Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Mia
I was locked in that gilded cage for five whole days.
I counted the cracks in the ceiling to pass the time—like a map charting the longest wait of my life. Birdsong drifted through the window sometimes, along with maids laughing in the distant gardens. But no footsteps ever stopped at my door.
His Majesty was busy, the guards told me. Too busy to spare a glance at his fated mate.
Fated mate. What a joke.
That day marked the first time I ever laid hands on Leah. Right after the ceremony ended, she came up to me and whispered so only I could hear: "You think you deserve to be the King's Luna? You're not even worth as much as a dog—at least dogs can bark when they're upset."
My best friend. Humiliating me with the most vicious words.
My mind went blank. By the time I came to, my hand had already swung out. The slap landed square on her cheek, the sharp crack echoing through the quiet hall.
Everyone turned to stare. Leah clutched her face, tears streaming down like broken pearls. She said nothing—just looked at me with those wounded doe eyes, as if I were some monster who'd attacked her without cause.
So they locked me in this beautiful prison.
On the sixth morning, the door finally opened. But it wasn't him. A young maid entered, brown hair pinned neatly back, her apron starched white. She carried a tray with breakfast and a pot of tea.
"Good morning, ma'am." She curtsied, voice soft. "My name's Aila. I'll be looking after you from now on."
I stared at her for a moment, then my hands flew up. "Do you know sign language?"
Her eyes lit up. She nodded. "Yes, ma'am. My mother's deaf, so I grew up with it."
I nearly jumped out of bed. Finally! Someone who could actually understand me!
My hands moved rapidly. Take me to the King. Now.
Aila's face changed. She set down the tray, wringing her hands. "Ma'am... are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure! I've been locked up for six days! I'm his fated mate, not a prisoner!"
"Ma'am..." She took a deep breath, voice dropping lower. "I know you're his fated mate. But everyone in the palace knows... the person the King really cares about is Miss Taylor."
My hands froze mid-air.
"At the Howling Ceremony, he danced with Miss Taylor. Love at first sight." Aila's voice was gentle, like she was stating common knowledge. "Then he heard her sing. They say the song moved him to tears. Everyone's talking about it—soul mates recognizing each other."
I felt my blood turning cold.
The dancing. The person he danced with that night was me.
The singing. Those songs—I wrote them.
But everyone thought it was Leah.
"So you see," Aila continued carefully, "even if you go to him—"
I cut her off, hands moving fast and urgent. "But I was the one who danced with him that night! I wrote those songs! Not Leah—"
I stopped.
Something clicked.
Leah had stolen my identity. She'd claimed she was the one who danced with him at the Howling Ceremony, claimed my songs as her own. She'd packaged herself as Zane's perfect mate, while I—the real one—sat locked in this room, unable to even defend myself.
But what if he knew the truth?
What if he knew I was the one he danced with, that I wrote those songs—would things be different?
The thought struck like a match, lighting a small flame in my chest.
"Take me to him." My signs were firm, allowing no argument. "I have to see him."
Aila hesitated for a long time. She bit her lip, fingers twisting her apron, then sighed. "All right, ma'am. I'll try."
She tried three times.
First time: His Majesty was in a meeting. Unavailable.
Second time: His Majesty was handling urgent matters. Unavailable.
Third time: His Majesty was having lunch with Miss Taylor. Unavailable.
On the fourth attempt, Aila was practically begging the guard. "Please, she just wants to see him for a moment, even just five minutes—"
The guard rolled his eyes but went in to announce us.
When he came back out, his expression was odd. "His Majesty says he can spare fifteen minutes tomorrow at noon. Tell the lady to wait in the small dining room in the East Hall."
Fifteen minutes.
I only had fifteen minutes.
But that was fine. Fifteen minutes was enough. Enough to tell him the truth. Enough for him to see I wasn't the greedy, crude mute he imagined. Enough to make him see me differently.
That night, I barely slept. I lay in bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling, rehearsing over and over what I'd tell him. I couldn't speak, so I'd have to write it down. I could make it clear on paper: I was the one who danced with you that night. I wrote those songs. Leah lied to you.
I got up and searched the room by moonlight until I found a blank page torn from a book and a piece of charcoal in a drawer. I set them on my nightstand so I wouldn't forget them tomorrow.
