A big thank you to everyone who has helped Abby reach 20,000+ reads! Hope you'll enjoy this story.

P.S. Have your Kleenex at the ready.

☆

28th. Fallum. 1038, Age of Gold. Kingdom of Aelurus.

The balcony had been my refuge since I was a kit. On it, I could look out at the expansive grounds below and watch as thousands of blades of grass blew in the breeze, or watch them freeze at snow's first fall. There was a sense of calm to the world below, an order that I liked to pretend existed inside Darkmoore's walls.

But each night I stole onto the balcony, my nightgown the only respite from the biting winds that ravaged Darkmoore's walls in late autumn, I found I could only focus on the shadows, long and gnarled lying like nails clawing at the ground.

In those shadows, I saw the faces of my family's enemies - hundreds of slitted-eyes transfixed on this castle and the throne encased inside, their mouths open, fangs dripping with saliva as they readied to pounce and rip our throats open all because we occupied a space they deemed we weren't worthy of.

The crescent moon in the sky, that glimmering sliver of gold, my family's crest said otherwise. We weren't just worthy, we were goddess blessed.

A knock rings out and I whip around, tromping over barren tile, to peel back the door and look the intruder in the eye. It's Emmin, my father's page kit, wearing a nightshirt that skirts along the floor, and covers up his darling, fluff of a grey tail. His whiskers tremble when he first lays eyes on me but then he remembers the rules and casts his gaze to the floor, like a good common blood ought to do.

"Ben'essra," he said, his voice shaking in tandem with his whiskers. I take note of the scroll he's got clenched between his fingers, and the seal - a crescent mark in black wax. My father's summons.

"I'm not a queen," I say to the kit and reach out to pluck up the scroll.

He puts up no struggle as I slide it freely from his grasp. "Forgive me, your highness." His ears droop slightly and I can't stop myself from kneeling before him. He tries to avoid my gaze, but I reach out and touch his cheek. "Emmin," I say warmly. "I have known you since you were born. You can look at me."

"But," he shifts on his bare feet, his tail swishing back and forth and dragging part of his nightshirt with it. My father must have sent for him when he was asleep for him to forget his slippers. "You're our--"

I tap him on the head with my father's scroll. He looks up at me and blinks. His eyes are a wondrous shade of blue, like the sky on the clearest days. Nothing can hide in eyes that clear, no secrets, no hidden agendas. Rare were eyes like that to find in the castle.

"I'm," I reach out to him and scratch his head. His fur feels greasy against my own - he's probably avoided the baths again, and much to his mother's chagrin. "Your friend, Emmin."

His lips break out in a nervous smile. "Friend?"

I nod. "All that noble blood stuff comes later. Whether it's the kingdom's crown or one of your woven crowns of Affen'dal grass, always remember I am your friend first."

He smiles, and his burgeoning canines peek out under his purplish lips.

"Now," I say, standing tall, regaining that regal stance my father had drilled into me since I was no older than Emmin. Back straight, hands clasped behind the back, tail hovering above the floor. "You scurry back to bed. What were you thinking, coming here without any shoes?"

He frowns and once again, his ears start to droop. "But the King--"

"If the King wants to summon me this late at night, he can do it himself."

Emmin bristles. "But! That's!"

"Treason?" I smile at Emmin's confused face, and the way his head cocks to the left. His ears twitch. I slap him on the back. "It's not treason for me to say it because I'm his fey'lan daughter."

"What's that got to do with--"

I give him a little pat down the hall. "Fey'lan age is when you're allowed to be rebellious. Remember that Emmin for when you're older," he scurries down the corridor, the fabric of his shirt doing a better job cleaning the floor than some of the servants. "Rebel while you can!" Emmin turns, shoots me a wave and then disappears into the night. "Do what you want, before others decide for you what it is you want."

☆

My hand clenches around Father's summons. I knew what was held within. The threads of fate had been spun, and they'd all convened around my neck, forming a noose I'd be unable to cut.

