The first light of dawn seeped through the latticed stone screens. Nyra lay still beneath the embroidered canopy of her bed, her eyes open long before the temple bells began their slow, rhythmic chime. Through the window panels, she could just glimpse the winding streets beyond the palace walls.
Nyra sat up slowly. Her body ached not from exertion, but from anticipation that had settled into her bones like a sickness. Today marked the beginning of the Preparation Days. Five days before the Selection, five days until she stood beneath the sacred moon and gave herself to a fate she hadn't chosen.
A soft knock, then the door creaked open. Three handmaidens stepped in. They did not greet her. Their eyes never met hers as they approached with folded garments and trays of scented oils.
Nyra watched them as they worked. One combed her hair; another knelt to massage warm rose oil into her feet. She didn't speak, and neither did they. But their hands trembled ever so slightly. It wasn't fear of her; Nyra had never been cruel. It was something else. Something unspoken in the air between them.
When she finally glanced toward the doorway, she saw him. A palace guard stood just outside, visible through the narrow gap in the half closed door. She let her gaze linger on him until he shifted uncomfortably, then turned away to stare out the window.
One of the handmaidens stepped forward, lifting a silver robe embroidered with the sacred lunar crest.
"It's begun, then," Nyra said quietly, not really asking.
The girl hesitated.
"Yes, my lady."
Nyra took the robe, but her hands paused over the fabric. Her fingers brushed the threads of the moon sigil. She then wrapped the robe tightly around herself and stood up.
Outside her chamber, the hallway stretched empty except for the waiting guard. His eyes followed her as she stepped forward, silent and barefoot on the cold floor. She didn't speak to him, but she felt the weight of his gaze.
She felt watched. Not just by him, not just by the palace, but by the city, the temple. And for the first time in years, she wished she didn't know how to listen so well.
The corridors of the royal palace were hushed. Though the sun had risen fully now, the torch sconces remained lit along the walls.
Nyra walked in silence, her silver robe trailing behind her like a pool of moonlight. The guard was one step behind her, and two more walked ahead, guiding her through a familiar path that somehow felt unfamiliar today. She had walked this route many times before, but never like this. Never as a vessel.
A pair of acolytes stood near the southern arch, lowering their heads in deep bows as she passed. One held a bowl of saltwater mixed with crushed moonflower petals. The other reached out, brushing her fingers across Nyra's sleeve, a brief whisper of contact.
"May your vessel be pure," she murmured, not meeting Nyra's eyes.
Nyra didn't answer. As they neared the temple quarters, the halls shifted; stone gave way to pale marble veined with silver, and the silence thickened into reverence. Every footstep echoed. Every breath felt too loud.
The doors to the temple quarters opened with a low hum as the guards pushed them aside. Warm light poured out, tinged with the scent of lavender and iron. Nyra squared her shoulders and stepped inside, the marble cool beneath her feet.
The temple quarters were warmer than the rest of the palace. The air was heavy with lavender oil and crushed jasmine. High windows let in filtered light through moon-shaped glass.
Nyra stood alone in the preparation chamber, a narrow room lined with cedar cabinets and low, cushioned benches. A bronze basin steamed in one corner, tendrils of heat curling upward. Stacks of ceremonial cloth lay folded with reverent precision, every edge perfectly aligned. She touched nothing.
Her escort had left her at the entrance with a bow. And now she waited, feeling as though every surface in the room was breathing, watching.
A quiet knock echoed, then the door opened. A young priestess stepped inside.
She was barely older than Nyra, with a slender frame wrapped in soft gray robes and her dark hair braided back from a high forehead. She carried a tray of ritual items: folded robes, a bottle of sacred oil, and silver bangles etched with crescent runes. Her footsteps were featherlight.
"Good morning, Lady Nyra," she said with a smile.
Nyra offered a nod.
"You're not one of the usual attendants."
"I've been assigned to you for the Preparation Days," the girl replied. "By order of the High Priest."
That last part was spoken quickly, like it was meant to shut down questions. Nyra didn't push.
The girl knelt beside her, setting the tray down on a low platform. She began preparing the ritual garb, unfolding the white under-robe, checking the silver stitching on the hem for imperfections. Her hands were practiced, steady.
"What's your name?" Nyra asked.
The girl hesitated. "Lysia."
Nyra repeated it in her mind, slowly. It didn't sound like a palace name. It sounded real.
"You're not from the inner circles," she observed.
She paused and then smiled. "No, my lady. I was raised in the outer districts. But I scored high in the temple trials. They said I had the touch."
"And do you?"
Lysia didn't answer right away. She stood, lifting the ceremonial robe and shaking it gently to let it fall into place. The moon sigils woven into the fabric shimmered slightly as they caught the light.