The next morning, I spent a full hour getting ready.
Sounds ridiculous, right? A mute orphan in a secondhand dress, thinking she could make a king see her differently. But I carefully braided my hair into a loose plait over my shoulder.
Aila had brought new clothes the night before—rush-made by the royal tailor.
A pale blue silk gown with delicate silver embroidery at the neckline.
But when I put it on, the waist gaped a full size too large, and the shoulders hung off my arms. The tailor clearly hadn't measured me—just made it to some standard template.
Aila pinned the back to make it less baggy, then handed me a white silk sash to hide the excess fabric at my waist.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," she said quietly. "The tailor said... they've been too busy with rush orders. No time for a proper fitting."
I shook my head. It was fine. I was used to it. In this palace, no one actually saw me as Luna. Getting a new dress at all was probably the limit of their token effort.
I studied myself in the mirror. The dress didn't fit, but at least the color brought out my eyes. I plucked a small white flower from the windowsill and tucked it behind my ear for a touch of brightness.
Aila looked me over and nodded. "You look beautiful, ma'am."
I took a deep breath, tucked the paper and charcoal in my pocket, and followed the guard to the East Hall's small dining room.
The "small" dining room was bigger than I'd imagined. A long table draped in white linen, set with silver cutlery and crystal goblets. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a manicured garden. Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting dappled shadows across the table.
He wasn't there yet.
I chose a seat by the window, hands folded in my lap, fingertips trembling. My heart pounded like a drum, each beat reminding me: This is your chance. Don't screw it up.
The door opened.
Zane walked in.
He wore a dark blue coat with a silver wolf's head pin at the collar. Sunlight fell across his shoulders, gilding his outline in pale gold. He looked taller than I remembered, colder. Those gray-blue eyes swept over me like I was a stranger.
"You came," he said, tone flat as a weather report.
He sat at the far end of the long table—at least five chairs between us. A guard immediately spread documents before him. He bent over them, not sparing me another glance.
I stood and walked toward him. I sat in the chair beside him, pulled out the paper and charcoal, and quickly scrawled the first line. I pushed it in front of him.
He glanced at it, brow furrowing slightly.
The paper read: I was the one who danced with you at the Howling Ceremony.
He set down his documents and looked up at me. Something complex flickered in those gray-blue eyes—but not surprise.
"I know," he said.
I froze.
"I know it was you that night." He repeated it, tone flat as if stating an irrelevant fact. "Your eyes. I remember your eyes."
My mind went blank.
He knew?
He'd known all along?
Then why...
I grabbed the charcoal, fingers shaking as I wrote the second line: Then why did you lock me up?
He glanced at it, then pushed the paper back.
"You're my fated mate," he said, voice as cold as his expression. "But that doesn't mean anything. Fated mate is just a marker. An old legend. I don't need a mate who can't even speak sitting beside me, handling state affairs, meeting foreign dignitaries."
I felt that dull knife start cutting into my chest again.
I kept writing: That song. The one Leah sang in the square. I wrote it.
This time, his expression finally changed.
He stared at those words for a long time, then looked up. His gaze turned icy.
"Who told you this?" His voice was cold as winter iron. "That new maid? What did she say? That I was moved by Miss Taylor's lyrics?"
I nodded frantically, tapping the table: Yes! Everything I'm saying is true! The lyrics that moved you—I wrote them!
He stared at me for a long time.
Then he laughed. Not a warm laugh. A cold, mocking one.
"You think I'll believe you?"
I felt ice water pour over me, head to toe.
"You think I don't know what you're playing at?" He leaned back, arms crossed, looking down at me. "You heard some rumor about how Miss Taylor's song moved me. So you're lying, trying to make me believe you wrote the lyrics."
"No!" I shook my head desperately, hands flying. "I'm not lying! It's all true! You can ask her! You can check!"
"Enough." He raised his hand, cutting me off, clear irritation in his tone. "I can't understand what you're saying. And I don't want to."
He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the nearby fireplace.
I watched the paper curl, blacken, and turn to ash in the flames. The small flame in my heart extinguished with it.
"Eat," he said, tone returning to cold indifference. "I have work to do."
He bent back over his documents as if I didn't exist.