A chill runs down my spine and my tail stiffens as I stand outside my father's study, hand wavering in the empty space between. I would give a thousand munes not to go in there, but he already knows I'm outside. He always has one ear trained forward, while an army stands protecting his back. I inhale, and clench the doorknob. The door relents without protest.

Father sits beside the dying coals of that evening's fire, warming up his hands over a particularly lively flame. "See how she burns?"

I move slowly toward him, my entire body heavy by the weight of our soon-to-be had conversation. "The last ember, always so bright in the darkness." He turns to face me, his gold eyes boring into my own. The corners of his cracked lips lift upward carrying with them his remaining whiskers. The smile makes him younger, though his face is thinner, his black fur lacklustre. Must be the day's weather again. "You are very much like my ember."

Nodding, I pick up Father's half-empty glass of Belbar wine, and douse the remaining fire. The ember winks out with a sizzle. Ash is all that remains. "Just tell me why you've called at such a late hour."

He sighs and strokes at the braid of hair trailing off his chin and toward his stomach. "You can't let me have a moment, can you?"

"Why should I when it's a luxury you can't afford to reciprocate?"

I plop myself in a chair opposite him and kick my feet onto the hearth's edge. His eyes narrow at my unlikely posture, but he says nothing. He's used to small acts of rebellion from me, its those bigger, grander ones he fears.

"Lore," he says, slowly, plucking up a scroll and unrolling it over his lap. "You know I've been agonizing over who you should marry."

I clench my fists. To marry would mean I had a choice in the matter, that love guided our bond. What my father planned for me, was purely political, to help ensure our bloodline, our legacy. To keep our moon in the skies for as long as the goddess would see fit.

A shaky finger runs over the map of Aelurian moonborn nobles. "I think I've found two good houses. Harvest and Blood."

I scoff. "Blood? Those cunning, evil--"

"Listen to me. They have two sons, and one I think is quite suitable for you."

I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. "I'd rather drink spoilt milk."

Father chuckles, though there's strain in his laughter. Did he lose another whisker?

"Harvest also has two sons. I'd like for you to meet them--"

I sprang to my feet in protest. "Meet them, young one. That's all. If you say no, I will respect your informed decision."

I plop back onto my chair. "I know I've brought you into a terrible world and saddled you with a burden unfitting of such slender shoulders, such kind eyes. But know that I want you to prosper, no matter how vile things are, that's why I want you to have the final say on who stands by your side."

"And what if I decide on none of them?"

"Then my fears are realized," he says. "That none of the moon blessed houses were capable of rearing a suitable match for my amazing daughter."

"Oh, father--"

He reaches out and presses his hand against my own. The touch of his warmth burns more than any fire. "You will afford me this moment, to touch the hand of my beloved daughter, and to stare into those eyes that remind me so much of your mother."

I say nothing. I never could when Father looked so frail, or when he was able to mention mother, even if it was just in passing. As I let him have his moment, I let myself have my own. Father, in his opulent robes, the black crown of Aelurus resting neatly on a pillow beside his bed, his fur thinner in spots than it was yesterday, the whole of him half the Aelurian he used to be, but still, he was my father, and every ounce the ruler Aelurus needed. The smell of freshly cut affen'dal claws at my nostrils and I notice three more bunches had been hung from his bed canopy.

"Sorroccah, I take it?" I nod toward the rancid herb.

My father smiles, and shakily gets to his feet. "He is a good Archmage, and capable too. There is no other I trust with my life in the kingdom more."

I harrumph. Father looks back at me and giggles. "Aside from you that is."

The bed makes a creak as it gives way before Father's weight. Before the sickness, the bed would groan in protest, bend to almost breaking under his presence, but now there's no need. Father weighs barely more than me, though he stands almost twice as tall. "The Blood Moon sons will be here on the morrow. Luckily they'd been hunting near the Sands."

"Hunting?" I tut. "Or killing innocent Cloudians?"

Father dismisses me with a wave of his hand. "We do not spread rumors unfounded. That is how good blood is spilt. The Harvest sons will come two weeks after. Try your best to look like an Aelurian Princess."

