Morning Before the Festival
Last night had carved itself into Morgana's memory like a scar—the shadows at her window, those arrogant smirks, the infuriating presence of Majesty. But peace was a fragile thing in her world, and it never lingered long.
Morning descended with deceptive calm, electric with anticipation that made her skin prickle. The manor hummed with activity as preparations for Lunaria reached fever pitch. Maids swept through hallways like ghosts, their footsteps a soft percussion against marble floors. Dresses hung in doorways like silk sentinels. Trunks gaped open, half-packed with ceremonial clothes and ritual oils. The scent of lavender and burning incense wound through the corridors like whispered omens.
The Neon Moon Festival was tonight. And with it, the Seeker Ceremony that would determine her fate.
Morgana slipped into the breakfast room, her steps quiet but her mind a tempest of nerves. The familiar clinking of cutlery against porcelain should have been comforting—instead, it felt like a countdown.
"Good morning, Mama," she murmured, settling into her chair with practiced grace that masked the tension coiled in her shoulders.
Amara looked up from her tea, a smile as warm as the sunlight streaming through tall windows. "How was your night, baby?"
Morgana's fingers found the edge of her plate, gripping it like an anchor. *It was peaceful. The devil came.* But those words would raise questions she wasn't ready to answer.
"It was fine," she said instead, arranging her features into something pleasant and expected. Behind that practiced smile, dread coiled in her chest like smoke—thick and suffocating.
"Your father left early for Lunaria," Amara continued, reaching for berry jam with steady hands. "Emergency council meeting. We'll follow in a few hours."
Before Morgana could respond, Zirelle's voice cut through the morning air—always too observant, always finding the tender spots.
"What about Majesty?"
The name hit Morgana like a physical blow. Her stomach twisted into an angry knot, her appetite dissolving instantly.
Amara didn't look up from her toast. "He might be with Thane and Eli."
*Might be.* The uncertainty rang like a warning bell. Majesty never followed plans—he unraveled them, left chaos in his wake like a signature.
*Don't let him ruin tonight,* Morgana prayed silently, hands clenched beneath the table. *Please, Moon Goddess, let me find my mate. Let tonight set me free.*
She needed an escape from the storm that was Majesty's presence in her life—chaotic, unrelenting, always there when she least wanted him.
Zirelle leaned forward, curiosity bright in her eyes. "Mother, how does the mate bond actually work?"
Amara's smile deepened, becoming something ancient and knowing. The air seemed to still around her, as if the walls themselves leaned closer to listen.
"It's not something I can easily explain," she said gently, stirring her tea with deliberate care. "But don't worry—you'll understand tonight."
The words should have been comforting. They were meant to be. But Morgana felt only warning, as if fate had already been set in motion and there was no turning back.
---
The air between them crackled with unspoken tension. Thane's words hung heavy, familiar as a worn refrain.
"You really should go back," he said, quiet insistence threading his voice like he was reasoning with a stubborn child.
Majesty's gaze sharpened, ice-cold and flashing with annoyance and something deeper—pain he refused to acknowledge. The look he shot Thane said *not this again* louder than words.
"Don't give me that," Thane pressed, voice low but firm. "At least think about us. You'll be lonely without us."
The words scraped against Majesty's carefully constructed armor, finding cracks he'd thought sealed. He rubbed the back of his neck—an unconscious gesture betraying discomfort he'd never admit to.
"I know," he muttered, voice rough with something almost vulnerable.
Elijah's calm voice cut through the tension. "My father wants me trained for the Duke title. It's my responsibility."
"You're still a prince," He pointed out, eyebrow raised.
The word *duty* tasted bitter on Majesty's tongue. He scoffed, dismissive. "Spare me the royal lecture."
Eli reclined, casual but sharp-eyed. His next question was loaded, probing deeper. "Or is there a reason you don't want to go back?"
*Anna.*
Her face flashed through his mind like lightning—a ghost rising from depths he'd tried to bury. Five years hadn't dimmed the haunting. Her memory twisted inside him, raw and persistent as an infected wound.
"Majesty?" Eli's voice was steady but concerned, catching the flicker behind his friend's eyes.
With sudden, abrupt motion, Majesty shattered the fragile moment. "I'm heading out," he said, voice clipped with finality. "See you both at the festival."
He didn't wait for replies, didn't want to hear protests or warnings or the concern that would make him remember why leaving hurt so much.
Behind him, Thane muttered with resignation, "He's not going to change his mind."
Eli sighed, shadows of knowing in his eyes. "You know Majesty. Once he's decided, it's already done."
---
The grand council chamber of Lunaira Palace was marble and shadow made manifest—tall stained-glass windows painted with forgotten gods filtered morning light into fractured rainbows. But no amount of beauty could warm the air that day.
Tension gripped the room like a vice.
"My King, we must act," Lord Zarek said, urgency tightening his voice to a wire. "The deaths are increasing again."
His words cut through stillness like a blade through silk.
King Abelard straightened, silver detailing of his cloak catching fractured sunlight. His face remained unreadable, but fingers curled tight around the lion-crest armrest. Across the chamber, another councilman stepped forward, lines etched deeper by the weight of what he carried.
"This morning, five bodies were found near the forest path," he reported grimly. "Same pattern. Same mark."
A pause that stretched like a held breath.
"The Devil's Mark."
The words dropped like stones into deep water. Nervous murmurs stirred—soft, fearful whispers that made the shadows seem to lean closer.
King Abelard's jaw locked, lips thinning to a blade. "I thought the killings had stopped."
"They had," came the reply. "Six months of peace. Until dawn. Hours before the festival."
Unease rippled through the chamber like wind through wheat.
"If word spreads," someone murmured from the shadows, "panic will follow."
Heavy silence stretched. All eyes turned to the throne, waiting for judgment.
"No one says a word," King Abelard commanded, voice quiet thunder that brooked no argument. "Bury the bodies quietly. We will not ruin the Neon Moon Festival. Not unless it happens again."
The court bowed as one, robes sweeping marble as they retreated—silhouettes swallowed by arched doorways. Only Lord Zarek remained.
Abelard's eyes shifted to him, unreadable as winter skies. "Any insight?"
Zarek's brow furrowed. "None. I'm as blind as the rest."
For a moment, they stood in silence—not as king and subject, but as two weary generals who'd fought this unseen war before and felt its weight in their bones.
"After the festival," Abelard said, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "summon the prophetess."
His gaze darkened like approaching storm clouds.
"We will not let this mark our kingdom again."
Lord Zarek nodded, but his eyes lingered on the king's face, searching for something neither could name.
Outside, palace bells began their melodic song—soft music that should have meant celebration.
It was time for joy, for ceremony, for the ancient ritual that bound souls together under the neon moon.
But beneath the music and laughter that would soon flood the city, something else had awakened in the shadows. Something ancient and patient, with a hunger that had waited long enough.
And it was far from finished.