(Mei Lin's POV — First Person)
Mooncrest had a way of making me feel small.
Not insignificant—never that—but observed. As though the walls themselves leaned closer when I passed, listening for thoughts I didn't mean to share. By the third day, I had learned to move carefully, to keep my steps light and my expressions neutral.
Rules mattered here.
Even the unspoken ones.
I spent the morning assisting with small tasks—organizing shelves in the east wing, delivering linens, memorizing corridors that twisted back on themselves like deliberate puzzles. The staff spoke little to me, but when they did, their voices dropped instinctively, eyes flicking toward doorways and ceilings.
Toward nowhere. Toward everywhere.
I was beginning to understand that Mooncrest didn't just house secrets.
It guarded them.
By afternoon, fatigue settled deep into my bones. I found myself missing the ordinary noise of the outside world—the honk of cars, the chatter of markets, the comfort of anonymity. Here, even solitude felt watched.
I was returning to my quarters when I heard voices.
I hadn't meant to eavesdrop. Truly. But the corridor curved sharply, and the sound drifted toward me before I could retreat.
"…too soon," a woman said in a low voice.
"It was inevitable," a man replied. "The Moon does not misstep."
My heart stuttered.
I slowed, pressing myself closer to the wall. The voices came from behind a partially open door—the one Kael had warned me never to approach.
"You brought a human into this," the woman continued. "Do you know what that risks?"
"She was chosen," the man said. "Whether we approve or not."
Chosen.
My palms grew damp.
I stepped back just as the door creaked wider. Panic flared. I turned quickly—and collided with solid warmth.
Kael's hand closed around my arm before I could stumble back, his grip firm but not painful.
"You're not meant to be here," he said quietly.
"I'm sorry," I blurted. "I was just—lost."
His eyes searched my face, sharp and assessing. For a moment, I thought he might drag me away by force.
Instead, he sighed.
"Come," he said. "Before you hear something you cannot unhear."
He guided me down the corridor, releasing my arm only when we were well clear of the forbidden door.
"What was that about?" I asked despite myself.
Kael's jaw tightened. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with."
"That's what everyone keeps saying," I murmured.
He stopped walking.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned to face me. "This place survives because people understand their limits."
The warning was clear.
I nodded. "I understand."
But I didn't.
Not really.
Later that evening, I was summoned to assist Lord Blackwood.
My heart leapt at the sound of his name—an inconvenient reaction I had no explanation for. I entered his chambers to find him near the window again, gaze fixed on the darkening forest.
"You called for me?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, without turning. "Sit."
I did.
Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. I resisted the urge to fidget.
"Have you heard anything unusual today?" he asked.
The question caught me off guard. "Unusual how?"
"Anything you were not meant to hear."
My pulse quickened.
"No," I said carefully. "I've followed the rules."
He turned then, studying me with that penetrating gaze that always felt like more than sight. Like assessment. Like restraint.
"Good," he said. "For your own sake."
Something in his tone made my skin prickle.
"I don't understand why everyone is so afraid of answers," I said before I could stop myself. "Secrets have a way of hurting people."
His expression darkened. "So does truth."
The words settled heavily between us.
As I helped him prepare for the evening, I became acutely aware of his tension—the way his shoulders stayed rigid, the way his hands clenched when the light dimmed.
"You don't trust me," I said quietly.
"No," he replied. "I don't."
That should have hurt more than it did.
"Then why keep me here?" I asked.
His jaw flexed. "Because some things cannot be undone."
Before I could ask what he meant, pain crossed his face—sharp, sudden. He inhaled sharply, fingers digging into the armrests of his chair.
"Are you alright?" I asked, rising instinctively.
"Don't," he warned.
But the air shifted again—thick, electric. My chest warmed, a strange resonance humming beneath my skin.
I froze.
So did he.
For a brief, terrifying moment, it felt as though something unseen leaned in close, listening.
Then it passed.
"Leave," he said hoarsely.
I did.
That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, one thought refused to let me rest:
Whatever was happening at Mooncrest…
It was no longer content to stay hidden.
And somehow, impossibly—
It involved me.