"So with gristle in between my teeth and the blood of extinct houses on my hands?"

A low growl rumbles from the back of Father's throat. I bristle. My fur stands on edge. "We are not feral creatures, anymore. The Moonborns must come together and stop all this infighting if we--"

"Wish to preserve the world's magick?"

He nods, and in a lower voice says, "The Cloudians have already destroyed their home, and now ours is on the verge of collapse. There's no time for us to continue poisoning one another for the throne."

As I go to leave his room, I turn, and face him for what I'm sure will be one of the last times. "Are you saying that because you genuinely care about Aelurus and its people, or because currently, your blood sits upon the throne?"

He lays on his bed, pulls the covers up to his chin. "You know me better than anyone, Lore. What you believe to be the truth is."

He turns away from me, and I from him. As I step out into the corridor, tears cut rivers through my fur. I did know the truth. The blood legacy a moonborn left behind was more important than the thousand corpses left in its wake.

Father was no different, but I would be. I'd chose Aelurus' king and he would be a good, kind Aelurian, like Father had been, before this place and its gleaming black walls had hardened all that was kind in him.

Emmin. I thought of Emmin and his eyes and how there wasn't a single speck of cloud for a secret to hide behind them. Right then and there, outside my father's door, as his labored breathing caught my ear and crushed my heart a little more, I decided to choose my husband based on his eyes.

***

Lain,

(See? I told you we were more like than you'd believe. You write poems and I recount my life).

At one time, I believed Octurine had the clearest eyes of any Aelurian moonblood, like that of freshly fallen snow. I could see myself reflected in them, see the world as he had, until Nocturnis made those eyes frost over, and the world no longer reflected in them was a kind and joyous place.

Octurine had Emmin killed. Were you privy to that? Had I mentioned it to you? Probably not. It still wrenches my heart to this day. Octurine had been spurred to action, by that heinous brother of his, who, undoubtedly, fed him lies about the recent rash of castle thefts. It'd only been a few pieces of silver, nothing that couldn't be replaced, but Octurine would hear none of my pleas. The blame landed on Emmin and then Emmin's head decorated the battlement below my balcony. With a single axe blow, Octurine had severed me from my only friend and my only place of peace.

Why am I dredging up such a horrible memory? (You were never one for patience, were you?) When I'd lost Emmin, and Octurine turned to his brother and let madness consume him, I'd thought I'd lost everyone I could trust in the castle, until I spied a young, grey-furred Aelurian Wanesguard sneak onto the grounds, under one of my ancestor's moons, and by it's light, begin to create (I get to my points, eventually).

You'd captured my curiosity then, though you may not have been aware, and I've carried that fascination for you over many moons. Did you know the hemma have an old Aelurian adage? They claim it as their own, and though a lot's been lost to the ages, it goes like this when roughly translated: "Curiosity kills the cat."

I wonder, Lain, if my curiosity over you, my fascination, will lead me to a similar fate? I'm sure it will, if I let it grow and change and develop in what I know will only bring tragedy.

I will never be able to love you in public, so I'll do so in private, clutching these feelings much like you clutch your quill, when you're having trouble putting ink to parchment. I envision you at the altar instead of Octurine and of our kits someday having your silver eyes instead of mine, and streaks of grey peppering pitch-black fur.

I wish I'd never been royal. I wish I could take to the sea with you, travel where no other Aelurian has dared tread before. But this is the sacrifice I make for my kingdom, so I will stand as Father taught, head high, shoulders back, hands clasped at the small of my back, tail hovering over the ground and I will face my kingdom and all that it throws my way.

I have my mate, and I will bear him princes. I will weep behind closed doors and hope that you will forgive me when I seek out the refuge being near you, under those stars, affords me, for it is at those times that I expose my heart, and gift you with the only thing I have left.

-Lore

Sebbi's tears dripped onto the paper. He clutched his mother's journal to his chest, careful not to tear the decades old book. When Reven had brought him the moldy chest from the cellar, the last thing he'd expected to find was his mother's voice.