The courtyard at SilverCrest was quiet before dawn.
Frost clung to the stone flagstones, brittle and white, catching the pale moonlight like scattered shards of glass. Aria stood at the center, breath fogging in the cold air, hands wrapped in worn leather straps. Her heartbeat was steady, her expression unreadable.
She had barely slept.
The night before, the envoy’s warning still echoed in her head—They will come. To claim her. To twist her future. The parchment with the prophecy was folded and hidden beneath her pillow, but its weight hadn’t left her chest.
Across the yard, Zara approached, dressed in combat gear. She tossed Aria a wooden training blade—not ceremonial, not symbolic, just balanced and functional.
“No more soft edges,” Zara said. “You’re going to be a Luna they can’t silence.”
Aria caught the blade and adjusted her grip. The leather straps bit into her palm. Good. She needed pain to ground her. Strength would not come from hope. It would come from resolve.
The old ways of Lunas—poised, diplomatic, distant—had failed her. The council had torn her bond like it meant nothing. Kael had stood by. Evelyn had smiled.
Now, her daughter’s life was at stake.
Aria rolled her shoulders and took her stance.
“Again from the top?” she asked.
Zara smiled faintly. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
“No,” Aria admitted. “But I’m done waiting for permission.”
The training began with footwork.
Zara called commands like a drill sergeant, circling Aria as she moved—sidestep, pivot, feint, guard. The cold bit at her skin, but sweat formed quickly under her layers. Her body was heavier now, her center of gravity changed. The baby shifted occasionally, a low hum of pressure in her lower belly. But Aria didn’t stop.
They trained in silence at first—just the thud of feet, the crack of wood on wood, the occasional grunt when Aria misstepped or overextended.
Then Zara spoke.
“You know they still call you Kael’s mistake, right?”
Aria’s blade swung faster, slicing through empty air. “Good.”
Zara smirked. “Just checking you’re not here to impress them.”
“I’m here,” Aria said through clenched teeth, “to be the kind of Luna they can’t erase.”
Another flurry of strikes. Aria blocked one, slipped on another, rolled out of the way before Zara could land a final blow. She was breathing hard, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.
“Again,” she gasped.
“You need to rest—”
“Again.”
Zara raised her blade. This time, her attack was less forgiving—more force behind each movement. Aria held her own for the first few exchanges, but then Zara swept her feet out from under her, and she hit the ground with a hard thud.
Aria groaned. The cold stone seeped into her spine.
“You’re not invincible,” Zara said, offering a hand.
Aria ignored it, forcing herself up.
“I don’t need to be,” she said. “I just need to survive long enough to make them regret everything.”
Zara’s gaze softened—just for a moment. “You’re not just surviving, Aria. You’re becoming.”
Aria looked down at her hands, fingers raw and shaking. Then she turned toward the target post at the far end of the yard.
A tall, thick stump wrapped in burlap. Symbolic of nothing. Just wood. Just weight.
She walked over, raised her blade, and began to strike.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each blow echoed louder than the last.
For the bond they broke.
For the daughter they would never control.
For the version of her they never expected to rise.
She didn’t stop until her arms ached and her vision blurred.
And when she finally did, she dropped the blade, chest heaving, and let the silence stretch.
She was no longer training.
She was becoming the weapon.
Later that night, Aria sat on the balcony outside her room, arms wrapped around a thick blanket. Her muscles burned with a slow, satisfying ache. The moon hung heavy and full in the sky, silver light washing over the peaks like a blessing.
Her daughter moved within her.
Soft. Sure. Present.
Aria placed a hand over the curve of her stomach. “Did you feel that?” she whispered. “All of it?”
The baby kicked, gentle but deliberate.
A strange swell of emotion rose in her chest—not pain, not sadness. Something deeper. Something fierce.
“I promise you this,” she said aloud, “no one will take you from me. Not the council. Not Greenwood. Not even your father.”
Her words didn’t feel bitter.
Just certain.
Behind her, the door creaked open. Zara stood in the threshold, holding two mugs of steaming tea. She passed one to Aria and sat beside her.
“Do you regret it?” Zara asked quietly.
Aria sipped her tea. “Regret what?”
“Loving him. Believing in him.”
Aria was quiet for a long time.
“No,” she said at last. “What I regret is letting his love define what I thought I was worth.”
Zara didn’t respond, but her nod was slow and sure.
They sat in silence, two women under the moonlight, bound not by rank or prophecy—but by choice. By survival. By the promise of a future none of them were supposed to have.
And inside Aria, the heir of a broken bond turned in the dark, steady and waiting.
