Semua Bab The Slave Who Owned The Moon: Bab 121 - Bab 130

AMAYAI do not remember when fear began to feel like a shape I could hold. Tonight it has edges. It has teeth.The market is a throat full of people and smoke. Nets fall like sudden rain. They catch arms, shoulders, anything that moves. Silver threads flash with wolfsbane and intent. I feel them before I see them, a cold vibration under my skin that answers a footstep. Trish is pressed to my side, small and shaking, and Garran is a map of quiet motion. Lucian is a shadow at my back. Darian is a stone in my chest.Evelara moves like a knife through water, smooth and cold. She lifts her palm and makes flame bloom as if lighting a candle. It is clean, controlled, cruel. The net above us shrieks when heat licks it and parts just enough for a gate. People gasp as if the world lost its balance. Theron hears it and smiles the way a man smells blood. He points, and soldiers follow.I keep my hands loose at my sides, palms empty. The iron ring in my pocket feels like a secret. Heat slides unde

AMAYA“Basement,” I say.Now.Darian nods and turns for the servants’ lane. Lucian takes my left, reading shadows. Trish keeps close to Garran. Amon watches our feet and copies them.“We split here,” Garran says at the laundry arch. “I take the boy. Trish with me until third bell.”“Go,” I tell him. “No heroics.”“Only habit,” he says, and vanishes.Darian leads us through the scullery and down a stair. Stone is wet, air full of ash. We pass a locked room of flour, another of wine. Darian presses a palm against blank wall. Stone shifts.“Secret?” Lucian asks.“Father liked them,” Darian says.The passage angles left and drops. A hum rises beneath the steps and gets into my teeth. It feels like thunder leashed.“That is it,” I whisper.Lucian glances at my hand. “Steady?”“Not yet,” I say. “Soon.”We reach a slab door with iron latches shaped like wolves. The metal is cold the way iron is for me and something else. Darian sets his palm to the center. Nothing.“Council seals,” he says.

AmayaThe night had not yet given way to dawn when I found myself back at the ridge. The cold bit deep, sharp enough to draw breath from my lungs. The eastern wall of the Grayhide compound lay before me, quiet and still, as if mocking everything I had uncovered beneath its surface.The parchment rested inside my cloak, the one marked with my mother’s sigil. Even now, I could feel its weight against my ribs, like a heartbeat that wasn’t my own. The symbol of the crescent and flame—her mark—glowed faintly when the moonlight brushed it. That mark had changed everything.Trish caught up to me, her breath uneven, her steps lighter than usual. “You’re not going to sleep tonight, are you?”I shook my head. The truth was, sleep had become a stranger. My mind wouldn’t stop spinning, retracing the same question over and over—why had the Varyn sigil been hidden inside the Grayhide archives?Trish wrapped her arms around herself. “You think it means your mother was here?”“I don’t think,” I murmu

Night bled slowly into morning, though the compound never truly slept. Even in the quietest hours, there was a hum beneath the walls—a tense, watching silence, as if the very stones remembered every scream ever swallowed by this place. I lay awake long before dawn, my eyes tracing the faint cracks in the ceiling, my thoughts far from the narrow room assigned to me.I had not slept. I doubt I could have even if I tried. The night carried a prickling edge, the kind that crawled under the skin and reminded me that something was shifting, tightening, preparing to snap. Outside my slit of a window, the guards’ lanterns drifted through the fog, smearing gold across the walls before vanishing again. Their movements were slow, repetitive, but not careless. Nothing here was ever careless.I pushed myself upright, letting the cool air settle over my shoulders. My hands rested on the basin beside me—plain wood, still faintly warm from when I scrubbed it hours ago, though I barely remembered doin

AmayaThe wind changed before the sun set. It carried the scent of iron — the kind that lingers before something breaks.By the time the last bell rang, I already knew the purge would begin tonight.The halls of the packhouse felt different now. Too quiet. Even the walls seemed to hold their breath. I moved with the other servants through the corridor, head down, hands steady, pretending I didn’t notice how the guards’ eyes lingered too long. Trish was beside me, her face pale beneath the soot she had rubbed across her cheeks. We didn’t speak. Words had become dangerous things to trade.Every footstep echoed. Every door sounded like a warning.The scent-masking herbs she’d given me earlier still burned faintly in my pocket. It didn’t matter — fear has its own smell, and tonight, I reeked of it.We entered the service stair. At the top of the landing, a small window looked over the eastern yard. Soldiers gathered in quiet groups, their armor catching the last streaks of light. I could