"I have the sense to know when to speak," she said at last. "And when to listen."
That wasn't obedience. That was survival. Nyra's interest sharpened. As Lysia stepped behind her to help her change, she spoke more softly.
"You must be nervous. Many are, during their Preparation Days."
"Is that what they say in training?"
"No." She paused. "That's what I remember."
Nyra glanced over her shoulder.
"You prepared others before me?"
"Two. But they weren't…" She caught herself.
Nyra turned fully now, facing her.
"Then you've seen what happens after the ritual."
The silence that followed was louder than any answer. Lysia busied herself adjusting Nyra's belt, fingers tightening the clasp.
"You can tell me," Nyra said quietly. "You're the only one who's looked at me like I'm still a person."
Lysia met her eyes then.
"There are things we are told not to see," she whispered. "And things we're told we must never ask about. But sometimes, if you look too closely, the gods stop looking back."
It was a riddle, but it wasn't meaningless. Nyra stepped closer, close enough to smell the jasmine oil in Lysia's hair.
"Do you believe in the sacred pact?" she asked.
Lysia's smile was sad. "Belief is expected. Doubt is punished."
"And truth?"
"That's harder to dress in robes."
The door creaked outside. Both girls stopped instantly. Lysia dropped her hands and bowed low. Nyra turned away, as if the conversation had never happened. A priest entered, old and blind in one eye. He muttered a chant and handed over a scroll of prayer for Nyra to memorize. Then he left again, muttering to himself.
Once he was gone, Lysia knelt and picked up the tray. She didn't speak, didn't look at Nyra again. But as she turned to leave, she paused and murmured under her breath.
"I'll be nearby. If you need someone who isn't watching."
Then she was gone, and Nyra, wrapped in glowing silk and silence, stood utterly still.
Someone who isn't watching. In this kingdom? That was a rare thing indeed.
Steam clung to the air in the private bathing chamber, curling around Nyra like a veil. She sat submerged to her shoulders in the bath's heated pool, the water infused with sacred herbs: moonflower petals, slivered ginger root, and coils of dried lavender. The scent was meant to soothe, to cleanse the spirit.
It didn't. Her fingers floated just beneath
the surface, pale against the basin. She watched the ripples travel outward every time she shifted, the water distorting her reflection.
She hadn't been allowed to bathe in privacy since her designation. But tonight, by some rare mercy or oversight, she was alone or so she thought.
There were no visible guards. No Lysia. Just her reflection and the steam. But the walls still felt like they were listening.
She exhaled and leaned back, letting the water lap against her collarbones. Her limbs ached with ceremonial stiffness, and then something shimmered. At first, she thought it was just the water. But when she raised her hand to wipe her face, she saw it.
On the inside of her forearm was a pale mark, almost translucent, a crescent. It was tiny, no bigger than a fingernail, but unmistakably glowing.
Nyra's breath caught. She sat up sharply, water sloshing against the edge of the basin. The sigil didn't vanish. If anything, it grew clearer. A second crescent glowed faintly beside the first, facing in the opposite direction, like mirrored moons. Then a third, pulsing ever so slightly, as if responding to her heartbeat. Her hand trembled as she reached out and touched one.
It was warm. Not from the bathwater but warm like something alive. She gripped the edge of the basin and stared at her arm, waiting for the marks to disappear. They didn't. They shimmered like moonlight caught on glass.
Why now? Why wasn't I told this would happen?
Is this what happened to the others?
Did they all see this glow before the Selection?
She didn't want to ask, didn't want to hear the answer. She grabbed a linen towel from the hook nearby and stepped out of the water, dripping and unsteady. She scrubbed at her arm with the towel hard until her skin flushed pink. The sigils remained.
Someone knocked. Nyra flinched, clutching the towel tighter around her.
"Lady Nyra," came a soft voice. "It's time."
She recognized Lysia's tone, but it brought little comfort now.
"Just a moment," Nyra replied.
She stood in front of the polished copper mirror, watching her reflection. The crescent marks were fading now, but the place they had touched remained sensitive. She touched the mirror with her fingertips, not to adjust her appearance, but to prove to herself she was still there.
But something had shifted. She could feel it in her breath; whatever the ritual truly was, it had already begun.
The Hall of Petition was colder than any room Nyra had stood in that day. At the far end, seated on an elevated dais beneath a massive crescent-shaped window, was the High Priest.
He wore no crown, no jewels. His head was shaved, his face expressionless. In one hand he held a polished staff of blackwood, topped with a single silver ring that encircled nothing.
She approached with measured steps.
The High Priest raised a hand.
"You may speak."
