──────────────⋆˖☽ ​​𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑩𝒂𝒄𝒌 ☾˖⋆──────────────

The tap of my finger against the table was a frantic, useless pulse against the room’s oppressive quiet. Outside, the Cursed Moon hung shattered in the sky. Its position in the heavens was a silent confirmation: Mikaeus and his riders were gone. A familiar acid churned in my gut. I want to be out there, running under that broken moon, not rotting in this place.

With a sigh that felt torn from my lungs, I threw myself back in the chair, my head lolling over the edge. My hair cascaded towards the floor, a white waterfall in the gloom. I stared at the ceiling, a geography of shadows, and let my eyes fall shut. Sleep wasn’t a refuge; it was an ambush. The nightmares were always there, patient and hungry.

A concussive whump of air, the sound of immense leathered wings beating against the night, ripped through the silence. My eyes snapped open. I twisted, craning my neck just in time to see the colossal silhouette of a dragon eclipse the moons as it soared past my window. A primal shudder, cold and deep, traced its way down my spine. I can’t get used to the sight of them.

A soft knock, little more than a whisper of knuckles on wood, was followed by the decisive click of a key turning the lock. I straightened as the door opened and Celia slipped inside, a single candle cupped in her hands. Its flame threw her features into soft relief and sent long, dancing shadows stretching out behind her like grasping fingers.

“I was just coming to check on you,” she said, her smile as warm and gentle as the candlelight. She vanished into the hall for a second, then reappeared pushing a small, wheeled cart. “I brought green tea.”

My muscles tensed. “I’m not thirsty.”

“It’s perfectly safe, I promise,” she insisted, catching my suspicion. She guided the cart to a stop beside me, the porcelain clinking softly. The aroma of steamed leaves and something sweet filled the air. She poured the steaming, pale green liquid into two cups, lifted one, and took a delicate sip. “See? Just tea.”

I reluctantly accepted the cup she offered. Its heat was a welcome truce against the room’s chill, seeping through the porcelain into my palms. I raised it, inhaling the steam before taking a tentative sip. It was… surprisingly soothing.

“Thank you, Celia,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “Stay. For a minute.”

She beamed, a brilliant flash of light in the dim room, and clumsily pulled out the opposing chair. “I can only stay until you finish,” she chirped, her voice bubbling with an excitement. “Tia made chocolate pie for the staff tonight. A rare treat!”

“Sounds delicious,” I murmured. I had no concept of ‘chocolate pie’, but I watched the genuine joy illuminate her face and felt a familiar, hollow ache. Could any food be worth that kind of light? In my world, taste was a ghost, a half-forgotten memory.

My gaze fell back to my cup. A faint, oily sheen swirled on the tea’s surface—the mizma, the subtle taint of this cursed land. I brought the cup to my lips again, ignoring it. A grassy note, clean and wild, unfolded on my tongue, followed by a whisper of honey that tasted of deep woods. It was the flavor of home.

“You know, Alanah,” Celia’s voice pulled me from the memory. “I’m a little surprised you’re still awake.”

“I don’t sleep,” I replied. The simple answer was a gravestone for a much darker truth.

She gave a slow, understanding nod. “I don’t think any of us welcome what waits for us in our dreams.” Her cheerful facade slipped, revealing a flicker of her own exhaustion. “Sometimes I’m not sure what’s worse: the weariness of the waking world, or the terrors of the sleeping one.”

I said nothing, just drained the last of the tea. “I feel more awake now,” I mumbled. The tea hadn’t just soothed me; it had sharpened the edges of my senses.

Celia’s smile returned. “Good. Well, since you’re done, I’m off to have pie.” She collected the teapot and cups and began to wheel the cart away. At the door, she paused. “Goodnight, Alanah.”

“Goodnight, Celia,” I replied, my voice perfectly even. The door clicked shut, plunging the room into absolute silence.

A moment later, muffled voices from the hall broke it. I slid from my chair, my movements fluid and silent, and pressed my ear to the cool wood of the door.

“Are you sure about this, Celia?” A low, unfamiliar rumble. A man.

