All Chapters of Will Bear the Moon: Chapter 401 - Chapter 410

*Mykhol*Ana was…. Illegitimate. The words didn’t echo in the study, but they might as well have. They loomed over him, coating like a heavy smoke, seeping into the very corners of the room, staining the stone walls, slipping between the cracks like the soft rasp between his staggered breath.Mykhol stood at his hearth with one hand braced against the mantle, fingers spread over the cold rock as if it could steady him. Firelight licked along the gold of his rings. Usually, the sight pleased him— a reminder of his position, his power—yet now? The metal only clicked when he shifted. A hollow and flinching murmur. Too small. An involuntary sound that felt too close to shackles than the symbol it should have been. As if even the precious metal could be rendered worthless… given the right push. He tightened his grip.Stone bit back through the pads of his fingers. The chill grounded him for a moment—enough to notice the other things that had become suddenly loud: the faint grit of soo

*Pendwick*Pendwick did not realize he had stopped breathing until his lungs began to burn. The parlor—so recently too large, too curated, too smug in its velvet comfort—seemed to narrow on a hinge, collapsing into only three bodies and the space between them. Even the furnishings felt like they had stepped back: the coffee service cooling on its warmer, the sugared sweets sitting untouched beneath their glass domes, the gilt frames on the walls holding their painted serenity like a lie.And Mykhol… Lord Mykhol took up the most space of all.He stood where the door had admitted him, perfectly erect, as if the room had been built to accommodate his posture, his very presence. The latch clicked softly behind him like an afterthought of a sound—yet it carried the finality of a sealed vault. Winter clung to him in a thin draft that slid across the rug, cold crawling around Pendwick’s ankles, while the hearth’s heat continued to breathe at Pendwick’s back. It felt absurdly like the air it

*Anastasia*“You must announce your engagement to Sir Pendwick,” Nugen’s words leech out, percise and pleading in the same measure, “or we are going to lose everything altogether.”And as if the words themselves seal us both, Nugen’s mouth closes. He doesn’t reach for my hand again.He simply looks up at me—those pale brown eyes fixed steady, the scar at his brow drawn tight—waiting.Not for my understanding.For an answer. Mine. For a moment, I don’t understand the language. The sentence reaches me, yes, but it doesn’t belong to anything in my body—like sound heard underwater, muffled and distorted. I stare at his closed lips, ringed around the last word, and the world tilts. Shifting under my feet like sand that cannot be physically correct. The fire pops behind him, a small, ordinary sound, and the candle flames shiver as if they’ve been startled, too. Somewhere near the window, winter wind worries the panes with a low howl, the glass faintly rattling in its frame. Snow is hea

*Anastasia*But I am severely naive. Naive.It is a title I never would have christened myself with before now—not in private, not even in the most unforgiving corners of my own mind. The word existed but it always belonged to others. To courtiers who underestimate my resolve. To young nobles who believe smiles are loyalty. To Lords who mistake ceremony for security.Not to me.And yet it settles on my tongue with a bitter tang, and something in me shifts at the admission—as if a seam I’ve kept stitched too tight has finally begun to give. The golden links over my forehead answer with the faintest clink, metal whispering against metal as my posture adjusts without my permission. A small sound, sterile and precise, and it feels like proof. One even my crown hears the word.Throughout my life, I have prided myself on what I could earn. Not by blood. Not by supposed beauty. Not the easy inheritance of being adored like my cousin. But something pure and evolving. By acquired knowledge.

*Anastasia* “We both are.”The last words land like a plate clattering down to the floor. Smashing and splintering into a thousand pieces that echo against the very walls.And for a heartbeat, even the room doesn’t seem to understand what it has just heard. The silence that follows is not respectful—it is blank, stunned, as if the court itself has forgotten what comes after those words. Like losing the next line to the script we’ve all gone by till now.And whereas, I am the one most in the dark.Then the reactions begin. Small from below the dias, wrapped in involuntary sounds. As if the news slowly and finaly takes a form. The court began to break from its stuporA breath catches on a fang somewhere below. A goblet knocks softly against a table as a hand tightens too fast. Someone’s sleeve brushes a neighbor in the sudden shift of bodies, and the fabric makes a quiet rasp that feels indecently loud. The firepits hiss and pop, too bright, too greedy, their heat suddenly irrelevant a