By morning, everything glittered a little less brightly — and we all knew it was time to go.
“The Queen says the court needs to breathe,” Kai muttered, tugging on his riding gloves. “But I think she’s really just trying to get us out of Father’s warpath.”
The morning air was cool and damp, still clinging to the earth after last night’s rain. Mist ribboned along the treetops like spilled silk. My horse shifted beneath me, eager, while Kai adjusted the reins of his gray stallion with a grunt of annoyance.
Cassian, already mounted, gave a half-laugh. “If the King is breathing fire, I vote we stay out of range.”
“I thought you liked fire,” Kai shot back, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Not when it’s aimed at me,” Cassian muttered, patting his mare’s neck. The poor thing was slow-footed and more interested in grazing than keeping pace.
Behind them, Sylas trotted forward on his long-legged black steed. His coat flared in the wind like the wings of a crow, hair whipped back and silver-bright in the sun.
“Are we riding or rehearsing court gossip?” he called back, one hand raised dramatically to the sky. “Because if you’d prefer, I can fetch a lute and compose a dirge for royal escapees.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t even have a lute.”
“Oh, but I have flair, Princess.” He winked, and the breeze seemed to flutter around his horse’s hooves like obedient spirits.
Adrian rode beside me, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I brought honey cakes,” he said, holding up a small bundle wrapped in silk. “Fig and almond. From that bakery near the southern gates — you like those, right?”
“Oh—thank you,” I said, startled. “That’s... thoughtful.”
He looked pleased. “I thought this would cheer you up.”
Before I could reply, Soren pulled up just behind us, silent as ever, his presence a constant shadow at my shoulder. I felt his gaze on Adrian but didn’t turn.
Kai veered toward Cassian again, making a crack about his “lopsided horse,” and the group fell into a more relaxed rhythm, hooves crunching softly over damp leaves and dirt as we wound up into the hills.
The trail opened into a quiet clearing surrounded by whispering trees. A glassy lake sprawled before us, reflecting clouds and the pale shimmer of sunlight. Near the edge of the water, half-buried in grass and moss, lay a broken statue — a woman with a crown crumbling off her brow, her stone hand reaching skyward.
I slid off my horse and stepped toward it, boots sinking into damp earth.
There was something solemn in her face, even in ruin.
“Kira?” Cassian asked gently, dismounting beside me. “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” I said, but my voice came out quieter than I meant. I crouched down and brushed moss from the statue’s wrist, fingers tingling as I touched the cool stone.
A pulse. Faint — almost imagined — but there. Something about her face even in ruin looked too much like knowing. Like she’d been waiting for someone to remember her.
I looked up and met Kai’s eyes. He’d felt it too, I could tell by the way he tilted his head slightly, the fire behind his calm flickering just a little faster.
Adrian approached before I could speak.
“Do you want to walk a bit?” he asked. “Stretch your legs before the ride back?”
He offered his hand. I hesitated — not because I didn’t like Adrian, but because something in his expression was too intent. Too expectant. Like this moment meant more to him than I realized.
Before I could decide, someone bumped lightly into my other side.
“Dried figs?” Sylas said brightly, holding out a handful in his gloved palm like it was the most natural interruption in the world. “Best defense against melancholy statues.”
I blinked. “Where did you even get those?”
“I steal from royals. It's a terrible habit.”
“You are a royal.”
“And therefore the worst kind.” He smiled easily but kept his body angled between Adrian and me, like a curtain drawn without being asked.
Adrian's smile dimmed.
I took a fig, grateful for the out, and popped it in my mouth. “Fine. But if I die, I’m blaming you.”
Sylas placed a hand over his heart. “If you die, I’ll commission twelve ballads in your name. And then fake my death out of guilt.”
“Sounds dramatic.”
“Would you expect anything less?”
Soren had moved closer too — not saying anything, but his gaze never left Adrian. Cassian and Kai were throwing stones into the lake now, arguing about which one skipped better.
I swallowed the fruit and glanced back at the mossy statue.
“I wonder who she was,” I murmured. “What happened to her.”
Sylas followed my gaze. “Someone powerful, I’d wager. The old ones always are. Forgotten queens don’t usually leave echoes... unless they want to be remembered.”
The sun dipped low by the time we returned, golden light sliding through memory-thick halls like a farewell.
Our boots were caked in dust, cheeks flushed from wind and laughter and too much pretending. Servants had offered to draw baths and bring in supper trays, but we waved them off.
Instead, we found ourselves — just the three of us — in the forgotten east wing library, where the walls curved like an embrace and the air always smelled of smoke and ink and old lavender wax. Kai had stolen a bottle of something sharp from the Queen’s study, and Cassian found half-melted candles we used to hoard during hide-and-seek games as children.
