CH. 11 The Blood Moon Proclamation
Morning comes with noise.
Not birds or bells — people.
The palace hums with panic and perfume. Servants run like their feet are on fire, nobles clatter through corridors, and even the guards whisper behind their helmets.
I peek from my window. Below, the courtyard is a swarm of silks and jewels. Everyone's talking at once.
"The King's death is confirmed—"
"The Queen's already meeting the Seer—"
"They'll summon the Princes by noon—"
"The Blood Moon has risen—"
I stretch, yawning. "One night in this palace and someone dies. I should start charging for appearances."
Hegar barges in before I can enjoy my smugness. His face is taut, sharper than usual.
"Get dressed," he says.
"I am dressed."
"Into something less... insulting."
"My existence is insulting," I remind him helpfully.
He throws me a black cloak that smells like despair and witchdust. "The Prince wants everyone in the Great Hall. The proclamation begins soon."
"The proclamation of what? The annual royal meltdown?"
He doesn't answer. He's already gone.
The Great Hall looks like the inside of a jeweled coffin — dazzling and suffocating.
Trumpets blare. Courtiers weep dramatically into lace handkerchiefs. I squeeze in near a column, hood low, trying not to choke on their collective hypocrisy.
At the far end, the Queen sits like an ice sculpture — regal, unreadable, flawless. Beside her, the High Seer grips his moon-carved staff, violet robes sweeping like liquid shadow.
Hegar stands to one side of the hall. A few moments later, Sorien strides in. The crowd parts as if the air itself steps back.
Then Gavin arrives — eyes rimmed red, smile rehearsed.
And last... Prince Farro.
His stride is stiff. There's a slight tremor in his step that only someone watching closely — me — would notice. His tunic hangs a little lower than usual, and his complexion looks pale enough to match the marble.
I smother a grin. "Well, well. Look who survived the snip."
Farro's face is carved in forced serenity, but his jaw twitches every few seconds. He's angry — not at the King's death, but at the living reminder of his humiliation standing just three paces away: Prince Sorien.
The tension between them could slice through bone.
The High Seer slams his staff once, and silence swallows the room.
"By decree of the Moon," he intones, voice echoing like thunder in a crypt, "His Majesty, King Aeric of Resan, has returned to Her light. May his soul be judged fairly."
The courtiers bow, sniffling for effect. I bow too — mostly to hide my smirk. Humans love pretending grief is fashionable.
"In accordance with the old law," the Seer continues, "the throne stands vacant until the Moon chooses Her heir. The Seven Challenges shall commence upon the rise of the Blood Moon."
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
"Each Prince of Resan will face the Trials — Courage, Wisdom, Strength, Purity, Loyalty, Faith, and Truth. The victor shall be King. The unworthy shall perish."
The Queen rises, her voice smooth as glass.
"My sons. You are the pride of Resan, the light of our kingdom. Bring honor to your blood, and remember — the Moon sees all."
Her gaze lands last on Sorien. It lingers — sharp, motherly, almost dangerous.
Sorien bows stiffly. "As the Moon wills."
Gavin repeats it like a toast.
Farro stays silent, his hands trembling slightly before he hides them behind his back.
The Queen notices. Her mask never slips, but I swear I see the faintest flicker of disgust.
When the ceremony ends, the nobles spill into the corridors like gossiping ants. I slip through the chaos and find Hegar standing by the window, watching the rising sun.
"Well," I say, "that was depressing."
He doesn't look at me. "It's only begun."
"Tell me, Cousin," I prod, "does your Prince look forward to these seven bloody tea parties?"
Hegar's lips twitch. "He doesn't have a choice."
"And Farro?"
"Still breathing," he says dryly. "For now."
I smirk. "Ah, sibling affection. So heartwarming."
He finally turns to me, eyes darker than the night before. "You joke, but this will get worse. The Trials are sacred — and fatal. The Moon doesn't forgive failure."
I glance up. The morning sky is pale, but high above it — faint, ghostly — hangs the blood-tinged moon.
"Does She forgive witches?" I ask quietly.
Hegar's voice lowers. "The Moon doesn't forgive anyone. She collects."
Before I can question that, a horn blares through the palace. Trumpets follow from the towers — deep, slow, final.
Servants freeze midstep. Nobles look to the sky.
The faint red orb pulses once — twice — as though it's breathing.
The Blood Moon has risen.
And the Seven Challenges have begun.