He didn't look surprised to see her. That unnerved her more than anything.
"I wasn't told about the sigils," she said.
His gaze didn't flicker.
"They are a mark of readiness. A sign that the moon recognizes you."
"On my skin?"
"A sacred vessel must be sealed," he said it as if quoting a doctrine, not explaining. "It is a gift."
Nyra stepped closer, her voice tightening.
"Gifts are offered, not forced."
The air seemed to shift around her. The veils stirred, even though no wind blew. The High Priest studied her for a long moment.
"You are afraid."
"I'm not," she lied. "I'm angry."
That earned a slight arch of his brow.
"Child," he said slowly, "you were chosen, not punished."
"I didn't ask to be chosen."
"Few worthy ones ever do."
Nyra's hands curled into fists beneath the folds of her robe.
"I want to know what the Selection actually entails," she said. "I want to know what happens after the ritual. Why no one speaks of it."
There was a pause.Then the priest's voice dropped, softer and more deliberate.
"It is not your place to ask."
"No?" she snapped. "Then whose place is it, if not mine? It's my body that will be placed on the altar. My soul you're promising to the moon. Shouldn't I have the right to know what that means?"
The chamber echoed with her words. The High Priest's expression didn't change.
"The kingdom is not sustained by truth," he said. "It is sustained by order and faith."
"Blind faith."
"The kind that saves lives."
"Or takes them."
Then he rose slowly from the dais. He descended the steps with the grace of someone used to being listened to before his feet touched the ground. When he stood before her, he was only slightly taller, but the way he held himself made the space around him feel heavy. He leaned in just slightly.
"You will go through with the ritual," he said softly. "You will recite the vows. You will wear the light, and you will do so with grace, as befits a daughter of the Crown or you will be escorted from this palace as a traitor."
Nyra didn't flinch from outside. But deep inside her, something gave way. They weren't asking for her devotion. They were demanding her submission. They didn't care what she understood as long as she obeyed. He turned away. Two temple guards entered from behind the curtain.
"From now until the Selection," the High Priest said without looking back, "you are not to leave the temple quarters without escort. Your solitude will help purify your thoughts."
The guards flanked her. She didn't move until the priest spoke again.
"Do not mistake your voice for power, Nyra. A vessel is not made to speak. It is made to hold."
And then he walked away, disappearing into the folds of veils, as though swallowed by the temple itself. Nyra stood frozen in the hall long after he was gone. She walked back in silence, flanked by guards, her body cloaked in ritual silk, her skin still marked by glowing sigils that had not asked for permission.
They didn't take her back to her chambers. Instead, the guards led her through a back corridor rather than the main halls. Nyra didn't ask where they were taking her. She didn't need to. The message was clear:
You spoke too much; now you will be silenced.
At the end of the passage stood a small wooden door reinforced with bands of iron. One of the guards unlocked it with a key that looked older than both of them combined. No one spoke as she stepped inside.
The room was sparse. A high stone chamber with no tapestries, no incense, no ceremonial trimmings. There was only a narrow bed, a writing desk, and a barred window that overlooked the temple courtyard far below.
Nyra turned slowly, watching the guards close the door behind her. She heard the lock slide into place.
She was alone. She let the silence settle before she moved. Stripping off the ceremonial robe, she folded it carefully and placed it at the foot of the bed. Her breath came slowly, evenly, though her thoughts were racing. She pressed her fingers to her temples.
Her skin shimmered again. There were no longer faint flickers that came and went like hallucinations; now the crescent sigils bloomed clearly across her forearms and shoulders.
She stepped closer to the barred window, letting the moonlight strike her bare arms directly. The glow intensified.
What are you trying to tell me?
There was no voice, but the warmth where the sigils pulsed grew stronger.
Was this what they feared? Not the ritual going wrong, but her learning too much before it began?
Her fingers traced one of the larger crescents just below her collarbone. It hummed beneath her touch. She closed her eyes. Images flickered behind her lids, not clear memories, but impressions.
The silver flash of someone falling. A tower shrouded in mist. A prayer that was also a warning. A name she did not yet know but felt buried in her spine. And above it all:
The full moon, not smiling or blessing but watching. The same way the temple watched.
The same way the priest watched. The same way the kingdom had always watched her.
Nyra opened her eyes, her breath steady now. She pulled a soft wool blanket around her shoulders and sat on the cold stone floor, facing the window. The sigils still glowed, but they no longer felt foreign.
She could feel her heart beating beneath them, not in panic, but in rhythm. They had tried to isolate her. They had succeeded.
But they hadn't broken her. She stared out into the moon-drenched courtyard, the city stretching beyond in silence.
Let them watch.
She was watching back.