Guardian of the Moon

Daelith glided along the long, shadowed corridor of Grey Castle. The candles flickered weakly, casting tremulous light that barely held back the shadows clinging to the vaulted ceiling. Two squires followed her, their armor whispering with each step, breaking the hush. A lavish carpet swallowed the click of her heels, but it could not still the hollow drum of her heart.

The summons had come suddenly, without warning - like a cruel strike to the back. She had barely had a moment to smooth her hair and steady her dress after the ride. The corset pressed relentlessly against her ribs, refusing her a full breath, yet this was nothing compared to the oppressive weight that sat heavy within her chest.

The king had not called for her in over a month. And now… something felt wrong.

They approached the towering doors of the throne room in utter silence. Carved from dark, time-worn wood, their surface gleamed faintly in the candlelight, set with massive golden handles shaped like the snarling heads of sea dragons. A servant waited at the entrance; at her approach, he dropped into a deep bow and heaved the heavy doors open.

A cool draft struck her face, carrying the scent of wax and ancient stone.

Daelith stepped inside, fingers interlaced tightly. Behind her, the squires followed, their armor chiming softly with every step.

The throne room was vast. The glow of hundreds of enchanted flames flickered gently in the gloom, yet even their light could not banish the shadows lurking beneath the towering arches. High among the arches hung the immense skeleton of a sea monster, ancient and bleached by time. It called to mind an ancestor who had once conquered the ocean. Stone walls rose like sheer cliffs, their cracks veined with darkness. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the narrow windows, night birds called to one another.

The gilded frames, the whisper of advisors, the heavy scent of incense - everything around her screamed of the crown’s grandeur. To her, though, this hall was a cage.

On the raised dais, surrounded by his closest attendants, sat the king.

Grim of Stormar was no longer young, yet he still commanded fear. He reclined against the throne, one hand resting on the armrest, the other on the hilt of his sword. A thick beard streaked with grey framed a stern gaze that could chill to the bone. Stone. Ice. Steel.

Daelith inclined her head in a slight bow, and the knights behind her sank to one knee.

The king’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her.

“You are late.”

His voice was calm, measured but it carried the cold edge of steel. She knew him too well: Grim’s words needed no volume to wound.

“I… I am sorry, Your Majesty,” Daelith said, forcing herself to speak evenly. “I did not expect a summons. We have not seen each other for over a month. And I—“

“Enough,” he snapped, cutting her off.

She flinched almost imperceptibly. Her eyelids flicked up, then dropped again. There was no point in arguing.

“I summoned you to deliver news,” he continued, his tone icy. “Tomorrow you leave for Kelen’Thir.”

Her heart faltered.

“To be wed to the prince of the elves.”

The air in the hall seemed to thicken, heavy as smoke.

Daelith barely realized her lips had moved but no words came out.

What?

Had she anticipated it? Yes. The king had always toyed with her destiny.

But not like this.

A single question lingered on her tongue - why? Yet she could not bring herself to speak it aloud.

None of this was unfamiliar - merely another deal. Marriage was only a pretext. Grim had something far greater in mind.

But would he share his intentions with her?

The king took her silence for a question and spoke again.

“It has been three years since your mother died. The mourning… has dragged on.”

Daelith’s fingers curled until her nails bit into her palms.

“But… you were preparing me to marry my cousin Darolt…”

“That no longer matters.” His voice was cold, even, void of any warmth. “I have made my decision. Darolt will learn when he returns from the Ice Garrison. And tomorrow… you leave for Kelen’Thir.”

“Father, may I…” she breathed out and instantly regretted daring to speak.

“You will do as I command!” Grim’s roar shattered the silence, echoing against the vaulted ceiling, rolling from column to column, then fading into the shadows.

A deathly hush fell over the hall. Even the flames seemed to gutter, dimming for an instant. The guards behind Daelith shrank back, frozen, yet no one dared intervene. A whisper of unease rippled across the room.

Daelith clenched her jaw. She bowed.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Grim nodded, eyes sliding away.

“You may go.”

He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time in years. As though trying to recall the face of the child she had once been. But the moment shattered instantly. Gone. Frowning, the king turned to his advisors.

Daelith lowered her head once more.

And she left.

The throne room doors closed behind her with a dull, final boom - resonant, inescapable.

In the privacy of her chambers, Daelith finally allowed herself to breathe. She sank wearily onto the velvet couch by the window, staring aimlessly at the scarlet sunset. Its rays danced over her face, gilding hazel eyes, tracing the high planes of her cheekbones, and lingering in strands of long, dark-blond hair.

Thoughts whirled in a storm, colliding and breaking apart like ice floes in a mountain river.

The chill of the throne hall still held her in its frozen grip.

Yet through the cold, a trembling light broke through - so fragile she feared to touch it even in thought, lest it spill away.

Hope.

She would be free.

Praise the gods her father had not chosen Darolt!

