Chapter 5 #2
The withdrawal prickles beneath my skin, making every sensation sharper – the cooling air against my neck, the faint scent of night-blooming flowers beginning to open. And something else – something that raises the fine hairs on my arms.
I’m being watched.
I hold my breath and turn slowly, scanning the deep shadows gathered beneath the upper gallery.
Nothing moves. No sound except the fountains and the distant hum of the palace settling into evening.
But the feeling doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies.
One shadow near a far column seems darker than it should be, denser somehow, as though it’s absorbing light rather than simply existing in its absence.
I blink, and it’s just a shadow again. Just architecture and fading daylight playing tricks on exhausted eyes.
I’m imagining things. The stress, the withdrawal, the strangeness of this place. That’s all.
As I proceed to walk in, I find Lord Zevran standing near a fountain, one arm braced on the edge, his back turned. Even from behind, I notice the taut set of his shoulders, as though holding back either pain or fury, I can’t tell which.
When he hears my footsteps, he straightens, masking whatever strain lingered there.
“Miss Cyra.”
He turns. The dying light outlines the sharp lines of his face, the dark cut of his jaw. There’s no armour now, no audience – just him in a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, steel eyes watchful and tired.
“Sit,” he says, motioning to a stone bench.
I hesitate, the air between us humming like it wants to close the distance. The man himself radiates caution, walls firmly up in place. I slowly sit, not entirely sure what else to do.
He joins me, leaving a deliberate space between us, posture stiff as if afraid to relax. For a long moment, we sit in silence, filled only by the fountain’s trickle. His jaw flexes, then eases, like he’s debating whether to speak at all.
“No satchel full of healer tricks?” he finally asks, blunt but not unkind.
“I don’t need them,” I reply quietly.
His eyes pass over me, sharp and assessing. There’s something less guarded in his stare than before, a hairline crack in the armour.
“Your mother didn’t either. Isn’t that what the Daughters of the Moon are known for?” he asks.
“I’m not a Daughter of the Moon,” I reply.
He pauses, confused. “But … you have their powers … you can heal just like they did. Your mother trained you to be one, didn’t she?”
I could read his hesitation before he spoke, the tiny stillness at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked away when he mentioned my mother. A combination of inherited ability and years of healing has trained me to listen to what people don’t say as much as what they do.
I stay silent for a moment, considering what I should say versus what I shouldn’t.
“There’s a ritual one must go through before officially becoming a Daughter of the Moon.
It’s only possible to go through the rite once every nine years, when the lunar veil opens and the calling happens, where the Moon either claims you or turns you away. ..”
I pause, feeling the weight of what I’m about to admit settle in my chest.
“I was planning to go through the next one, but … I need my mother there. I can’t do it without her, and I’d feel like a cheat if I declared I was a Daughter without enduring the ritual.”
“That’s admirably moral of you,” he says. His voice almost softens, though it sounds like he doesn’t quite know how.
“Your Grace…” I turn to look up at him, eager to drown out the craving clawing at me. “Why do you need a healer?”
He exhales, low and strained. “It’s grown worse. The longer I go without healing, the more it spreads. No one can diagnose it. All I know is, from the very first conscious memory I have, my bones have always felt like they’re burning from the inside.”
I glance at him. “That sounds like a horrible way to exist…”
His brows furrow, as though he resents the admission.
“Rulers who bleed don’t live long.” The words are flat, but I hear the truth buried beneath them.
He learned a long time ago that any weakness for him is a liability, and a chronic illness is the worst possible scenario.
No wonder he wears coldness like armour.
It strikes me then what a lonely way that must be to live.
“Why me?” I ask, finally. “You could have a hundred palace medics – you could find the best priests—”
“I did. Nothing I tried worked … until I met Liora,” he says. His voice dips when he says it.
I swallow. “Do you know what happened to my mother?”
He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the setting sun.
“No. I wish I did.” he says, finally.
He meets my eyes, and for the first time since arriving at this palace, I feel like I’ve received an honest answer.
“Your mother didn’t just heal bodies – she counselled minds, listened to secrets. The kind of knowledge that makes powerful people nervous.”
The implication sends a chill down my spine. “You think someone made her disappear because of what she knew?”
“I think your mother is a smart woman who understood when it was time to step back from dangerous situations,” he says. His voice is carefully neutral. “The question is whether she chose to leave, or whether the choice was made for her.”
I take a moment to digest his words. There’s so much she didn’t tell me, so much I didn’t know…
“I did try,” he continues, his voice almost softening. “I had search teams out, spared no expense searching for any trace – any hint of her whereabouts…” His eyes meet mine now. “I wish I had more to tell you.”
For some reason, I believe him. Maybe it’s the honesty behind his eyes, or his truthful tone. I push my spiraling thoughts away, focusing on the work I’m about to do.
“Where does it hurt?” I ask.
He reaches to undo the top buttons of his shirt, slowly exposing the place where his shoulder meets his neck. The tan skin there is slightly luminous, red veins creating branching patterns that look almost like molten cracks, as if heat is trying to break free from beneath the surface.
I feel my cheeks flush. I’ve healed countless bodies before, naked and broken, but the deliberate way he reveals himself makes my pulse skip.
I press my hand to his exposed skin. Our eyes catch, and for an instant I think I see gratitude …
but then it’s gone, shuttered behind steel again.
He doesn’t want me to see weakness, even as the sickness pulses beneath my palm.
Then, magic blooms through my hand. My power stirs, hungry and ready.
But I hold it back, letting it trickle slowly, deliberately, into him. The hunger continues to grow, chilling me to the bone, desperate to unleash the extent of my power. I fight to keep it controlled, contained, filling up on the small ecstasy being created. It’s enough to satisfy my craving.
I watch as Lord Zevran’s eyes move to the top of my chest, noticing the crescent moon sigil glow beneath my clothes. “Your mother had the same crest.”
I glance down, a small smile breaking through my lips as I bask in the faint glow. “It’s a sign you’re marked by the moon.” I whisper.
A long silence makes itself at home between us. I let the magic trickle through my fingers until the pulsing beneath his skin fades.
When I pull away, he doesn’t speak. He just watches me, chest rising and falling slowly.
“Thank you,” he says. The words sound stiff, as if dragged from him. His rigid posture slackens by a fraction. He’s letting me see only what he can’t control: the relief that betrays him.
I raise a brow. “You should try saying that more often, Your Grace. It makes you seem almost human.”
A crooked smile touches his lips, quick and guarded, as if it surprises even him.
“Don’t push your luck,” he mutters.
The words sound reluctant, like he regrets taking part in the levity. But they spark something dangerous in me … a possibility. Not freedom, not yet. But a reminder that even prisons have cracks in their walls.