil, but with rot.

The village of Varnhollow learned long ago to never speak of it, never wander near it. But traditions die slowly, and the Grove demanded tribute.

Every year, a name was drawn.

This year, it was Orren Fallow, a quiet butcher’s apprentice with trembling hands and a heart too kind for his cursed town.

They told him it was an honor.

They gave him a red cloak, a blade carved from elderbone, and a lantern that never flickered in wind or rain. They marched him to the grove as the moon rose, full and red, and left him at the treeline.

Alone.