Chapter 2 Blood Moon Betrothal
868 Words
“You expect this… scrap to survive" The High Priest's voice echoed through the obsidian chamber.
Ethan sat upright in bed, his torso wrapped in fresh linen, eyes narrowed. “She calmed the frenzy."
“She did nothing," snapped Lord Vexan, head of the Lunar Council. “It was the herbs. The chains. The timing—"
“She touched me," Ethan said. “And I didn't break."
The room fell still.
Across the chamber, Xiluo stood motionless beside the moon-forged window. She hadn't slept. Her wrists still bore the dried thorn-marks, her bare feet silent on cold marble.
“She's a slave, Your Grace," Vexan hissed. “A mute. She can't even answer a basic question."
Ethan's gaze slid toward her. “Good. Less noise."
The court healers exchanged looks. “We recommend isolation for the prince—"
“No."
“But the blood-madness—"
“She stays."
A sharp inhale. Then Vexan stepped closer. “Very well. If she is to remain, the bond must be sealed. Officially."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “It was sealed."
“By rite, not by law. A royal betrothal requires a contract. Documentation. A signature."
“She can't sign," Ethan said flatly.
“Then she can bleed," Vexan snapped. “Blood counts as consent under old rites. She'll do it again."
From behind the priest's robes, a scribe emerged holding a long parchment. “Here," he said. “The betrothal terms."
Ethan didn't even glance at it. “Read them aloud. Slowly."
The scribe nodded, voice quivering.
“Clause One The mute slave, identified as Xiluo, shall enter into holy union with His Highness Prince Ethan Luther under the rites of moon and claw…"
Ethan tilted his head, watching Xiluo.
Her face remained blank. But her fingers tightened slightly around the ration card she still kept hidden in her sleeve.
“Clause Two She shall forfeit any claim to title, land, or future heirs. She is designated a vessel, not a consort…"
Ethan's eyes flickered. “Change that."
“Which part"
“She's not just a vessel."
“But—"
“Write it."
The scribe hesitated, quill pausing. Then he scribbled a revision.
“Clause Three In times of lunar frenzy, the calming vessel—" he corrected himself, “—the bride—must remain within fifty paces of the prince. Nightly bloodletting is authorized with a silver blade."
Xiluo's throat pulsed.
“Object" Ethan asked, half amused.
She didn't move. Just met his eyes again, calm as glass.
“She agrees," he said.
The priest frowned. “Do you speak for her now"
“I hear her silence."
That shut them up.
“Very well," Vexan muttered. “Then the final clause She shall be placed under royal protection but denied royal status. No crown. No court rights."
Ethan didn't comment. Xiluo didn't blink.
The priest stepped forward with a silver knife. “Your blood, girl."
She extended her hand without pause.
The priest sliced shallowly. A silver-tinged droplet slid into the ink basin.
It sizzled.
Everyone stared.
“Witchcraft," a courtier murmured.
“Silver blood…" one of the healers whispered.
Ethan's voice was low. “Not witchcraft. Prophecy."
They didn't dare argue.
---
Later, the betrothal contract sealed, Xiluo was escorted down endless mirrored corridors. Her reflection fractured a thousand times—taller, thinner, cracked.
“Here." A servant pushed open a door.
It was small but warm. Clean. One room, one bed, no chains.
“Next to the prince's chambers," the servant muttered. “You're lucky. Most slaves don't get walls."
Xiluo turned. Her hand reached for the doorframe, pausing.
The servant narrowed her eyes. “You don't belong here. Don't think this means you're special."
Xiluo simply looked at her.
No expression. No defiance.
Just calm.
The kind that unsettled people more than rage ever could.
---
That night, as the blood moon crested over the spires, Xiluo lay on her bed, awake.
A knock startled her.
The door creaked open.
Ethan entered, shirtless, pale scars marking his chest like claw-tracks. His pupils were slitted again.
“The moon calls," he muttered. “And I hate answering."
Xiluo stood.
He sat on her bed without asking. Hands trembled.
“Give me your wrist."
She hesitated—just a beat.
Then stepped forward.
He drew the silver lancet from his belt. Pierced her skin. Pressed his lips to the bleeding cut.
The change was instant.
His breathing steadied. Shoulders lowered.
But he didn't release her hand.
Instead, he asked, “Why do you stay silent"
She touched her throat. The brand still glowed faintly.
“Even if it hurts… scream."
She shook her head.
“You should," he whispered. “I deserve it."
Silence.
He looked up. “Do you hate me"
Her eyes met his.
And then, slowly, she knelt—still holding his hand—and pressed her bloodied palm to his chest.
His heartbeat steadied.
He exhaled.
“Fine," he said quietly. “Don't scream. Just stay."
She nodded once.
And in the shadows of a cursed moon, the bond between prince and slave deepened—not with vows, not with kisses.
But with silence shared by choice, not force.
- Writer