It felt like stepping into a memory. Only now we were older, sadder, and pretending not to be.
Cassian settled by the hearth first, dragging a pillow onto the rug and tossing his coat aside. “We haven’t done this since we were twelve,” he muttered, poking at the fire with a wrought-iron rod. “Before things got complicated.”
Kai snorted. “Before you both got annoyingly noble.”
“I’m still plenty annoying,” I offered, settling cross-legged on the rug beside him. “And you started wearing crowns in the bath, Kai. That was well before twelve.”
“I did not!” Kai grabbed a cushion and hurled it at me, missing entirely and knocking over a stack of scrolls.
“You absolutely did,” Cassian said, grinning for the first time all day. “You made me announce your royal arrival. Every time.”
Kai groaned and covered his face.
I leaned back on my elbows, watching the firelight dance across their faces. For a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all.
A quiet beat.
The flames popped softly. The bottle passed between us — warm and sharp going down. The laughter began to taper, settling into silence like a blanket pulled gently over our shoulders.
Cassian stared into the flames, jaw tight. “You know,” he said quietly, “I was never meant to be a prince.”
Neither of us spoke.
He rubbed at his temple, eyes distant. “I just… didn’t want to be the one who let everyone down. So I kept stepping forward. And now I don’t know how to step back without someone calling it cowardice.”
My chest tightened. I moved closer, resting my head gently on Kai’s shoulder. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away.
Kai was quiet for a long time. Then:
“I’m not afraid of dying,” he said. “I’m afraid of what I’ll become.”
I felt his shoulder rise and fall beneath me. His hand found mine.
Cassian looked up, eyes gleaming faintly with something raw. “You won’t become anything you’re not already.”
“You don’t know that,” Kai whispered.
“But I know you.”
I sank lower into the pile of pillows, the warmth from the fire and the sharp burn of the wine stirring something loose in my chest. Cassian’s words still hummed in my ears, but Kai’s quiet certainty rang louder.
Kai nudged me gently. “You’ve been quiet since the ride, Kira. Was it the statue or the way Prince Sylas kept offering you dried figs like they were love poems?”
I flinched, a wool robe looped around my shoulders. “I swear, if one more person implies I’m collecting suitors—”
Cassian arched an eyebrow. “Three isn’t a collection. That’s a pattern.”
I glared at him, cheeks warming. “Go light your candle.”
Cassian grinned and snatched a stub from the shelf. We each set our little wick alight: his steady blue flame, Kai’s jittery red, my own pale gold that wavered at the edge. I said a silent wish—something half-hope, half-prayer—and let the smoke curl into the rafters.
By the time the bottle was empty, my head felt light and my tongue unusually brave. I hugged my knees, laughing at a memory of Kai dunking Cassian in the palace fountain when they were boys. Kai laughed too, a soft, shaky sound that made my heart tighten.
I smiled, tipping the last of my cup back. It was too easy—not forced like court pleasantries, but honest. My vision blurred around the edges in the best kind of way.
The castle tilted slightly under my feet.
Not badly. Just... enough.
I had slipped out before either of them noticed, wrapped in my wool robe and a memory of laughter. The wine had settled in my bones like music, loose and golden. I’d forgotten how easy it was to feel light.
The halls were quiet. Shadowed. The kind of night that belonged to secrets.
I didn’t see him at first.
“Princess,” came a voice like starlight wrapped in smugness. “Roaming the halls after dark? Tsk. Are you planning to assassinate me again?”
I startled — then nearly stumbled into Sylas as he stepped from the corridor’s edge.
His silver hair was messier than usual, and he’d abandoned his royal cloak for a simpler tunic, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked like someone out of a dream I wasn’t supposed to be having.
I blinked. “You—do you live in the walls?”
He arched a brow. “Only during thunderstorms.”
I laughed, then clapped a hand over my mouth. “Shhh. You’ll wake the castle.”
Sylas stepped closer, amused. “You’ve been drinking.”
“Noooo,” I said, drawing the word out. “It was for diplomatic warmth.”
His lips twitched. “Of course. I assume the court is thoroughly warmed.”
He offered his arm. “Come, your diplomatic highness. Before your brother catches you and adds another hour of lectures about how you're not allowed to wander off into suspicious hallways after wine.”
I took his arm.
His skin was warm under the fabric. Solid. Steady.
We walked slowly, the hush between us strangely full.
At my door, he stopped. I turned to face him, still gripping his sleeve.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“For what?”
“For… this. You didn’t make fun of me.”
He leaned slightly down, eyes shining — one gold, one violet. The silver of his hair glinted in the torchlight.
“Kira,” he said softly, “I could never make fun of you.”
And before I could think, before I could stop the buzz in my limbs and the echo of his quiet steadiness in my chest—
I leaned in. Just a little.