She shivered. At the mere thought of her cousin, a nauseating tremor ran through her: his rough hands, the heavy breath at her temple, his insistent whisper. She remembered everything. They had been betrothed when she was twelve, and from that day on, he had considered her his possession.

But now… now everything had changed.

What had made her father change his mind, abandoning a union long decided? She did not know, and she did not wish to know. It no longer mattered.

All that mattered was that she had a chance.

She would leave.

Leaving behind this castle, her father, the icy prison that had bound her for twenty-seven years with every glance, every command. Leaving behind the man who had never looked at her as a daughter, only as a bargaining chip.

Maybe beyond these walls, something different awaited her.

And her brothers? Would they miss her?

Unlikely.

The middle one - Illion, had always been reserved, distant. He had envied her mother, their fragile bond as delicate as frost on glass.

Artus - the youngest - had defended her, shielded her, kept silent, endured. But even he had long grown weary. Her departure would likely be a relief.

She exhaled sharply, her fingers fidgeted with the leafy pattern. The corset pressed into her ribs like a command, forcing her breaths shallow and measured.

Her pulse raced.

Could it be true? Would she really leave Grey Castle?

Kelen’Thir was the first of the forest elf kingdoms to dare speak to Stormar. Grim’s rule had drowned out all outside voices for far too long.

She remembered the first time she saw Emmazuriel. She was sixteen, and her father had commanded her to smile at the prince even when her heart had felt hollow.

Perhaps with him it would be different?

The books said forest elves were just and wise. She clung to it like a slender thread - the only one still left in her hands.

Her gaze swept across the chambers and froze on the trunks lined up against the wall. The servants had already packed her belongings.

She didn’t care what lay inside. None of it mattered; she wanted nothing from this place except one pendant.

She lowered her hand to her neck, clutching the small medallion set with a smoky stone.

Her mother’s jewel. The only piece of her that remained.

She covered it with her palm, closing her eyes against the flood of memories.

The queen had fallen from her chamber balcony, her body shattering against the grey rocks below. Officially a tragic accident. The household had been plunged into mourning, and her father had grown darker. Meaner.

But Daelith knew the truth.

Her mother hadn’t survived it. She couldn’t bear the beatings, the humiliation, the fear. She couldn’t fight.

A lump rose in her throat. Tears stung her eyes, but she dabbed them quickly with a handkerchief. With trembling fingers, she ran a comb through her hair. She gathered it into a neat style and moved toward the door.

She had to say goodbye.

The paladins guarding her chambers straightened at the sight of the princess, their armor clanging, and bowed their heads.

The sun had already slipped below the horizon.

Darkness wrapped the castle, but golden glimmers trembled along the corridors from the magical sconces. Their light cast shifting shadows, and in their dance, a thread of unease flickered. The walls of ancient grey stone rose above her, their cold severity echoing beneath her feet. Luxury struggled to breathe life into this somber place: massive chandeliers reflected on polished floors, and paintings in heavy frames muted the icy whispers of the anthracite slabs. Yet through the gleam of gold and rich fabrics, sorrow and darkness seeped, etched into the stone like lichen.

Only one comfort remained. The air carried the scent of lilacs, a light, warm fragrance that reminded her that spring was drawing to a close. Laéren, the last of the spring months, was coming to an end, and soon summer would arrive. She moved along the empty passages, past stone atlantes with scorched gazes. The guards beside them lowered their heads once again.

The crypt greeted her with silence. Icy. Resonant. Enveloping.

The lanterns burned dimly here, their flames trembling, casting dancing reflections across the tombstones.

She walked slowly, letting her fingers brush the cold stone.

Above them hung canvases - horrifying, steeped in ancient magic. The skin of her ancestors - carved from the backs of Stormar women long go - was etched with intricate symbols.

Daelith bore the same marks.

The ink had been driven into her skin when she was fifteen. Screams. Pain. Fear. All of it. The flesh had long since forgotten the needle, but the heart held the memory still.

She moved forward, halting before the final tombstone.

A stone woman lay there, as if in a deep sleep, her features delicate and beautiful, a tall crown on her head, a faint sadness etched across her face.

She sank slowly to her knees.

“Mother…” Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “I am leaving Stormar.”

She swallowed, but the lump in her throat refused to ease.

“No one will ever raise a hand against me again. Emmazuriel… I believe he will be kind. I want to believe it.”

She lowered her gaze, touching the cool stone.

“I am so sorry you won’t see this…”

Her mother remained silent, as always. But now, that silence felt like a verdict.

Tears welled in her eyes, veiling the statue of the queen. She made no attempt to hold them back, her body shaking with sobs.

Cold crept through her dress, seeping beneath the skin and into her bones. It wrapped around her, yet she remained still.

Only after several minutes did the princess rise to her feet.

Her fingers brushed over the stone woman’s folded hands, lingering for a moment.

“Farewell…” she whispered.

And without looking back, she left the crypt.