30. Luna
LUNA
The circle has grown.
It used to be a modest ring—packed dirt stamped by years of blood and ceremony. But tonight it’s swollen wider, stretched to contain the sheer number of challengers. The crowd presses close to create a living wall of bodies. The hum of their unease shivers through the air.
I push through them until I reach the edge. Torchlights lick high against the cloudy winter sky, and shadows dance across faces. I brace myself for sneers, for hatred, for eyes gleaming with vengeance.
But that isn’t what I find.
There’s anger, yes. Always anger. But mixed with it are furrowed brows, pale cheeks, lips pressed tight—not with rage but worry. Concern. Fear.
Not fear of me. Fear for me.
It cuts sharper than hate ever could.
When my eyes find Sawyer across the circle, I don’t even feel surprise. My chest aches as I mouth the words, Please go.
He only shakes his head.
A breath slowly trails over my lips. He’s a hypocrite for all the times he’s called me stubborn, and for once, I understand the frustration. It won’t be long before the police come. It’s lucky he’s good at escaping. Better than anyone.
He’ll find a way.
And maybe it will take longer for a raid than I’m anticipating. What do I know of the authorities? Nothing, really. No interaction, no history. Only stories of raids and punishments, cages and trials. Told by my father and by books. I don’t know how fast they move or how hard they’ll strike.
But they’re coming.
I step into the circle. Heat from the torches licks my face. The crowd falls to a hush.
There’s less anger among my opponents than there was earlier.
And more hesitation. Even some of the fighters, standing shoulder to shoulder in their makeshift line, avoid my eyes.
Part of me finds it strange, but the other part knows my father.
It’s easy to get caught up in the fever of his words.
Caught up in the weight of the moment. Now, in the quiet, they look uncertain.
It brings me a strange kind of peace. I will die knowing not everyone despises me. Not everyone sees me as a monster.
Father enters the circle from the opposite side. His face is schooled into holy severity as his shoes kick up dirt. When he raises his hands, the crowd leans forward to catch his voice.
But before he can speak, another voice slices through the silence.
“Stop!”
The word bellows like thunder, and clunky footsteps I hear in my dreams follow. I would know that voice anywhere. Those steps anywhere.
Thorne storms forward, shoulders squared, eyes wild but steady. The crowd parts to make room for him. My pulse lurches.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t falter. He steps into the circle and towers over Father with his chest heaving.
“I’ll be fighting in the Head Keeper’s place.”
The words crack like lightning.
Gasps ripple through the crowd. A murmur rises, confusion threading with disbelief.
My heart tears in half.
Father freezes for a beat. Shocked. Not because it’s particularly uncommon for someone to take a fighter’s place but because it’s unheard of for me. It’s disrespectful for Thorne to try.
When the shock fades, Father’s lips twitch. A subtle smugness slides back into place.
“The Head Keeper must accept.”
“She already has.” Thorne tosses me a conspiratorial glance. He looks so certain. Like he’s spent years thinking this through.
In a way, he has.
“Is this true?” Father turns his gaze on me. His tone is smooth, oiled with false neutrality.
The world slows.
Thorne turns to me, and for a long moment, it’s just us. No crowd. No fire. No Aurelius.
Just us.
His eyes find mine, storm-dark, but soft where only I can see it. I shake my head—subtle, small, a plea he’s not supposed to catch. But he does. Of course he does.
“Thorne.” My voice is barely more than breath.
No.
He steps closer until only I can hear him. He doesn’t touch me, not yet, but the space between us hums like a live wire. “You have to.”
“I can win.” My words are firm, but they taste like ash. And they’re such an obvious lie. “I can beat him. Don’t take this from me.”
At last, he takes my hand. Rough calluses graze my palm, and though I knew we could be no more, I nearly weep with the realization that one day I will forget his touch.
For now, his hand swallows mine like it has since we were children climbing trees we had no business on. His thumb presses into my palm, steady. Grounding.
