The mist coiled like living smoke, and the moon hung heavy in the night sky, a pale coin watching over the cursed village of Ashgrave. William Gray's pulse thundered in his ears as he stood face-to-face with the mysterious woman on the Bridge of Whispers.
She was impossibly beautiful. Ethereal. Dangerous.
Her voice had curled around his name like silk.
"William," he whispered, barely recognizing his own voice.
The woman's lips curved into a haunting smile, her silver-gray eyes gleaming under the moonlight. "Such a beautiful name," she murmured, stepping closer. The air thickened, perfumed with wildflowers and something darker, like honey mixed with blood.
William should have run. His mind screamed Charlotte's name, but every step she took toward him drowned out his reason.
Before he could speak again, her soft fingers traced his jawline. A coldness lingered on her touch, yet it sent fire through his veins. The bridge, the night, the legends — all forgotten.
The full moon cast their figures in ghostly white as she pulled him toward her, her lips brushing his in a kiss that felt both divine and damning. The world spun, and the mist swallowed them whole.
By the time they reached the riverbank, neither remembered how they got there.
The night was electric — filled with the hush of leaves, the rush of water, and the distant cry of an owl. William lay beside her, half-clothed, the cold grass damp against his skin. The scent of lavender clung to her, intoxicating and heavy.
His heart slowed as the aftermath of their union settled, and the cold of reality crept in.
Charlotte…
The guilt hit him like a dagger.
He turned his head to the woman beside him — her flawless skin bathed in moonlight, her raven hair tangled around her perfect shoulders. She gazed at the sky as though counting stars no mortal could see.
"I should go," he whispered, sitting up, the chill of the night sobering his thoughts.
No reply.
"Listen, I— I have someone waiting for me," he stammered, looking toward the bridge.
Still silence.....
Then, slowly, the woman turned her head to him.
And something had changed.
Her eyes, once soft and sorrowful, now shimmered with cruel amusement. The color deepened — silver turning to stormy gray, flecked with shadows. The sweetness of her face twisted, though she remained eerily beautiful. An ancient hunger settled in her expression.
"I… I should leave," William repeated, his voice cracking.
She sat up with fluid, unnatural grace. The flower she had once held was now a withered husk at her feet.
"You gave yourself to me, William Gray," she said softly, her voice still melodic but laced with a cold edge. "And under the silver moon, I claim what is mine."
Fear rooted him to the ground.
"W-who… who are you?" He managed.
The woman smiled....
"Me… (evil laugh)… Isabella... the last name you'll ever whisper" she whispered with a creepy voice. "The last breath you'll take… the last warmth you'll feel."
Before he could move, the mist surged around them like a living thing. The river's gentle hum rose to a chorus of ghostly voices. His heartbeat quickened, his body numb.
A cold hand pressed to his chest — not tender, but possessive.
The world went black...
The next morning, villagers gathered by the riverbank.
William Gray's body lay still, untouched by the elements, his face oddly peaceful. No wounds. No scratches.
But when the physician placed a hand to his chest, he paled.
"No pulse," the man whispered.
Another man stepped forward and checked.
"There's no… heart."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The older villagers crossed themselves, muttering ancient prayers.
"It was her," someone whispered. "Isabella."
And by dusk, the whole village knew — William Gray had become another lost soul claimed by The Woman of the Silver Moon...