The moon was the most important thing in the sky that night. It was huge and pale, and its light spilled over obsidian walls and silver spires that looked like they had been carved by the will of the heavens instead of by human hands. It towered over the palace towers. The courtyard was full of torches, the soft hum of the crowd, and the silent awe of the nobles who had gathered under that cold, celestial eye. Above them, silver and black banners with the dynasty's emblem—a crescent moon with a thorny crown—swayed in the midnight wind.
With her bare feet pressed against the cold marble floor at the edge of the dais, Serenya felt the weight of that moon bearing down on her as though it were condemning her. value. The High Seer waited at her side, holding a circlet of woven silver thorns; she had not yet put on a crown. As though the night itself was holding its breath for her ascent, the air tasted of smoke, candle wax, and something older and unfamiliar. The High Seer's voice resounded throughout the courtyard like a bell ringing, "Come forward, Serenya of the Moonlit Line." She did.
As she approached the throne, which was made of black steel and moonstone, perched atop the dais, every eye followed her. Her mother's throne. The throne of all previous queens. A throne that had made legends of some and killed others. She held her chin up, but her hands trembled at her sides. Secrets were whispered across the stone floor by the silks of her gown, which was deep indigo and laced with silver. As she went by, the nobles bowed their heads, though some lowered their gazes in calculation rather than awe. She sensed that they were already assessing her, balancing the shadow of her deceased mother against her youth and untried rule.
Mom. Serenya pushed the idea from her mind. Grief was not the reason for tonight. Tonight was for the fire in her eyes and the steel in her back. Under the moon's gaze, she would ascend as queen tonight. The circlet was raised high by the High Seer. The crowd whispered as he said, "Look, the Crown of Thorns." "Created during the Blood Age, it connects the ruler to the moon, the queen to the dynasty, and fate to sacrifice." Even though the words were ritual and had been said for centuries, they still felt like a blade scraping Serenya's heart. The Seer faced her. "Get on your knees."
She bent down in front of the throne. For a brief moment, she swore she felt something stirring inside the marble—a whisper, a pulse, a faint thrum that sounded like a heartbeat other than her own—and the marble felt cold against her knees. To avoid shivering, her fingers pressed into her gown. The circlet was placed on her head by the Seer. The silver thorns, which were sharp enough to pierce skin, bit into her scalp. One drop of blood ran down her temple. The audience let out a single gasp. In another, the throne took her. The Seer proclaimed, "Rise, Serenya, Queen of the Moonlit Dynasty." She heard whispers beneath the cheers that erupted in the courtyard. She could always hear murmurs.
She stood up, the crown heavy, the blood like a fire seal drying on her skin. She raised her hand, turned to the crowd, and spoke loudly. Despite her heart pounding, she spoke in a firm, steady, and commanding tone, "I am Serenya of the Moonlit Line, sworn to the moon and the crown, daughter of Queen Lysara." "With justice, strength, and the dynasty's will etched into my bones, I shall rule as she did. You, my people, are my promise; the moon is my witness, and the night is my mantle. Once more, the crowd roared. Some are devoted. Some people are unsure. Some people are afraid.
Her guardians watched from the shadows at the dais's edges. Three numbers. Quiet. Still. Despite their differences in fire, shadow, and song, they are all obligated to uphold the same vow: to keep her alive at all costs. She hadn't talked to them yet. Not really. Before the evening of her coronation, they had been selected by the council and sworn to her in blood. Even now, though, she could still feel them around her like three different stars: Lysandor, the Heart; Eryndor, the Shadow; and Kaelen, the Blade. Whether she wanted it or not, she would learn their names and become involved in their lives.
However, their gazes did not lock tonight. They were guardians whose tales had not yet been told, ghosts in the moonlight tonight. The ceremony went on. Prayers were made to the pale moon goddess, vows were taken, and wine was poured. Serenya's chest, however, was coiling with an odd uneasiness. Maybe it was the crown, its thorns getting sharper every second. Maybe it was the weight of the secret-humming throne behind her. Or maybe it was the moon itself. since the moon was changing.
It was subtle at first. A slight shadow slinking across its surface. The light faded. Slowly, the nobles became aware of it, and as their heads cocked upward, whispers rippled through the courtyard. Serenya's breath caught as she looked up. The moon was gushing blood. Its silver glow turned to rusted red as a crimson veil stretched across its face. An eclipse. A portent. As he chanted, the High Seer's voice wavered. Like rustling leaves, the nobles whispered. A few people let out a gasp. Some people folded their arms across their chests. Others gaped in terror.
Every eye that moved from the sky to her was felt by Serenya. As though she was to blame for the moon's transformation. As though they were all already cursed by her rule. Her heartbeat accelerated. The crown appeared to tighten. The murmurs increased in volume—too much. She felt the words in her bones, but she couldn't understand them. They hissed, "Blood on the throne." "God bless the queen." Her knees went weak. The world swayed. She briefly feared that she might pass out in front of them all. An unworthy queen. A doomed dynasty. Then—she was steady by a hand. Firm, tough, and grizzled.
She cocked her head just enough to see the Blade, Kaelen, standing beside her. There was something steadying beneath the hardness of his face and steel-sharp eyes. She took a breath. straightened. raised her chin once more. Allow them to whisper. Allow them to have doubts. She refused to tumble. She spoke louder than the whispers. Tonight, the moon bleeds as a witness rather than a curse. It sheds blood, just as my dynasty has done in order to survive. Let it be the beginning rather than the end. Night is a necessary part of my reign, and I won't let it end. Quiet, then the applause, slowly. Uncertain, hesitant, but developing.
With her hand still within reach of Kaelen's sword hilt, she let out a breath. That night, for the first time, she felt less alone. However, the whispers persisted as she went back to the throne and lowered herself upon it. They only dug farther, into her bones, into the stone. And as she touched the armrest, she sensed the words that had been engraved there by queens long before her: "One will protect your body, one will protect your soul, and one will protect your heart." Additionally, one will betray. Above, the blood-red moon blazed. Serenya, the Moonlit Dynasty's queen, realized that her reign had started with a curse rather than with victory.