CH. 10 The Moon Takes Her Due
The palace gardens are quiet after Sorien leaves — too quiet. The fountains have stopped singing, the nightbirds have gone silent. Even the air feels like it's holding its breath.
Hegar stands beside one of the stone circles, eyes fixed on the carved sigils. He looks thoughtful, which for Hegar means "possibly regretting every life choice that led him here."
I, on the other hand, am bursting with questions.
"Okay," I say, throwing my hands up. "Questions! First — why are you, a most outstanding witch, following a mere Prince? And second — why are you not burned at the stake yet?"
He exhales through his nose. "That's two questions, not one."
"Answer both, then," I chirp. "I'm a generous audience."
He doesn't look at me. "Because even witches need to survive."
"That's not an answer. That's a slogan."
Finally, he turns, expression unreadable in the moonlight. "The world doesn't burn witches anymore, Drew. It hires them. The Crown realized it's cheaper to keep us alive — as long as we're useful."
I blink. "So you're saying... you're a government witch?"
His lips twitch. "You make it sound like a disease."
"Well, it kind of is," I say brightly. "A betrayal disease."
He gives me a look. "Says the witch who ran straight into a Prince's lap."
I gasp dramatically. "I didn't run! I was dragged. Against my will. My very delicate ankles were in peril!"
That earns me a small, reluctant sound — not quite a laugh, but something close. I'll count it.
He sits on the edge of the stone platform and gestures to the emblems. "You wanted answers. Listen carefully, because you won't hear this from any human mouth."
I sit cross-legged across from him. "Ooo, secret lore. Go on, Cousin Hegar."
"The Seven Challenges were not created by the Kings of Resan," he begins. "They're older — older than the palace, older than the bloodline. The first King claimed the Moon herself appeared before him and carved these symbols into the ground. Each trial tests a piece of a ruler's soul."
I trace a finger along the nearest carving — the chalice. "So... what's what?"
He points one by one.
"The sword — Courage. The scale — Wisdom. The flame — Strength. The crown — Purity. The chalice — Loyalty. The beast — Faith. And the mirror..."
He hesitates.
"...the mirror is Truth. The last test. The cruelest."
"Why?"
He looks away. "Because the mirror doesn't show who you are. It shows who you'll become."
The night wind stirs, cold and dry. I don't like the way his voice sounds when he says it — like someone who's seen too much and wishes he hadn't.
"So," I say softly, "you follow Sorien to make sure he survives this... royal meat grinder?"
"I follow him," Hegar replies, "because he's the only Prince who still thinks witches are human."
That makes me go quiet.
He stands, brushing off his cloak. "Don't mistake that for kindness. He uses what he respects."
"Oh, good," I say lightly. "I was worried we'd found a noble one."
"Don't be ridiculous," he mutters.
We fall into silence. The moonlight paints everything silver — the pillars, the platforms, even Hegar's dark eyes. I think I see something behind them, something cracked and tired. He's not just serving the Prince. He's bound to him somehow. I can feel it — a faint hum of shared magic.
I open my mouth to ask, but the world interrupts.
A bell rings.
Then another.
And another.
The sound spreads across the palace — deep, heavy, mournful. Bells that toll only for one reason.
Hegar goes still.
"What's that?" I whisper.
He doesn't answer.
Footsteps echo down the corridor beyond the courtyard — soldiers shouting, servants gasping, the clatter of hurried armor. Then a voice, loud and shaking:
"The King— the King is dead!"
The words hit like a thunderclap.
The fountains stop completely. The night feels hollow. Somewhere in the distance, I swear I hear the faint laugh of the Moon.
Hegar turns to me, his expression unreadable. "It begins."
"What begins?"
"The blood moon trials," he says quietly. "The Seven Challenges. Every Prince in Resan will now fight to prove himself worthy."
I blink. "Oh, fantastic. Royal fratricide with ceremonial flair. How very Kavornos."
But Hegar doesn't smile. He looks up at the sky — at the Moon, already rising higher, red at its edges — and whispers, almost to himself:
"May the Moon have mercy on us all."