WHAT THE MOON FORBADE

### Chapter 4: What the Moon Forbade

The dream crept in like mist, soft and silver and cold.

Seraphine didn’t remember falling asleep, only the strange sensation of drifting downward, as though the world itself had exhaled and released her. She stood now in a field of pale lilies that glowed faintly beneath an impossible sky. The moon above was swollen and crimson, pulsing like a slow, deliberate heartbeat. No stars. No wind. Just her breath, and the steady, waiting silence.

She recognized nothing.

And yet… it felt familiar. Like a place she’d once visited as a child in some half-remembered bedtime story. A story her mother used to whisper when sleep wouldn’t come, her voice curling around ancient names and forbidden truths Seraphine had long since forgotten.

The air shimmered.

And then *she* appeared.

A tall woman emerged from the far side of the field—cloaked in smoke and woven moonlight, her face hidden behind a sheer veil that glittered with stardust. Her footsteps made no sound as she approached, but the lilies beneath her feet blackened and curled in her wake, turning to ash.

Seraphine stood her ground, but every muscle in her body screamed to run.

The woman stopped a few paces away. “You’ve awakened the vow,” she said. Her voice echoed unnaturally, rich and layered, as though a hundred women spoke in unison.

Seraphine’s lips parted. Her voice caught like a forgotten spell on her tongue. “Who are you?”

“A god,” the woman said simply. “Or what remains of one. I tend what others forget. I guard what should have been buried.”

The words sank like stone into Seraphine’s chest. She felt it then — the truth of the dream. This wasn’t a vision conjured by her own mind. This was something older. Something that had *waited*.

“For me?” she whispered.

“For the last,” the god replied. “For the one who would wake the bond and tether the flame again. You are the final heir of the vow. And he—” her tone darkened, “—he is its weapon.”

“Riven?” The name slid from her mouth before she realized she knew it. It tasted foreign and yet… right.

The god stepped closer. Her veil lifted slightly, revealing eyes of liquid silver, cracked like old glass. Not human. Not kind.

“If you give your heart to him,” she said, “you will not survive.”

Seraphine’s breath hitched. “But the vow—”

“The vow does not love you. It does not care for your soul, your dreams, or the shape of your body in the night. It was made in desperation and greed. It was sealed with blood and desire. You are merely the end of its chain.”

The lilies trembled around them, bowing as if in mourning.

“Break it,” Seraphine said.

“I cannot.” The god’s voice softened—not gentle, but tired. “Only the joined hearts may end it. But to love him… is to risk everything. He is not free. And you are not safe.”

Seraphine stepped back, heart pounding. “Then why warn me?”

“Because I loved once.” The god turned her head toward the blood moon above. “And I was unmade by it.”

A gust of wind rose, carrying the scent of ash and rose petals. The world began to shimmer, the dream unraveling.

“Seraphine D’Argent,” the god said, her voice now a fading whisper. “You may open the door. But be ready to close it again.”

And then everything burned white.

---

Seraphine woke with a gasp.

Her back arched from the velvet chair as if dragged up from water, her fingers tangled in her cloak, her skin damp with sweat. Her heart pounded, too loud, too fast.

The fire in the hearth had long died. The room smelled faintly of smoke and roses. Her silver locket lay open in her lap—its portraits staring up at her like eyes that knew too much.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

The dream still clung to her—its voice, its warning, its gravity. That field of lilies had felt more real than the cold floor beneath her feet now. Her mother’s lullabies stirred at the edges of her thoughts again, like old ghosts begging to be remembered.

She pressed her hand to her chest.

*Love him, and you will not survive.*

But what if she already wanted to?

What if the part of her she kept locked away—buried beneath silence and strength—*ached* for someone to see her? To choose her?

What if it wasn’t love she feared… but hope?

A soft knock echoed through the manor again.

Three taps. Measured. Calm.

Still waiting.

Still there.

Seraphine rose slowly. The cloak slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet like shadow. She stood in her nightgown, thin and pale and bare as truth.

She crossed the marble floor barefoot, her steps soundless, like she too had become part of the dream.

At the heavy wooden door, she paused. Her fingers hovered over the lock, not turning it. Not yet.

Because once opened, the world would never be the same.

And she wasn’t sure if she was ready to fall.