A stunned silence descended upon the Welling. Eleanor's declaration hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the revelation and prophecy. The Elders, their faces etched with concern and bewilderment, exchanged hesitant glances. For generations, whispers of ancestral wisdom had been passed down, but prophecies were a thing of forgotten lore, mere echoes in dusty tomes.
Barnaby felt a tremor of unease crawls up his spine. Eleanor's words triggered a long, dormant memory, a flickering flame in the recesses of his mind. He squinted, trying to unearth the source of this disquiet. "The Blood Moon… a lineage… prophecy…" he muttered, his voice raspy with age.
Eleanor, sensing his internal struggle, stepped forward, concern etched on her brow. "Barnaby, what is it?" she inquired, her voice gentler now, despite the unease that rummaged in her head.
