Beloved by The Moon

Chapter 5

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world in twilight, Morgan steeled herself for the confrontation ahead. Tonight, she would delve into the shadows, determined to uncover the mysteries that had ensnared the young Mara Greenway.

After parking her car, Morgan walked briskly along the winding path leading to the old ruins at the edge of the town, her mind racing with anticipation. The forest enveloped her in a tapestry of greens and browns, sunlight filtering through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns on the ground. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she had on a comfortable flannel shirt over a simple tee, along with sturdy hiking boots that crunched softly against the gravel.

As she ventured deeper into the woods, the air grew cooler and filled with the earthy scent of damp leaves and moss. Morgan's eyes darted around, taking in the ancient trees, their trunks twisted and gnarled, each one seeming to hold its own story. She relished the solitude, the quiet punctuated only by the rustle of leaves and distant bird calls.

Thoughts of the ruin filled her mind—the crumbling stones, the history waiting to be uncovered. She imagined the stories of those who once walked these paths, the laughter and whispers that had faded with time. With each step, her anticipation grew, driving her forward as she navigated the underbrush.

As Morgan stepped into the clearing, she spotted a familiar figure leaning against the trunk of a massive oak tree. He pushed himself off the tree, stepping closer, his voice low and cryptic. "Some say she sought a connection to the past, a truth hidden within the ruin's embrace. But truths can be... elusive, especially in places where time stands still."

"Why do you know so much about this?" she asked, curiosity piqued.

"Let's just say I've been around long enough to hear the whispers," he replied, his tone teasing yet serious. "And those whispers often speak of lost souls, like Mara. If you're willing to delve deeper, I could share more. But be warned, some stories demand a price."

"What do you mean?"

"Exploring the past can lead to unexpected revelations. Are you prepared for what you might find?" He leaned closer, his gaze intense.

Morgan took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I want to know. I need to understand, name your price."

He chuckled, "A dinner for the story. May I invite you to dinner, miss Montgomery?"

It's a rather cheap price, she thought.

"Deal."

"Then let us begin," he said, gesturing toward the ruins. "But remember, the shadows hold more than just echoes of history. They hold the essence of those who came before."

With that, they stepped forward together and he began to tell the story of the Old Ruin.

The blood cult of Ereshkigal, devoted to the ancient Mesopotamian goddess, had thrived in secrecy for over a century. Operating from the shadows, they instilled fear in the hearts of the villagers, demanding a human sacrifice every decade to appease their deity, whom they believed craved blood to ensure the town's prosperity and protection. Cloaked in dark robes, the cultists preyed primarily on unsuspecting visitors, luring them with false promises before ensnaring them in their sinister rituals.

The chilling atmosphere was further compounded by the complicity of local law enforcement, many of whom were entrenched in the cult. Any dissent or investigation into the disappearances was swiftly silenced, leaving the townsfolk paralyzed by fear. Despite the cult's iron grip on the community, the villagers remained largely passive, too intimidated to confront the malevolent force that governed their lives.

The cult's rituals centred around an ancient altar deep within the forest, where they invoked Ereshkigal through haunting chants and sacrifices. This dark practice became a grim tradition, perpetuating a cycle of dread that left the village haunted and vulnerable to the whims of their dark goddess.

The Old Ruin, originally part of a church until the late 15th century, was not an artifact of ancient Mesopotamia. Abandoned as the population moved away from the forests in search of more hospitable surroundings, it was a century ago that a faction of the blood cult became captivated by the town and established their presence there. Now, they infiltrate every layer of society, performing their vicious deeds and kidnapping newcomers, further entrenching their influence in the community.

Some tried to abolish the Blood Cult. They had their members hunted throughout the passage of time but just like pesky weeds, they keep returning back. More of them grew over the centuries and their presence existed all over the country.

"So... Mara Greenway is kidnapped for a ritual?"

"Probably so and if I'm correct,  there's a ritual that will be happening tonight."

She pondered the story, her gaze fixed on a stone slab at the center of the ruins. It was stained with blood and exuded a sharp, metallic scent that filled the air.

"Is she still alive?"

"For the time being, yes. And my story ends here. I can't help you any further. Those who tried to follow this path... they didn't make it. Morgan Montgomery, do not pursue this matter. There's no turning back from here."

Morgan weighed his warnings. His testimony was her only lead, but he refused to share more.

"Mara's parents deserve the truth. They want their daughter back, and I won't be a coward. I will decipher the glyphs in her book and confront the—"

Footsteps interrupted her. She turned to see a group of figures emerging from the shadows, their faces obscured by hooded veils and torches flickering in the night.

"We must go. Now." He grasped her hand, pulling her deeper into the darkness as they moved away from the Old Ruins, careful to remain silent.



As they escaped the cultists, two unsettling realizations struck Morgan: she still didn't know his name, and there was no warmth emanating from his body—it felt disturbingly like touching a corpse. Yet, in the pitch-blackness, he navigated with eerie confidence, sidestepping gnarled roots as if he could see perfectly in the dark.

Once they reached a safe distance, she pulled her hand away from his grasp. The night was thick with silence, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, making everything feel heavy and suffocating.

"Look down there." He gestured, and she followed his instruction, peering from their vantage point in the trees. They had climbed to higher ground, granting them a perfect bird's-eye view of the Old Ruins. Below, the cultists formed a tight circle around a stone slab she recognized—the one that reeked of blood.

