Hades' Cursed Luna novel Chapter 361

Chapter 361: Act Two

Eve

The air was razor-thin now.

Everyone sensed it—that they were brushing up against something bigger than treason, bigger than scandal.

Cesare’s question lingered like a loaded weapon.

Hades didn’t answer right away.

So I did.

"The Flux doesn’t just grant power," I said carefully, "it feeds. It corrodes. The longer it lives inside a host, the more of that host it devours."

A murmur swept through the room—unease blooming in every row.

"It learns them," I continued, "their rage, their sorrow, their regrets—and turns those into weapons. Against them. Against everyone."

Hades looked down at his hands as if remembering something only he could see.

"If we hadn’t purged it," he said softly, "I wouldn’t be standing here. Not as myself."

"And what would you be?" someone called out, quiet but firm.

His gaze lifted slowly. His voice was grave.

"A god of ruin."

The words fell like iron. No one laughed. No one scoffed.

They believed him.

Cesare straightened. "And how was it purged?"

This time, I stepped fully forward. No fear. No mask.

"With the Fenrir’s Marker."

A beat of stunned silence.

Then—

A flick of tablets. Pens flying. Hands rising faster than breath.

The press exploded in intrigue.

A tall woman barked first, cutting through the noise. "What is the Fenrir’s Marker? Is it a relic? A curse?"

"It’s neither," I answered. "It’s a spiritual trait. A blood signature. With properties that make it a blessing."

Another reporter jumped in. "So it’s inside you?"

"Yes."

"So it makes you...?"

I nodded. "Immune to the effects of the bloodmoon to come.

"Hold on—" the older woman from before leaned forward, wide-eyed. "You said the Marker purged the Flux. How?"

I exchanged a glance with Hades before replying.

"We performed a forbidden rite," I said. "The Fenrir’s Chain. It hasn’t been practiced in over five centuries."

"Why?"

"Because it requires sacrifice. Pain. A soul-deep tethering that either saves the host—or destroys them both."

There was a stunned pause. And then:

"You bonded with him through this rite?"

"Yes," I said quietly. "Spirit to spirit. Psyche to psyche. I entered the part of him the Flux had consumed and dragged what was left of Hades back from it."

"And what happened inside?" someone dared to ask.

Hades answered, voice low. "Madness. Memory. A war of everything I was, everything my father made me to be, and everything the Flux wanted me to become."

He turned toward me, reverent. "She won."

A rush of emotion hit me then, but I didn’t show it. I couldn’t.

Another journalist raised her hand, breathless.

"If the Marker neutralized the Flux—could it be used again? Against others? Against future outbreaks?"

"Yes," I said. "But only in rare cases. The Marker reacts differently depending on the spirit it’s bound to. It doesn’t cleanse evil. It cleanses corruption."

"And you still carry it?"

I met her eyes. "Yes. And I always will."

Dozens of hands shot up again.

But they weren’t just asking for clarification.

They were hungry for revelation. For understanding.

"Next question," I said.

A reporter near the front—bald, thin-framed, with two sets of glasses hanging from his collar—lifted his hand halfway before speaking.

"Lady Eve," he said, voice tight, "there are whispers from within Morrison’s laboratory that a serum is being developed using your blood—specifically, your Marker. Is that true?"

I nodded once. "It’s not a whisper. It’s a fact."

The murmurs exploded.

"And what for?" another reporter demanded from behind him. "What purpose would that serve if the Flux is gone?"

I didn’t answer.

Not because I didn’t want to—but because this time, it wasn’t mine to explain.

Beside me, Hades exhaled slowly, his voice breaking through the uproar with eerie calm.

"The Bloodmoon will rise in fifteen months."

The hall silenced.

You could hear the whirring of cameras, the creak of chairs, a pen falling to the floor and rolling once—before stopping.

He continued, each word measured like a surgeon with a scalpel.

"And though I’m certain many of you know it won’t be... pleasant, I must tell you that ’unpleasant’ doesn’t begin to cover it."

He paused just long enough for the tension to coil tighter.

"The last time the Bloodmoon aligned with Silverpine’s apex was over eight hundred years ago. Records from that period are scattered, contradictory, but they all agree on one thing."

He looked out at them—not as a king, but as a bearer of terrible truth.

"It wasn’t a celestial event. It was a cataclysm."

Gasps.

Mouths dropped open. Some reporters instinctively turned to one another, seeking confirmation, reassurance—anything to lessen the horror of the word.

"A cataclysm?" someone echoed.

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