“Positive!” Celia’s bright, insistent tone. “You know Tia makes the best chocolate pie in Luminethra!”

“She’s not wrong,” a second man agreed.

“But is it a good idea?” a third voice, thin and wavering with doubt. “Leaving the post…”

A sound like a playful slap. “Oh, it’ll be fine,” Celia insisted. “We’ll only be gone for a little while. No one will even notice.”

Their footsteps and voices faded down the corridor, the rattling of the cart growing fainter until it was swallowed by the silence.

I remained frozen, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. Something was wrong. The lock. A jolt, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, shot through me. I never heard the bolt slide home. She didn’t lock it.

​With a hand that trembled almost imperceptibly, reached for the golden handle. The metal was frigid. I turned it slowly, deliberately. The latch gave way with a soft snick. Unlocked.

I let the handle slip from my grasp and backed away from the door, my mind racing. One minute. Just one more minute to let them get clear. I darted to the bed, my hand diving beneath the pillow to retrieve the heavy, bronze candle holder I’d hidden there. My fingers curled around its base, the solid weight a comforting promise in my palm. A slow, predatory smile touched my lips. This was it. The chance.

My hand was steady now as it closed around the doorknob. I eased the door open, wincing at the low groan of the hinges. The hallway beyond was a tunnel of flickering shadows cast by sputtering sconces. Empty. I slipped out, pulling the door shut behind me with a barely audible click.

Keeping to the deepest shadows, I moved with a hunter’s silence, my soft boots making no sound on the marble floor. At the first intersection, I flattened myself against the wall, peering around the corner. Clear. I pressed on, a mental map of the house guiding my steps. 

Then I froze. Further down the hall, a brilliant slice of light divided the corridor from a half-open door. Boisterous laughter spilled out, echoing off the walls. It was directly in my path. ​The frantic drumming was in my ears now, a panicked rhythm that drowned out the silence of the hall.

My eyes scanned the bare walls for an alcove, a tapestry, anything. There was nothing. To turn back was to be caught. Forward was the only way.

Hugging the opposite wall, I crept closer. The door was ajar just enough to reveal a sliver of a brightly lit room filled with off-duty guards. Another wave of laughter rolled out, louder this time. I used the sound as cover, a phantom slipping past the opening in three silent strides. I didn’t dare breathe until I was a dozen feet beyond it, the warmth and light at my back feeling more dangerous than the shadows ahead.

I gripped the candle holder so tightly the heavy bronze bit into my palm, a crescent moon of pain. The grand staircase spiraled down into darkness before me. It was deserted. I descended, swift and silent, my instincts pulling me toward the training grounds. A new thought sparked, sharp and dangerous. Weapons.

The candle holder in my hand suddenly felt pathetic, a child’s toy. The armory near the grounds. My steps faltered. Surely, it would be guarded.

Is survival worth the risk?

Yes. The answer was instant and absolute. The guards would be with Mikaeus. I hope. The rest were in a room down the hall, laughing over pie. The risk was mine to take.

My pace quickened. I reached a set of imposing, floor-to-ceiling doors and slipped through a gap into a chamber thick with the scent of honing oil and cold steel—the hymn of the forge. Moonlight streamed through a high, barred window, laying red stripes across racks of swords, axes, and shields. And there, on the far wall, was a row of bows.

A current hummed through me, a fierce sense of homecoming. I moved directly to them, lifting a recurve bow of dark, polished yew. It settled into my hand as if it had been carved from my own bones. Beneath it, a quiver. Methodically, my hands moving with the unerring grace of muscle memory, I began slotting arrows into it, my head on a constant swivel. Once full, I slung the quiver and bow over my shoulders. The weight was a comfort, a piece of my soul returned to me.

I ran a hand over the smooth wood of the bow, a flicker of old bitterness rising like bile. You took my weapons from me first, I thought, the words a silent vow to the listening shadows. I’m just taking this one back.

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𝓓𝓸𝓷’𝓽 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓪𝓭𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓫𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓽𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓵𝓲𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓼𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾’𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓭𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓼. 𝓐𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼, 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓼𝓾𝓹𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽!