The First Ember of Guilt
No one remembered when the Bleeding first began.
There were records, of course. Inked manuscripts sealed in cathedral vaults. Stone carvings along the submerged steps of forgotten temples. Songs passed down in villages that no longer existed. But memory is a fragile thing when survival demands silence.
The scholars called it a celestial anomaly.
The priests called it divine judgment.
The fishermen called it Tuesday.
The moon hung low and swollen over Blackwater Lake, its surface trembling like overheated metal. Veins of molten light cracked across it in jagged fractures, and then—slowly, obscenely—it began to drip.
Liquid fire fell in long glowing strands, stretching thin before breaking loose. Each drop struck the lake with a hiss that was less sound and more accusation. The surface flared gold, then dimmed, leaving behind ripples that shimmered with something heavier than light.
Something that did not belong to water.
The boat drifted without anchor.
Two figures stood within it, cloaked in dark wool that absorbed the glow instead of reflecting it. Their hoods were drawn low, their faces hidden, not for mystery—but for protection. The Bleeding did not like being watched.
The taller of the two adjusted his grip on the rod. The line, thin as a spider’s thread, disappeared into the molten reflection below.
“How many tonight?” the shorter one asked.
“As many as they’ve earned,” came the reply.
Another strand of fire fell.
When it struck the lake, the water did not simply ripple. It hardened. The molten glow condensed, thickened, and then formed something solid—something blackened and jagged—before beginning its slow descent into the depths.
The taller figure flicked his wrist.
The hook bit.
The line went taut.
The lake resisted.
Not violently. Not yet. It pulled the way a lie pulls at the conscience—subtle, persistent, unwilling to surface.
The boat rocked as the fisherman leaned back, boots braced against wood polished by a century of similar nights.
With a wet, heavy sound, the shard broke free of the water.
It was not beautiful.
It was not symmetrical.
It was a jagged mass of black glass threaded with glowing veins. The light inside it pulsed faintly, like a dying heartbeat.
The shorter figure stepped forward.
“What is it?”
The taller one studied the pulsing fissures.
“Betrayal,” he said quietly.
The word seemed to thicken the air.
The shard writhed in the net as if it recognized itself.
Inside its fractured surface flickered scenes—not images exactly, but impressions. A hand signing a document it knew would harm thousands. A whisper in a darkened hallway. A promise made with fingers crossed behind a back. A brother sold for comfort. A friend sacrificed for reputation.
The lake swallowed secrets.
The moon distilled them.
The fishermen harvested them.
“It’s heavier this century,” the shorter one murmured.
“They’re better at pretending,” the taller replied.
They placed the shard into an iron chest bolted to the center of the boat. The chest was already humming faintly. Within it, dozens of other fragments glowed in dull, resentful tones—greed, cruelty, cowardice, indifference. Each harvested before it could sink deep enough to root.
If a shard reached the bottom, it would not simply rest.
It would grow.
The first time that happened, the world had lost a coastline.
Another drop fell from the bleeding moon.
Then another.
The sky seemed to wince with every release.
The shorter fisherman cast his line this time. The hook pierced the molten reflection with precision born not of skill—but of repetition.
The line jerked immediately.
He inhaled sharply.
“This one’s eager.”
The water churned faintly beneath them. Not waves—resistance.
He pulled.
Up came a shard larger than the first, its surface cracked wide with furious light.
When it cleared the lake, the air filled with a low hum that vibrated in bone.
The taller fisherman did not need to ask.
“War,” he said.
The shard trembled, and for a heartbeat the lake reflected not fire—but cities burning.
The shorter fisherman hesitated.
“They never learn.”
The taller one’s voice was steady.
“They always learn.”
“And forget.”
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the hiss of another falling ember.
Above, the moon split wider.
More molten strands began to fall.
The Bleeding was accelerating.
The taller fisherman’s grip tightened on his rod.
“It’s starting early.”
The shorter one looked up, and for the first time that night, unease crept into his posture.
“It’s not supposed to accelerate.”
The lake pulsed beneath them.
And from somewhere far below the reflective surface—deeper than any shard had yet fallen—something pulsed back.
What Sinks Is Not Lost
The third shard did not rise.
The hook caught it. The line pulled taut. The rod bowed under the weight.