He didn’t move. Not away. Not forward.
But then his hand caught mine gently, stopping me just shy of him. “Not like this,” he whispered. “I want you to remember it when it happens.”
My breath hitched. “Sylas—”
“Sleep, Kira,” he said. “You’ll hate me if I let you kiss me right now.”
And his hand lingered for a heartbeat longer, then he let go and stepped back, like nothing had happened.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, my fierce Valaran,” he said, voice lighter now.
And then he was gone.
My heart left racing as I stepped inside my room.
The world tipped sideways when I blinked awake.
My mouth was dry. My head throbbed somewhere behind my eyes. And my gown—still half-twisted from the night before—reeked faintly of wine, lavender, and Cassian’s ridiculous citrus soap he’d insisted I borrow.
Bits of the night came in pieces:
Laughter. Firelight. Cassian and Kai arguing over pastries. Me daring Kai to sing the old Drakenvyre lullaby.
…And then…
A hallway. The scent of storm wind and spiced leather. Sylas’s voice low in the dark. A hand brushing my back. His mismatched eyes close—too close.
Had I—?
Did I try to kiss him?
Heat bloomed in my chest.
“I want you to remember it when it happens” he’d said. That wasn’t a dream, was it?
Gods, I wanted to melt into the floor. Or possibly fling myself into the sea.
My cheeks still burned as I buried my face in the washbasin, the cold water doing little to erase the memory—or the feeling. I didn’t have the luxury to dwell. Not today. A summons had come just after dawn, delivered by one of the temple scribes with ink-stained hands and eyes that didn’t quite meet mine. The High Mage was waiting. And duty, as always, didn’t care how tangled my heart had become.
The Temple of Valis loomed ahead, white spires glowing in the summer light, its bells ringing low across the square. Worshippers knelt before the great flame in the outer sanctum, murmuring prayers to Valis, Selara, and Velros. I whispered my own, half for show, half for strength. Then Ariston found me.
“You’re late,” he murmured with a dry smile. “Come. Quickly.”
He led me past the altars, through a door hidden behind a hanging tapestry of the Eternal Flame, and down a stone stairwell that spiraled deeper than I’d expected. Cold air met us halfway down — ancient, untouched.
“I thought all temple records were kept in the Outer Archives,” I whispered.
“Most are,” Ariston said, lifting the lantern. “This… was buried after the Reformation. What lies below isn’t in the Sacred Scrolls.”
He didn’t speak again until we reached the bottom.
The chamber was small, square, the walls carved with half-faded runes I couldn’t read. At its center stood a pedestal of smooth black stone. Upon it: a thick tome bound in cracked leather, sealed with a clasp shaped like a crescent moon.
A faint chill swept through me. My fingertips hovered over the surface.
“May I?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t.”
Even temples have shadows — doors that were never meant to be opened.
I opened it.
Dust curled in the lamplight. The first page bore no title, only a sigil — a circle with twin crescent arcs mirrored within it. I had seen it once before, half-buried in a dream. A woman’s collarbone glowing with silver. The same symbol.
“The Moonbrand,” Ariston said softly, seeing my stare. “A mark said to be given by the goddess Maeriel herself. Only to those she chose.”
“But it’s not in the Sacred Scrolls.”
“Because it was erased,” he said. “Or buried.”
He turned a page, revealing fragmented journal entries — scrawled notes, sketches, diagrams of stars and lunar phases, some written in older tongues. One name repeated itself, over and over, scratched in the margins like a curse: Maeriel.
“She was a priestess once. Then a goddess. Or perhaps both. The truth is murky. What we know for certain is that she vanished. Her temple was destroyed. The High Order later claimed she went mad… said she killed her own father in a bid for power.”
“But she didn’t?” I asked.
Ariston's jaw tightened. “This book suggests otherwise.”
I read:
She weeps still, though the stars have moved on. The goddess has fallen, not in shame… but in love. She gave up divinity to live among mortals. And for this, the Order called her a traitor. A tyrant. They burned her legacy in flame and shadow.
My heart stuttered. A sketch followed — a woman cloaked in stars, a crown cast aside, holding hands with a man cloaked in fire. Below it: two children. One surrounded by golden light. The other cloaked in a crimson aura.
A line beneath it read:
One shall wield blood. The other shall heal. The Moonbrand remembers them… even if we do not.
I swallowed hard. “They were her children.”
Ariston nodded.
“The temple and the Order have long feared the Moonbrand’s return. Its power. Its prophecy. So they rewrote the story. Made her into a cautionary tale.”
I flipped to another passage. Older, faded:
The goddess stirred once more. Marked not one, but two. They come as light and fire, together. Always together.
There was no date. No name. Only one final phrase, scribbled at the bottom:
It begins again.