“This isn’t for you,” he says, voice low so only I can hear. “It’s for them.” He tips his chin toward the crowd. Toward the faces watching, waiting, trembling.
Tears prick, but I hold them back. I will not cry. Not here.
He wouldn’t want me to.
“Love for the people is greater than love for oneself,” he reminds me softly. A mirror of words I once gave him. Words that cut deep enough to bleed.
I regret it.
I regret everything now.
“Thorne…” My throat closes around his name. “Please don’t do this.”
He smiles, but it’s broken. “It’s okay, my love… I promise, it’s all going to be okay.”
Father’s voice cuts in, oily and expectant. “Do you accept, Head Keeper?”
I look at Thorne. At the man who carried my burdens when I was too young to name them. At the friend who stood between me and every shadow. At the boy who grew into the man my people always deserved.
My lips tremble. My head shakes once more. He squeezes my hand until it hurts.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, barely breaking through the lump in my throat. “I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. Just be strong.”
“I love you.” I squeeze his hand back. I mean every syllable.
It isn’t a romantic kind of love, but it’s love nonetheless.
“I know.” He gives me a sad smile. He pulls his hand from mine and backs up a couple of steps with his head held high and his hands clasped in front of him.
When I meet my father’s eyes, I watch fear flicker. His face is no longer smug. His smile is nowhere to be found.
Clearing my throat, I nod. “I accept.”
The crowd roars, not in anger this time, but in awe.
Thorne’s shoulders roll and his neck cracks like he’s preparing to carry the world. He turns from me to the fighters, and I feel the tear inside me widen until I’m certain it’ll never close.
I step out of the circle, my boots heavy, my lungs hollow. Watching him from the edge is like watching my own soul walk toward execution.
Father gives the ceremonial speech in an unfamiliar voice. Not quite afraid but without the energy he normally brings. I’m not sure people around even listen.
When he announces the start of the fight, no challengers move. They just stare at my bulky, ruthless savior, the closest thing to a prince I’ve ever known.
It takes my father’s bellowing prod for the first to step forward. A fellow Keeper named Alexander. He’s as strong as Thorne but slower and less practiced. And he looks more unsure of himself than I've ever seen him.
I hold my breath while I wait for Thorne to strike, the crowd collectively bracing for a bloodbath. But when Thorne turns his back on the man, breath whooshes from my lungs. I see the pain in his eyes and feel it in my chest.
No.
He stares at me as he drops to his knees.
“No,” I moan. I push into the circle only to freeze.
The silence is deafening. Even the snow seems to hold its fall, caught midair, waiting. Thorne doesn’t lower his gaze. He stares straight at me.
The world tilts.
“Get up.” My lips barely move with the whisper. “Please, Thorne… get up.”
He only shakes his head. The one and only time he’s outright defied me.
The Keepers exchange nervous looks as they shift on their feet, as if waiting for their Chief Elder’s order. My father doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
Alexander steps forward, hesitates, then takes another step.
“No…” My voice cracks in the cold, unheard against the sea of watchers. My fists curl at my sides, nails biting into skin.
Thorne doesn’t fight. Doesn’t lift his arms. Doesn’t defend himself when the Keeper places his palms on both sides of Thorne’s head.
Thorne’s eyes close and lips move around words meant only for me. I don’t hear them. I don’t need to.
I know.
The crack is sharp and final.
Thorne’s body crumples, knees folding, torso falling into the snow-dusted dirt. His head tilts at a wrong angle, eyes fixed on me even as the light leaves them.
My chest hollows out. The crowd gasps, but no one screams.
Inside me, something tears free. A thread that’s kept me tethered, kept me human. Gone.
I don’t cry. I don’t make a sound. I wouldn’t dishonor him with tears.
But every piece of me fractures with the force of a storm tearing through glass.
I stand tall, spine rigid, while my heart beats broken in my chest. My people’s eyes are on me. Searching for weakness, for grief, for rage.
All I give them is stone.
All I give them is silence.
Because I am the queen of ice, right up to the end.