Chapter 93

Ash still clung to the dawn air when Serenya found herself unable to sleep. The moon’s mark still burned faintly on her brow, a crescent glow that no water nor cloth could wash away. Every time her reflection caught it, she felt both powerful and unbearably fragile.

Kaelen stirred beside the dying embers of their fire. He had refused the comfort of a tent, choosing instead to remain close to her, as though the shadows of prophecy themselves might try to steal her away in the night. His gray eyes opened as if he had felt her unease before she moved.

“You’re awake,” he murmured.

“So are you,” she answered, trying for lightness but failing.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the hiss of embers and the distant murmur of soldiers preparing for the day. At last, Kaelen rose, brushing ash from his cloak. He crossed to her slowly, like one approaching something sacred.

“Since last night, you’ve been… different,” he said, his voice low. “Stronger, yes. But quieter. What did the moon take from you, Serenya?”

Her chest tightened. She remembered the hollow ache that had bloomed when the blessing seared through her, the sense that something—some irreplaceable fragment of her soul—was gone. Yet she could not name it.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I feel as if my heart beats with two rhythms now—mine, and something that doesn’t belong to me.”

Kaelen’s hands cupped her face, his calloused thumbs brushing her cheeks with startling tenderness. “Then let mine steady it. Whatever the moon tries to claim, it cannot claim what is ours.”

She swallowed hard. “And what is ours, Kaelen?”

His lips curved, faint and sad. “A love that no prophecy, no crown, no god can steal.”

Later, as the camp stirred fully awake, Darian Crestfall sought them out. His armor had been polished despite the cracks, and he carried himself with grim dignity.

“My lady,” he said, bowing, though his eyes flickered briefly to where Kaelen still lingered near her. “The council awaits your command for our march.”

Serenya nodded. “At noon, we ride for Dawnspire Keep. If the crown is to be reforged, it will be there.”

Darian hesitated, his jaw tightening. “And if the dukes move against you before we arrive?”

Kaelen answered for her, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. “They’ll find shadows far less forgiving than their schemes.”

Darian’s gaze hardened, though whether in respect or rivalry Serenya could not tell. “Your loyalty is clear,” he said. “But hers must remain unshaken. A kingdom cannot be built on divided hearts.”

When he left, Kaelen exhaled sharply. “He doubts me.”

“He doubts everyone,” Serenya replied softly. Yet a seed of truth in Darian’s words took root within her. Divided hearts. Was hers divided between love and crown?

As the army marched, Serenya found herself at Kaelen’s side more often than apart. His presence was steadying, but it also frightened her. For every step toward Dawnspire, she felt the threads of prophecy tug tighter around them.

One evening, as campfires flickered under the wide heavens, Kaelen drew her aside into the shadow of a crumbled tower. His voice carried urgency she had rarely heard from him.

“Serenya, listen to me. The blessing you carry… I’ve seen such power before, long ago, in the ruins of my own kin. It doesn’t come without binding chains.”

Her eyes widened. “Why didn’t you say this before?”

“Because I didn’t want you to fear it. But last night, when the mark burned upon your brow, I remembered the stories. The moon’s blessing binds not only your fate, but also the fate of the one you love most.”

Her breath caught. “You mean—”

“Yes.” His voice broke slightly. “If prophecy demands a sacrifice, it will demand it through me. I will not let you pay that price.”

Tears stung her eyes, though she blinked them away fiercely. “No, Kaelen. That is not your choice to make. I will not trade your life for a crown.”

He pulled her against him, his forehead pressing to hers. “And I will not let you surrender everything you’ve fought for because of me. Do you understand? Our love endures, Serenya—but if it must endure beyond my life, then so be it.”

Her heart ached so sharply it was almost unbearable. “Don’t say that. Don’t speak as though you’ve already chosen to die for me.”

His lips brushed hers, fleeting, tender, full of unspoken promises. “I chose you long before death had a chance.”

The following day, whispers spread among the army. The mark of the moon had grown brighter, visible even under the sun. Soldiers began to call her “the Moon-Crowned,” and though reverence filled their eyes, fear lurked there too.

Isolde Mirean, the healer, approached Serenya in private, her hands clutching a satchel of herbs. “The blessing is consuming you,” she warned, her voice trembling. “I can feel it. The light that radiates from you—it is not mortal. It will demand an anchor, or it will break you.”

“An anchor?” Serenya asked.

Isolde’s eyes flicked toward Kaelen. “Yes. Him. He already bears it with you, though he doesn’t yet know how deep the tether runs.”

Serenya’s stomach twisted. If Kaelen was her anchor, then the prophecy’s cruelty was sharper than she imagined. Their love was not only forbidden by politics—it was bound by magic itself.

That night, sleep eluded her again. She walked alone to the ridge where the moonlight spilled silver over the land. Kaelen followed quietly, as if drawn by the same thread that had tied them from the start.

“Why do you always find me when I want to be alone?” she asked, though there was no anger in her voice.

“Because you don’t truly want to be alone,” he answered.

She turned to him, her heart trembling. “What if loving you is the very thing that will destroy us both?”

“Then let it,” Kaelen said fiercely. “Better to be destroyed by love than live hollow without it.”

Her resolve cracked, and she pressed her lips to his, not as a stolen moment but as a vow. His arms encircled her, strong and certain, grounding her against the weight of fate.

When they parted, his eyes glistened in the moonlight. “Promise me one thing,” he whispered. “Whatever comes, whatever price is demanded—don’t regret us.”

Her voice shook. “I could never.”

At dawn, a rider arrived, breathless and bloodied. He fell to his knees before Serenya, clutching a torn banner.

“Dawnspire has fallen!” he cried. “Thalric Veynor betrayed the alliance—he holds the keep and calls himself king!”

A storm of voices rose in the camp. Betrayal. Treachery. War again.

Serenya’s hand clenched around the banner, fury and grief surging like fire in her veins. But beneath the roar of outrage, one truth rang louder in her heart.

The moon’s blessing had chosen its moment.

And if prophecy was right, the final battle would not only decide the fate of kingdoms—

but the fate of her love.