I sat there, fingers gripping my skirt, nails digging into my palms. I wanted to stand up, grab his collar, scream at him with everything I had—but I couldn't do anything. I could only sit there like a puppet, watching him focus all his attention on those damn papers.
The silence stretched on.
I watched him. He watched his documents.
Only the rustle of turning pages and the crackle of wood in the fireplace.
Then I did one last thing.
I stood, picked up the soup tureen, ladled out a spoonful of hot soup, walked to his side, and carefully set it in his bowl.
He looked up at me.
No gratitude in that look. No surprise. Just cold, detached appraisal.
"You don't need to do this."
Just then, the door burst open.
A guard hurried in and bowed. "Your Majesty, the envoys from Silverthread Kingdom have arrived."
Zane set down his documents and stood. "Show them in."
Before I could retreat to my seat, three men in elaborate robes strode into the dining room. They saw me, their gazes lingering for a moment, then turned to him with warm smiles.
"Your Majesty! Congratulations on finding your fated mate at last!"
Zane smiled and nodded his thanks.
One envoy looked at me and asked politely, "And this is?"
"Oh," Zane looked at me, paused, then said with the casual tone of someone introducing a piece of furniture, "this is my maid."
Maid.
I stood frozen.
That word was a dull knife, slowly and cruelly carving open my chest.
"She has trouble speaking," he added with a touch of indifference. "Don't mind her."
The envoys smiled politely and paid me no more attention. They sat down and began discussing border trade agreements and alliance terms with him.
I stood there like a decoration.
Halfway through the conversation, the lead envoy glanced around. "Your Majesty, we heard you've found your fated mate. Might we have the honor of meeting the future Luna?"
Zane's expression froze for an instant. He set down his glass, fingers tapping the table twice.
"Of course." He turned to the guard at the door. "Bring Miss Taylor."
A few minutes later, the door opened again.
Leah walked in.
She wore a deep red velvet gown with pearls at the neckline, golden hair cascading over her shoulders, shimmering in the sunlight. Her makeup was flawless, her smile sweet. She looked like a princess stepped out of a painting.
"Your Majesty." She curtsied gracefully, voice gentle as a spring breeze.
"Please, sit." Zane stood and pulled out her chair himself. "The envoys wanted to meet you."
Leah smiled and sat with elegant poise, as if she'd been born to sit in that seat.
"Miss Taylor is truly beautiful," an envoy remarked. "You and His Majesty are a match made by the heavens."
Color rose in Leah's cheeks. She lowered her head, smiling shyly. "You're too kind."
Just then, an aged voice spoke from the doorway. "Since the envoys are all here, why not take this opportunity to announce some good news?"
I turned to see Elder Alden, the one with the goatee, walking in with his cane. A smug smile played on his face. His gaze lingered on Leah before turning to the group.
"His Majesty and Miss Taylor will hold a grand wedding next month," he announced, voice booming as if afraid someone might miss it. "We welcome all envoys to attend."
I felt my heart stop.
I looked at Zane.
His expression stiffened for an instant. I saw his jaw muscles tighten, his fingers gripping the glass a fraction tighter.
"Your Majesty," Alden smiled at him, "since the envoys are here, they can bear witness. Isn't this what you've always wanted? For the sake of our friendship."
Zane's gaze swept between Leah and the envoys. His lips pressed into a thin line. But he didn't object.
He was silent for several seconds. Then he raised his glass and took a small sip.
"Yes," he said, voice terrifyingly calm. "You're all welcome to attend our grand wedding."
He nodded.
He agreed.
He was going to marry Leah.
And I—his fated mate—sat in the corner, introduced as his maid.
The envoys applauded and raised their glasses in congratulations. Leah smiled like a blooming flower. She turned, her gaze landing on me, lips curving into a subtle arc.
Something hid in that smile.
Victory? Satisfaction? Or pity?
I didn't know.
I only knew my world collapsed completely in that moment.
I stood, pushed back my chair, and walked out of the dining room without looking back.
No one stopped me.
No one noticed.
I walked down the long corridor, my footsteps echoing off the empty stone walls.
Sunlight through the windows was so bright it made me want to cry, but no tears came.
I just kept walking, kept walking, until I reached an empty terrace.
I gripped the railing, gasping for breath.
Wind blew through, tangling my hair, loosening the white flower from behind my ear.
It fell to the ground, petals scattering like a crushed heart.