The moon always finds me.
No matter how thick the clouds are.
No matter how deep I bury myself inside stone walls, silk curtains, or prayers whispered under my breath.
It always finds me.
Tonight, it hangs over the citadel like a watchful, unblinking, cruel in its patience. The kind of moon scholars romanticise in books and painters soften with silver strokes. They never write about how it presses against your skin. How it crawls into your blood and tightens something in your chest until breathing becomes an effort.
I stand at the balcony of my chambers, hands braced against cold marble, knuckles pale. Below me, the city sleeps, spire upon spire of blackened stone, torchlight flickering like dying stars. Bell towers. Lecture halls. Cathedrals where knowledge and God are debated in equal measure.
Vershkha, they call it now.
As if giving it a name makes it gentler.
Behind me, the room waits.
Candles are already lit. Thick velvet drapes drawn tight, embroidered with the crest of my house. The air smells faintly of incense and iron. My attendants know better than to linger. They never ask why the locks are reinforced on nights like this. They never ask why the walls are inscribed with sigils older than the crown itself.
They bow.
They leave.
They lock the doors.
And then it starts.
At first, it's always subtle. A warmth beneath my skin. A tremor in my hands. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake it off, pretending, just for a moment, that discipline might be enough...
It never is.
The power rises like a tide. Slow. Unstoppable. It coils around my spine and digs its claws in, dragging something ancient awake inside me. My breath turns shallow. My pulse hammers so hard I swear the stones beneath my feet can hear it.
I grip the edge of the table as veins bloom along my forearms, dark, swollen, glowing faintly as if moonlight itself has been trapped beneath my skin. The sensation is not pain. Pain would be simpler.
This is pressure.
Too much of myself, packed too tightly inside a body that was never meant to hold it.
I close my eyes.
I count.
It doesn't help.
They say I am a good crown prince.
Kind.
Charismatic.
Measured.
They say I listen when the council speaks. That I treat women gently. That I smile at the right moments and bow my head when priests bless my future reign.
If only they knew how much effort it takes not to laugh.
The truth is, I've perfected the art of appearing decent. It's easier than honesty. Easier than explaining why, every full moon, I become something else entirely.
The knock comes right on time.
Three taps. Soft. Practiced. I love that, the opposite of what I ever withheld.
I don't answer immediately. I never do. I let the silence stretch until I hear the faint hitch in her breathing on the other side of the door.
Then I say, "Come in."
She steps inside like they all do, carefully, eyes lowered at a perfect angle, hands folded tight in front of her. She's young. They're always young. Draped in silk she didn't choose, perfume she didn't apply for herself.
I don't ask her name.
Names complicate things.
She curtsies. Deep. Respectful. Afraid.
Good.
Fear sharpens the edge. Makes the release cleaner.
The moonlight spills through the high windows and touches her skin, and something in my chest twists violently in response. The power surges again, harder this time, veins crawling up my neck, branching like dark roots beneath my jaw.
I turn away from her, breathing through clenched teeth.
"You were told what tonight would entail," I say. My voice sounds steady. I've worked very hard on that.
"Yes, Your Highness," she whispers.
That's enough.
I cross the room in three strides. The air thickens as I pass, candles flickering wildly, shadows stretching and warping along the walls. She stiffens when I stop in front of her. I can feel the heat of her body, the frantic rhythm of her pulse.
I don't touch her yet.
The power responds to proximity first. It always does.
Then I choose to brush my fingers through her body, her skin, smoother than silk. I needed it so bad, I wanted to feel her warmth, give her my warmth.
I slowly open the knot of the silk dress that holds her attire together, let it fall.
Masterpiece.
I pick her up, to the bed, and gently lay her down, really hoping it doesn't hurt her.
The pressure eases slightly, like a knot loosening by a fraction. Relief washes through me, brief, intoxicating, almost pleasant.
I hate how good it feels.
I lift her chin with two fingers. Not roughly. Never roughly. I want her conscious. Present. A participant, even if she doesn't realise the rules were written long before she arrived.
The power crests as our breaths mingle. It floods my veins, hot and merciless, demanding release. My vision blurs at the edges. The sigils carved into the floor glow faintly, responding to the surge.
Her eyes are wide. Dark. Reflecting moonlight.
For a moment, just a moment, I wonder who she might have been if she hadn't been chosen.
Then the thought dissolves, but as soon as it does, my head, my head fucking hurts.
"WHAT DID YOU SPRAY ONTO YOURSELF? WHAT IS THIS?" I scream.
This smell almost kills me.
"WHO ARE YOU?" I screamed again. I could feel the sound of my scream echo through the sleeping city.
My vision blurs, as I see her disappearing from my sight into the thin air.
"I can't take this anymore."
The moon watches.
And I am no longer certain it is satisfied; it gives me so much power, but what for?
Coming soon.