I closed the book with trembling hands.Maybe I wasn’t marked. Maybe I never would be. But something inside me stirred — not certainty, but recognition. Like an old song hummed in a dream, one I didn’t know I’d forgotten.
“Why show me this?” I asked.
Ariston met my gaze. “Because you seek the truth. And because the past,” he said, voice low, “is not done with you yet.”
But secrets don’t stay buried forever, no matter how many stones are stacked on top.
I carried the weight of that book with me, even after I left it behind. The words clung like mist to my thoughts, wrapping around every breath, every step. I didn’t speak on the ride back. I couldn’t. Not when the air itself felt different — too full, too charged, as if the world knew I was no longer the same girl who had descended into the dark with questions and come back with fragments of something holy and broken.
The carriage door swung open with a familiar creak, and I hesitated on the threshold. The marble steps looked taller than they should’ve. My mind still echoed with the quiet, ancient voice in the archives. Maeriel… who gave up divinity for love. Who was branded a traitor by those too afraid to remember.
A hand reached up. "Need a lift, little bird?"
Cassian’s voice was soft, but his smirk was already in place — warm, steady, that rare smile that made him look more like the boy I grew up with and less like the prince he was forced to be.
I took his hand.
“I’m not that little,” I muttered, trying to focus on my footing as he helped me down.
“No,” he said after a pause. “You’re not. Not anymore.”
He didn’t let go of my hand right away. Just kept walking beside me toward the palace steps.
“You’re quiet,” he said finally.
“I’m tired.”
Cassian hummed. “Tired like you-read-too-many-scrolls tired, or tired like you-saw-something-you-weren’t-meant-to tired?”
I didn’t answer.
We reached the top of the steps. The guards bowed as we passed, and Cassian guided me toward one of the quieter side halls instead of the main corridor. The kind of route we used to sneak through as children — when we’d ditch etiquette lessons for rooftop races and apricot tarts.
“Cassian,” I said suddenly. “Do you believe people can rewrite history?”
He raised a brow but didn’t laugh. “It happens all the time. Winners write it. Losers get turned into monsters.”
“And what if the monsters were never monsters at all?”
He stopped walking.
“Kira… what did you find?”
I stared at him for a moment — and I saw it. The quiet fear he carried. The weariness. The same weight that had been draped around his shoulders since Catherine’s betrayal. Since Kai’s collapse.
But this wasn’t a secret I could hand him, not yet. Not when I didn’t even know what I believed.
“I found… something old,” I said. “Something they tried to bury. About Maeriel. About what really happened.”
Cassian’s emerald green eyes darkened. “The goddess.”
I nodded.
We walked a little more.
“She was painted as a tyrant,” I said quietly. “A daughter who killed her own father to seize power. But what if that wasn’t the truth? What if someone wanted her story erased?”
He looked at me, thoughtful.
“They called her a traitor,” I whispered. “But there was a word buried under all the fear — beloved. Not by mortals. Not by priests. By someone else. Someone who left a mark.”
Cassian exhaled.
“The moonbrand,” he said. “I remember reading about it in old accounts. A crescent burned into the skin — a divine omen.”
I blinked. “You knew about that?”
“Barely,” he said. “The records were scrubbed by the time I was training with the historians. But there were whispers. That her children were hunted. That her bloodline was thinned out and silenced.”
I swallowed hard.
“I don’t have the mark,” I murmured.
Cassian didn’t hesitate. “But you have power. You have visions. You feel things deeper than most people breathe. Kira, sometimes the world hides what it’s afraid of.”
He touched my shoulder gently.
“You are not something to be buried.”
The quiet that followed felt sacred.
Then he grinned, nudging me. “Now. You’re going to tell me who you were thinking about in that carriage. Because I haven’t seen you that distracted since the Sylas incident.”
I groaned. “Cassian.”
“What? It’s my job to ask the hard questions. And tease you. Ferociously.”
“I was not distracted over a boy.”
“Mm. You’re blushing.”
“I’m warm.”
“It’s night.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And you’re deflecting.” His grin turned smug. “Kai and I made a bet about this, you know. Winner gets the good bottle.”
“Tell Kai I’m going to feed his fancy cloak to the hounds.”
“Love, scandal, and treason in one night,” he said dramatically. “Truly, the makings of a Valaran ballad.”
We reached my door.
I stopped, turning to him.
“Thanks,” I said. “For waiting.”
Cassian shrugged. “Always.”
He ruffled my hair — which I immediately swatted at — and disappeared down the hall, still humming to himself.
But the warmth he left lingered long after I stepped into my chambers.
And beneath it, something else began to stir — a quiet knowing, an ache I didn’t have words for yet.
The past was reaching for me.
And I was starting to reach back.