But the lake refused.
It was not the resistance of water.
It was the resistance of something claiming ownership.
The shorter fisherman braced his boots against the side of the boat, teeth gritted beneath his hood.
“It’s moving,” he said.
The taller one didn’t look at the line.
He looked at the reflection.
The molten moon rippled across the surface—but beneath its gold shimmer, something darker twisted. A slow spiral. Vast. Patient.
“Don’t let it root,” the taller warned.
The words came too late.
The line snapped.
Not frayed. Not torn.
Severed.
The recoil nearly sent the shorter fisherman into the lake. The boat rocked violently, iron chest clanging as the shards inside it hummed in sympathetic agitation.
The water stilled.
Then—
It glowed.
Not gold.
Not molten.
Black.
A pulse of dark radiance spread outward in a widening ring, swallowing the reflection of the moon as it passed. Where the light dimmed, shapes began to form beneath the surface—structures, outlines, angles that did not belong to nature.
Foundations.
Columns.
Something architectural.
The shorter fisherman’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“It’s building.”
The taller nodded once.
“It reached the floor.”
They both understood what that meant.
Every shard that sank carried with it an unharvested sin. Most dissolved into sediment, harmless if forgotten quickly enough. But when enough of the same kind collected—when betrayal layered upon betrayal, when cruelty stacked without consequence, when violence repeated without reckoning—they fused.
They formed structure.
And structure invited inhabitance.
Another molten strand fell from the moon.
This one struck closer to the boat.
The impact sent a plume of glowing vapor upward—and within it flickered faces. Not symbolic impressions this time.
Real faces.
Leaders. Lovers. Parents. Children. The countless architects of small betrayals who would never call them that.
The taller fisherman cast again, deeper this time. The hook cut through reflection and shadow alike.
The line shuddered instantly.
He pulled.
Up came a shard warped into a curved, almost organic shape. Its surface was smoother than the others. Less jagged.
More deliberate.
Inside its dark glass flickered a single scene repeated endlessly: someone looking away.
“Indifference,” the shorter fisherman breathed.
The taller did not speak.
He placed it into the iron chest.
The chest screamed.
Not audibly.
But the vibration hit bone and marrow. The collected shards inside flared in sudden brightness, reacting violently to the addition.
The boat shuddered.
The lake answered.
Beneath them, the dark structure solidified further. The spiral tightened. Edges sharpened. Something like a tower began to rise from the floor of the lake, its apex still far below—but growing.
“It’s not just quantity anymore,” the shorter fisherman said.
“No.”
“It’s coherence.”
The taller finally looked at him.
“They’re aligning.”
Alignment was dangerous.
Random cruelty scattered. Isolated betrayals flickered and died. But synchronized indifference? Coordinated harm? Collective justification?
That became architecture.
The moon above cracked wider, molten rivers now spilling in thicker streams. The Bleeding was no longer a drip.
It was a hemorrhage.
And with every impact, more shards formed.
Too many.
The shorter fisherman cast twice in rapid succession, hauling up greed and spite in quick, practiced motions. The taller followed, reeling in arrogance so dense it bent the rod nearly double.
The iron chest glowed white-hot.
But it was not enough.
The dark pulse below grew stronger.
Then the lake surface split.
Not with a splash.
With a seam.
A vertical line of black light carved upward through reflection and water alike, stopping just short of the boat.
From within that seam came a vibration—not sound, not language—but intention.
The shorter fisherman’s hands trembled.
“It knows.”
The taller nodded.
“It’s always known.”
The seam widened slightly, revealing a depth so vast it defied scale. Within it, the forming structure was no longer a tower.
It was a foundation.
Something was preparing to rise through it.
And the fishermen, for the first time in centuries of Bleedings, understood a terrible truth:
This harvest was not preventative.
It was reactive.
They were not stopping the structure.
They were feeding it.
The iron chest vibrated violently.
Cracks spidered across its surface.
The shorter fisherman stared at it.
“If we keep collecting—”
“It strengthens the pattern,” the taller finished.
Another molten torrent fell from the moon.
The lake roared.
The seam of black light widened again.
And something vast shifted beneath the world.
The Architecture of Reckoning
The iron chest split down the center.
Not explosively.
Deliberately.
The seam glowed white, then black, then something beyond color. The harvested shards inside lifted, hovering as if gravity had reconsidered its loyalties.
The taller fisherman did not reach for them.
He lowered his rod.
“It’s time,” he said.
The shorter one stared at the widening seam in the lake—the vertical wound of black light now stretching from surface to unseen depths.
“We’re not finished harvesting.”
“We never were.”
Another torrent of molten fire poured from the moon. It no longer dripped; it collapsed in sheets, the sky unraveling like fabric set ablaze.
The lake answered with a tremor that shook the boat violently. The hovering shards began to rotate in slow orbit, each pulsing with its own corrupted light—betrayal, war, indifference, greed, cruelty.
They were no longer separate.
Their pulses began to synchronize.
Below, the structure completed itself.
The foundation flared, lines snapping into place in geometric precision. Towers unfolded from it—not rising upward, but inward, like a city collapsing into its own center.
At its heart, something waited.
The shorter fisherman felt it before he saw it.
Recognition.
“It’s not a creature,” he whispered.
The taller nodded.
“No.”
The black seam widened fully.
The lake peeled apart.
There was no water now—only absence, revealing the colossal architecture below. The synchronized shards from the chest streamed downward, drawn into the structure like blood returning to a heart.
As they locked into place, the architecture transformed.
Not into a monster.
Into a mirror.
A vast, towering, impossible mirror spanning from lakebed to sky.
Its surface shimmered—not reflecting the moon, not reflecting the fishermen—but reflecting cities across the world. Streets. Boardrooms. Bedrooms. Parliaments. Screens glowing in dark rooms. Quiet moments of looking away. Calculated harms disguised as necessity. Smiling faces rehearsing kindness while engineering damage.
The mirror did not accuse.
It displayed.
The shorter fisherman staggered back.
“They’ll see it.”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
The moon above cracked one final time.
But it was not collapsing.
It was emptying.
The molten torrents slowed.
The Bleeding ceased.
The last ember fell—and instead of hardening into a shard, it dissolved into light upon striking the mirror’s surface.
Across the world, in cities and villages and isolated homes, screens flickered.
Windows brightened.
Water towers gleamed.
The mirror appeared everywhere at once.
Not in the sky.
In reflection.
In every pane of glass. Every polished surface. Every darkened device screen.
People saw themselves—not as they believed they were—but as the cumulative pattern of what they had allowed.
Not individual sins.
Alignment.
The architecture of coherence.
There were no screams.
No explosions.
No divine fire.
Just recognition.
In some places, it shattered glass.
In others, it shattered silence.
In a few—very few—it shattered nothing at all.
The lake sealed.
The black seam vanished.
The molten moon cooled, its surface smoothing into pale, ordinary stone.
The iron chest lay empty at the fishermen’s feet.
The taller figure removed his hood.
His face was unremarkable. Ageless. Neither stern nor kind.
The shorter did the same.
He looked younger. Or perhaps just more tired.
“Will it work?” the younger asked.
The older watched the now-quiet water.
“Some will change,” he said. “That will weaken the pattern.”
“And the rest?”
The older man stepped to the edge of the boat and touched the lake’s surface. It rippled gently, reflecting only stars now.
“The lake remembers.”
The younger looked at the horizon where the first hint of dawn began to bruise the sky.
“When will it bleed again?”
The older replaced his hood.
“When alignment returns.”
The boat began to drift toward shore, unseen and unremarked.
Behind them, Blackwater Lake lay still.
But deep beneath its calm surface, sediment shifted.
Not forming towers.
Not yet.
Just waiting.
In Casting Lines Beneath a Bleeding Moon, the sky doesn’t just melt—it confesses, and Blackwater Lake keeps receipts. If you want to bring that molten, mythic dread home (in a fun, socially acceptable way), you can snag it as a framed print for full “gallery wall prophecy” energy, or go bold with an acrylic print that makes the molten moonlight look like it’s still dripping. For the daily rituals, there’s a spiral notebook—perfect for jotting down your own tiny betrayals, or, you know, grocery lists—plus a shower curtain if you prefer your morning existential crisis with steam. And if you want peak comfort while the universe judges everyone equally, wrap up in the fleece blanket—because nothing says “cosmic reckoning” like being cozy.
