The moon that night was full.
Not the kind that merely lit the sky, but the kind that demanded to be seen—round, pale, and quietly dominant, as if it ruled over everything beneath it. Its light spilled over the grand ducal estate, washing marble pillars and golden balconies in silver.
Inside, the banquet had already begun.
Crystal chandeliers burned like captured stars. Music flowed through the hall—violins and harps braided together into a melody meant for elegance, meant for nobles who smiled with practiced ease. Silk gowns brushed against polished floors. Masks of gold, ivory, and obsidian hid faces that mattered.
Reins stood among them, dressed in dark formal wear befitting the son of a duke. His mask was simple—black, unadorned—chosen not for mystery but for indifference.
He hated this.
Every laugh felt hollow. Every compliment rehearsed. Every dance an obligation. Conversations were not meant to connect, only to impress.
He excused himself quietly.
No one stopped him. No one ever did.
Beyond the tall glass doors lay the balcony, open to the night. Cool air brushed his face, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. Reins rested his hands on the stone railing and looked up.
The moon felt closer here.
On the neighboring balcony—separated by a tall stone wall—someone else had arrived for the same reason.
"I swear," a soft voice muttered, barely louder than the wind, "if I hear one more person talk about alliances, I might actually scream."
Reins blinked.
He hadn't imagined that.
There was a pause, as if the other person realized she'd spoken aloud.
Then, carefully, he replied, "You'd be doing everyone a favor."
Silence.
Then a quiet laugh—surprised, genuine.
"So I'm not the only one hiding from that… party?"
"No," Reins said. "You're not."
The wall between them was thick, ancient, built for privacy. They could not see each other. Only hear.
"I don't even like dancing," the girl said. "But apparently, not liking it is unacceptable."
"Unforgivable," Reins replied dryly. "Next, they'll exile us."
Another laugh. Warmer this time.
They talked—not about names, or families, or titles—but about the moon, about how loud the music was, about how strange it felt to be surrounded by people and still feel alone.
"I think," the girl said after a moment, "this is the best part of the night."
Reins nodded, even though she couldn't see it.
"I was thinking the same."
For a brief, fragile moment, the world felt smaller. Kinder.
Then—
The night shattered.
A deafening roar tore through the estate. Heat and light swallowed the balconies. Stone cracked. Glass screamed. The ground vanished beneath their feet.
"Wait—!" the girl's voice cried.
Then nothing.
Darkness closed in.
---
Much later, in a quiet bedroom miles away, Reins woke with a gasp. His heart pounded violently against his ribs. The moonlight through his window looked the same—but the night felt wrong.
No smoke. No fire. No balcony.
Only a lingering echo.
A voice.
He could not remember her face.
He did not know her name.
But he knew one thing with terrifying certainty.
If he heard that voice again—
even after years,
even after lifetimes—
he would recognize it.
---