Lahat ng Kabanata ng Will Bear the Moon: Kabanata 391 - Kabanata 400

*Anastasia*Something is wrong.I feel it the moment I step through the archway. Like a wrongness that crawls up my spine in frozen fingers seeking bone.The fire pits are overstocked, logs piled high enough to throw heat that should comfort. Emphasis on the should, yet the cold cuts straight through the thin soles of my slippers. Climbing my legs with the persistence of rising water. It settles between my shoulder blades, coils at the base of my skull under my braid like a serpent made of ice.The air stinks of smoke and iron and something faintly sour beneath it all, like a room shut too long.Too loud. Too exposed. Too empty.Stone answers stone as I cross the threshold, each footfall ringing sharper than it should, as though the hall itself has become a drum and I'm the stick beating against it. The announcer bellows my name—formal, booming, reverent as always. As usual, it’s followed by the familiar trigger, a wave of acknowledgment.But that only enhances what is wrong."Your Em

*Mykhol*The room surged with urgency around Mykhol like a tide of incompetence trying to disguise itself as purpose.Servants collided in their desperation to appear useful—or at least avoid appearing useless. Thin-soled slippers skidded on polished marble with the squeal of leather on stone. A basin sloshed, hot water leaping its rim in trembling arcs that caught firelight like liquid amber before splattering. Someone's hip cracked against a side table—a curse bitten back behind fangs—nearly sending a porcelain pitcher to its death. Only caught at the last second with a sharp intake of breath that sounded more prayer for thanks then concern before being swallowed whole.And all the while, in midst of the ramblings, his vermillion gaze remained fixed on the three severe faces surrounding Ana's bed. He watched them as they murmured in rapid-fire consultation, their hushed voices threading through the room like anxious whispers."A cloth—no, cleaner than that. Fresh linen," Sir Eden,

*Mykhol*The heavy wooden door swung shut behind Mykhol with a muffled thud, sealing him into the familiar sanctuary of his private study. He didn’t bother to look about him as he entered–the room knew him the way a hound knew its master—by the scents of aged parchment, rich mahogany, and the faint metallic tang of blood-wine. Warm candlelight danced across the room, casting shifting shadows along the towering bookshelves and transforming the dark rug beneath his boots into a sea of muted patterns. Mykhol strode purposefully across the room, his steps sure and unhurried. Vermillion colored eyes focused straight ahead, he reached for the waiting decanter with a hand that knew every groove and ridge of the cut crystal. The soft clink of glass meeting glass punctuated the heavy silence, a refined sound at odds with the restless energy thrumming beneath his composed mask.As the blood-wine poured in a shimmering crimson ribbon, Mykhol watched the flickering firelight paint sinister glin

It was late. Very late. Bruno didn’t need a clock to tell him—he felt the hour etched into the very bones of the palace. The air had transformed into something razor-thin and sharp, as past midnight had carved itself into the very atmosphere. Sound itself seemed reluctant, exhausted, the corridor holding its breath like the walls were living things that had witnessed too many secrets.The moment he slipped out of Ana’s chamber, the warmth was ripped from him.Most torches had surrendered to the night, burning down to fragile, trembling stubs. Those few flames that still clung to life did so weakly—more phantom than light, casting more shadow than comfort. No servants moved through this wing now, no hands to trim wicks or replenish oil. Ana’s corridor was forgotten, ignored, as if like before —save for just hours ago, when servants and nobles stalked marble in wake of a collapsed Empress. The only time it ever seemed to have changed in all his fourteen years.The door clicked shut beh

*Bruno*The courtroom felt like an ice-sealed tomb—stone and shadow breathing with a cold so precise it could slice flesh from bone. The long, hollow windows sweated a chill that crept across the air like invisible talons, gripping tighter with each passing moment.Only two figures stood illuminated in the dying candlelight.Like fire and ice.Sir Bruno versus the Black Knight.Mykhol still loomed over him, close enough that Bruno could taste him in every inhale—pepper and something dark, wine-rich and choking. His hand remained near Bruno’s face for a beat longer than necessary, rings catching the last restless flickers of torchlight, as if he were unable to pull himself back. Too tempted to savor this moment where Bruno couldn’t retreat.Bruno’s lip throbbed once more, where Funda had struck him; the wound sealing up now, healing, but the dried blood dragged at his skin like a reminder branded into his very being. He held himself still, jaw locked, palms stinging where his nails had