"I can assure you, the blood on the stone slab isn't human—at least, not for now. It reeks of stag's blood."

"How can you possibly know that without a lab test?" she challenged, skepticism lacing her voice.

He chuckled softly, "There's more to this world than just scientists and philosophers, miss Montgomery. There are creatures of the night who can detect alluring scents from miles away. Some could even taste your blood and glean the secrets of your ancestry."

He had chosen a clearing for them to witness the rituals, and without the dense canopy overhead, the moonlight bathed him in an ethereal glow. His features were sharp and captivating, but it was his eyes that held her captive—they seemed to shimmer, almost luminous, hinting at depths of knowledge and power beyond her understanding.

"You're not human, are you?" The words slipped from her lips with surprising ease, and she instantly recognized their dark undertone.

"Indeed, Miss Montgomery." His eyes shimmered like molten silver, compelling her to take a step back. She reminded herself, whether he was a dangerous or not a shot of bullet on the head from her revolver would certainly incapacitate him for some time.

"You don't seem afraid," he remarked.
"I'm terrified," she admitted, the truth hanging heavy in the air. This was her point of no return; she would spend the rest of her life questioning whether this was merely another fever dream.

There were cases she had investigated that had gone cold. The trails often led to elusive answers, or perhaps the truth was there all along, lurking just out of reach.

A couple had vanished in the forest, leaving only their car behind. No blood, no bodies, no sign of a struggle—just the unsettling impression that they had left willingly. Then, one day, they reappeared, acting as if nothing had happened. They offered her a large sum to keep quiet about what she had discovered. But she couldn't ignore their unusual demeanor: the way they stood, the lack of blinking, the way they glided across the floor—movements too swift for any human. Their family might not notice, or if they did, they wouldn't care. All that mattered was that the couple had come back.
"We must leave before they find us. Please, miss Montgomery, you have to reconsider," He said.

They left the forest, and she headed to her car. He insisted on ensuring she returned safely to her inn.

"I insist, Miss Montgomery."

"It seems chivalry isn't dead—unless you're planning to kill me on the way back."

"There are many things I'd like to do with you, but I assure you, killing isn't one of them." His words were laced with mischief, his eyes glinting as he spoke.

Before Morgan stepped inside, she asked, "What's your name?"

"Naram. You can call me Naram."

With that, he faded into the shadows.

Once inside, Morgan weighed her options. There were too many to consider. Confronting the cult herself would likely end in her death. Reporting it to the police risked being silenced by corrupt officers. Escalating the issue to higher authorities could mean facing cultists embedded in those organisations.

In this chaotic situation, her only ally was an unknown entity with no record of existence who wanted to take her out to dinner the next night.
Morgan powered up her laptop and began searching for information on "Naram." What she found was... intriguing.
Naram-Sin was a prominent ruler of the Akkadian Empire in ancient Mesopotamia, reigning around 2254–2218 BCE. He was the grandson of Sargon of Akkad, the empire's founder, and is often celebrated for his military conquests and administrative reforms.

Naram-Sin is notable for his ambitious expansion of the empire, leading campaigns that extended Akkadian influence into regions such as modern-day Iran and Turkey. His reign is marked by a significant cultural and artistic flourishing, including the famous victory stele depicting him as a god-like figure trampling his enemies, which reflects both his military prowess and the divine right by which he ruled.
He was one of the first rulers to declare himself a god, using the title "King of the Four Quarters of the World." This shift towards a more theocratic form of leadership represented a significant development in the way kingship was perceived in the ancient world.

However, his reign also faced challenges, including revolts and the eventual decline of the Akkadian Empire, leading to its fall shortly after his death. Naram-Sin remains a fascinating figure in the history of ancient Mesopotamia, embodying both the heights of imperial ambition and the complexities of power.

Her ultimate question was, is this the same Naram she met tonight or Naram is just another popular name?
As she lay in bed, her mind whirled with a chaotic tapestry of worries and unresolved questions. Thoughts of the day's events tangled with fears for tomorrow, each one louder than the last. She replayed conversations, dissected decisions, and felt the familiar weight of anxiety settle on her chest.

Eventually, she felt her body relent. Her breathing slowed, and the chaotic thoughts began to blur into a soft hum. The weight of her worries faded, replaced by the gentle lull of sleep calling her name. Just as she teetered on the edge of consciousness, she let out a quiet sigh and surrendered to the darkness, embracing the escape it offered, if only for a little while.

In her dream, Morgan felt like she stepped into the shadows of the unknown, a calmness enveloped her, as if she were floating above the chaos. Fear had long since abandoned her; the weight of past traumas had dulled her senses, rendering her numb. The prospect of danger, even death, felt distant and irrelevant.

In this moment, she wasn't thinking about survival; she was thinking about purpose. The greater cause loomed before her, a beacon that eclipsed her own fears.

The unknown didn't terrify her; it felt like an old friend, a familiar companion in her never-ending journey of loss. If her death could spark change or bring justice, then so be it. She had already made peace with that possibility.
With each step forward, she embraced the uncertainty, not with dread, but with a resolute acceptance. Her heart now pulsed with the quiet determination of someone who had nothing left to lose.