Valaen couldn't sleep.
He'd tried. The candles had long burned down to stubs, the air thick with the smell of melted wax and ash, but the moment his eyes closed, the noise in his head returned—the clanging of steel, the council's verdict, the look on Selene's face when they dragged her away.
He pushed away from the bed and moved to the balcony. The night air was cool, brushing against his bare skin, carrying with it the distant hum of the city below. From up here, Duskmoore glimmered beneath the moonlight—streets threaded with silver, rooftops gleaming like scattered coins. The people had no idea how fractured their king felt. To them, tomorrow was a day of celebration.
A royal wedding meant stability, renewal. A promise that their kingdom still stood firm, unshaken.
Valaen gripped the balcony rail until his knuckles whitened.
He wanted to believe it too.
The doors creaked behind him. Dael stepped in quietly, already dressed in the deep gray uniform of the royal guard. His hair was damp, his face sharp with fatigue.
"You didn't sleep again," he said, though it wasn't really a question.
Valaen gave a tired grunt. "I'll sleep after the ceremony."
Dael crossed the room, setting a folded sash on the table.
"The tailors finished your ceremonial cloak. The silver threadwork alone took three nights."
Valaen glanced over but said nothing.
"Lyra's been helping with the arrangements," Dael continued, trying to fill the silence. "The palace staff adore her. They say she's kind to everyone—even the kitchen girls."
"I know," Valaen said softly.
Dael hesitated, then lowered his voice. "You could've delayed this, you know. No one would blame you. The council's still reeling from what happened. You could take time to—"
"No." Valaen's tone was firm, but not cruel. "Time won't change anything. The kingdom needs a Luna.
I need… something to hold this place together."
Dael nodded slowly. "Then you'll have it. Tomorrow."
He stayed a few moments longer, talking about schedules, guests, and the priest who would perform the moon-bonding ritual. Valaen listened, or tried to, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere,back to a different night, a different voice.
"Do you even believe me?"
Selene's words echoed through him again. Her face, streaked with blood and moonlight, refused to fade from his mind. He'd seen fear in many eyes before—but hers hadn't been fear. It was disappointment. That, somehow, was worse.
When Dael left, the chamber grew quiet again. Valaen walked to the mirror, studying the man staring back. His eyes looked harder now, colder. The scars across his chest caught the candlelight, reminders of the countless battles he'd survived. He looked like a leader,strong, composed, unreadable.
But beneath it all, he felt hollow.
He remembered when he and Lyra used to race through the palace gardens as children, their laughter echoing across the fountains. She'd always been the one trying to keep up with him, stubborn and fearless. She'd once scraped her knees climbing the south tower and refused to cry until he did. Even then, she'd wiped his tears and said, "You're not supposed to cry first. You're going to be king one day."
Maybe that was why he chose her. Not for love. But because she'd always believed in him, even when he didn't.
He sighed and moved toward the bed, where his wedding garments lay neatly folded—white and silver, the traditional colors of renewal. He ran a hand over the fabric. It was smooth, flawless, almost mocking in its purity.
He tried to picture himself beside Lyra at the altar—her hand in his, her smile bright and sure. She would make a good Luna. She had the grace, the discipline, the loyalty the court admired. The people would love her.
He told himself he could too.
But the thought came with an ache that refused to ease.
Valaen walked back to the balcony and leaned against the railing, letting the night wind wash over him. Below, the torches of the palace guards flickered, their patrols tracing the same steady rhythm as always. The city slept, oblivious to its prince's unrest.
He thought of what Dael had said earlier—You could've delayed this.
Maybe he should have. But the truth was, Valaen wasn't afraid of the ceremony. He was afraid of the silence that came after. The moment the vows were spoken, when he'd have to look into Lyra's eyes and pretend that his heart was capable of loving again.
He clenched his jaw. "It doesn't matter," he muttered. "This is the right choice."
The words didn't sound convincing, even to him.
From somewhere in the distance, he heard faint laughter—perhaps servants celebrating, or maybe the nobles still awake, drinking in the gardens below. Life went on, as it always did.
He envied them.
He thought again of Selene; her laugh, the wild light in her eyes when she'd train beside him, the fire that always challenged his calm. He wondered if she'd been afraid in those final moments before the guards took her away. The question burned in him, unanswered, unwanted.
He slammed his hand against the railing, the sound sharp in the quiet. "Enough."
The night swallowed his voice.
After a while, he straightened, breathing hard. He looked out toward the horizon where the first streaks of dawn touched the sky. The palace bells would ring soon. Then there would be no turning back.
He pressed his palms against the cold stone of the balcony, grounding himself.
"This is how it has to be,"
he said quietly. "For the kingdom. For peace."
He forced a slow breath through his chest, steadying the tremor in his hands.
"Lyra will stand beside you," he continued under his breath, as if reciting a command. "She's strong. Loyal. You'll grow to love her."
He repeated it once, then again, until the words lost all meaning.
Finally, he looked up at the faintest edge of sunlight breaking over Duskmoore's rooftops.
"Tomorrow," he whispered. "You'll be fine after tomorrow."
The words floated into the wind, fragile and thin. He almost believed them.