The Moon Court rose before us like a wound poorly healed. From a distance, everything appeared as I remembered—white stone towers, pennants bearing the lunar crest, guards in silver-touched armor. But as we approached the gates, wrongness crept up my spine like cold fingers.
The symbols were old. Not ancient-old, which would have made sense, but recently-reverted old. As if someone had deliberately scraped away decades of progress to reveal what lay beneath. The air carried dust and perfume in equal measure—decay dressed in finery.
"Living Glyph." The priestess who greeted us spoke the title like she'd been practicing it. Young, nervous, wearing robes that didn't quite fit. "We've been expecting you."
I kept Ashara close, her small hand gripping mine with unusual force. "Expecting?"
"The Matron Queen wishes to offer sanctuary." The words came rehearsed, careful. Not reverence in her tone but calculation—the sound of someone adding sums and finding profit.
"Since when does the Moon Court have a Matron Queen?" Dorian's hand rested on his sword hilt.
The priestess's smile flickered. "Since the chaos required steadying. Since someone needed to hold the throne for the rightful heir." Her eyes drifted to Ashara. "Until prophecy makes itself... clear."
A trap, obviously. But we needed answers more than safety, needed to understand what had grown in the power vacuum we'd left behind. I nodded, and we followed her through gates that closed too quickly behind us.
The throne room had been rearranged. Where once sat a seat of subtle power now loomed something theatrical—too much gilt, too many cushions, trying too hard to impress. And upon it sat a woman who made my blood run cold despite the warmth of her smile.
Velara's sister. I knew it without introduction, saw it in the bone structure, the way she held her head, the particular shade of midnight in her hair. But where Velara had been sharp ambition, this one was honeyed poison.
"Aria Nightbloom." She rose with practiced grace. "And the famous child. How wonderful to finally meet prophecy in the flesh."
"Maerith." The name came from memory—whispered warnings about the sister who smiled while others bled.
"Matron Queen Maerith now." Her correction came gentle but firm. "Someone had to steady the realm after... recent upheavals. The people needed continuity. Tradition. A familiar bloodline to trust while we await clarity about the future."
Every word perfectly chosen. Every gesture calculated. She ruled not through divine right or martial might but through making herself seem inevitable.
Dorian bristled beside me. Ashara pressed behind my legs, a reaction she'd never had to genuine threat. True danger made her curious—this performance made her hide.
And the room noticed. Shadows twitched in corners where no movement should exist. Vines decorating the pillars began a slow wilt. Even the air grew thinner, as if the space itself recoiled from false authority.
"You must be tired," Maerith continued, ignoring the subtle environmental rebellion. "Rooms have been prepared. Rest, refresh yourselves. We have much to discuss about young Ashara's... role in our rebuilding efforts."
The dismissal was clear. We were given chambers too fine to refuse, too monitored to trust. The moment the doors closed, Dorian began checking for listening spaces while I settled Ashara on the bed.
"I don't like her teeth," my daughter said quietly.
Before I could ask what she meant, a servant arrived. "The Matron Queen requests a private audience with Lady Aria. At your earliest convenience, which is to say, now."
I met Dorian's eyes. He nodded—he'd stay with Ashara. Whatever game Maerith played, we'd learn its rules faster separately.
The private chamber was smaller, more honest. Here, Maerith dropped the honeyed pretense like an uncomfortable mask. She gestured to wine I wouldn't drink, then settled across from me with predatory relaxation.
"Let's speak plainly," she began. "I don't care if she's your child or your curse. Prophet or accident. Divine vessel or clever trick. What matters is who the people believe she is. And what I can gain from that belief."
"At least you're honest about it."
"Honesty is efficient." She studied me with eyes that calculated worth in political currency. "The realm bleeds from uncertainty. Your daughter—whatever she truly is—represents certainty to desperate people. I need that certainty to maintain order."
"You need her as a puppet."
"I need her as a symbol." The correction came sharp. "Present her at court. Let the priests perform a blessing rite—purely ceremonial, nothing invasive. Let the people see that the Living Glyph acknowledges the current order. In exchange, you receive protection, resources, and freedom to raise her as you see fit."
"And if we refuse?"
Her smile revealed those teeth Ashara had mentioned—too white, too many, a predator's grin wrapped in silk. "Then you're branded heretics. Fugitives who stole a divine child for their own purposes. Every guard, every priest, every citizen becomes your enemy. How long do you think you can run with a toddler who glows when she dreams?"
She wasn't wrong. We'd been lucky so far, but luck was a finite resource. Still, every instinct screamed against putting Ashara on display, letting strange priests perform their "inspections" while crowds watched.
"The blessing rite," I said carefully. "Describe it exactly."
"Oh, standard ceremonial nonsense." She waved dismissively. "Anoint with oil, speak dead languages, wave smoking herbs. The priests need to feel important, the people need their show. Your daughter stands still for perhaps twenty minutes while old men pretend they can measure divinity."
Too easy. Too reasonable. Maerith didn't strike me as someone who offered fair bargains.
"I need time to consider."
"Of course. You have until tomorrow's dawn bell." She rose, silk robes whispering secrets. "But consider this—I'm offering to use her gently. Others who might claim this throne would be far less... civilized about weaponizing a child's prophecy."
Back in our chambers, I found Dorian teaching Ashara a counting game with colored stones. She looked up as I entered, silver eyes too knowing for her years.
"She wants to see if I'm real," she said simply.
"Is that what the blessing rite would do?" I sat beside her, pulling her close.
"No. It would mark me. Make me part of her collection." She returned to her stones with the focus of the very young. "She doesn't believe in prophecy. Only in teeth."
"She doesn't believe in prophecy," I repeated to Dorian once Ashara had drifted to sleep. "She believes in power. In using belief as currency."
"Maybe that's better," he suggested quietly. "A cynical ruler is predictable. It's the true believers who—"
"Who what? Who wouldn't try to brand my daughter like cattle? Who wouldn't parade her before crowds to legitimize their reign?" I pressed my palms against my eyes, feeling the weight of impossible choices. "She has teeth behind her voice, behind her smile, behind every reasonable word. And she's positioned us perfectly—comply or become enemies of the state."
"We've been enemies of states before."
"Not with her. Not when she can barely run, let alone fight." I looked at our sleeping daughter, curled small and trusting despite the den of wolves we'd entered. "Maybe submission is—"
"Would be the first step." Dorian's voice held no judgment, only certainty. "First the blessing. Then regular appearances. Then 'consultations' about her visions. Before long, she's not your daughter—she's Maerith's oracle, too valuable to leave your care."
He was right. I knew he was right. But knowing and acting were separated by the weight of exhaustion, the cost of constant flight, the simple desire to stop running for just one moment.
"She has teeth," I murmured, Ashara's warning echoing. "Behind her voice, her offers, her throne. Everything about her bites, even when she smiles."
"Then we need sharper teeth," Dorian said simply.
Outside our window, the Moon Court sparkled with false peace. Somewhere in her chambers, Maerith waited for our answer, confident in her trap's construction.
She believed in power over prophecy.
But she'd never met a mother with nothing left to lose.
Dawn would come soon. And with it, a choice that would echo far beyond these walls.
The game of teeth had begun.
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