The pull of moon
1237 Words
The morning light is pale and indifferent when it spills through the towering windows.
I haven’t slept.
The silk sheets are tangled at my feet, and my body aches from the restless tossing. My dreams had turned jagged—burning forests, glowing eyes, screams I couldn’t place. A name had slipped through my fingers like smoke. I almost had it. But now… nothing.
Just emptiness.
I sit on the edge of the bed, bare feet hovering just above the cold marble. I shouldn’t be sitting here.
The thought slips in quiet as a whisper, curling in the corners of my mind like smoke.
The velvet of the robe feels too soft against my skin, the warmth of the room too indulgent. Everything is quiet—too quiet. Still. Suspended. And I’m sitting here like I belong, like this place, this life, this strange man who says I’m his… is somehow mine too.
But it’s not.
None of it is.
I don’t remember this palace, or the scent of cedar and storm that clings to its walls. I don’t remember the maid who dresses me in silk and stares at me like I’m some fallen star. I don’t remember the Alpha with the golden eyes who calls me mate with a kind of reverence that cuts bone-deep.
I don’t even remember me.
So why haven’t I tried to leave?
My eyes flick toward the heavy door. I can’t tell if it’s locked. I haven’t even checked. Because some part of me—small and traitorous—wants to stay.
I fold my arms tightly across my chest, pressing down the wild hum beneath my skin. The part of me that feels… tethered. To him. To the way he looked at me like I’d broken him. Like my absence carved something out of him he’s still bleeding from.
But I can’t afford to care about that. Not now.
Because what if I was taken? What if I was stolen? If he has to tell me I’m his mate… doesn’t that mean I wasn’t willing?
I don’t know him.
I don’t know me.
So why do I feel safe in this gilded prison?
My stomach twists.
Because that’s what this is—a prison. No matter how soft the sheets are, how sweet the fruit left on the tray is, how kind the maid’s eyes are when she braids my hair. I don’t have my freedom. I don’t have answers.
I have only him.
And that’s dangerous.
I walk to the window, pushing the curtain back just enough to see the view beyond. Tall walls. Guard towers. Courtyards wrapped in manicured perfection. This isn’t just a palace—it’s a fortress.
And I’m trapped inside.
I swallow hard.
If I stay, I may never get my memories back. I may never know the truth. He could feed me any story, and I’d have no way of proving him wrong.
But if I run… maybe I’ll find out who I was. Who I am.
I take a shaky breath, curling my fingers around the cold stone of the windowsill.
“I have to try,” I whisper to the empty room. “It’s the right thing to do.”
Even if some broken part of me wants to stay.
Even if leaving means tearing away from the invisible string pulling me toward Kael.
I need to do this—for myself.
Before whatever binds us buries who I really am.
I walked towards the door and tried the handle. I inhaled a deep breath before pulling it and exhaled when it opened. Kael hadn’t locked it.
Kael.
Just thinking his name sends a ripple down my spine. I try not to remember the way he looked at me yesterday — as if I was something precious and broken all at once. As if I’d died and come back wrong.
He hadn’t touched me. Not even once. But his restraint had felt more dangerous than any physical claim.
The memory of his voice wraps around me now, low and rough:
“You’re mine.”
I shiver.
I shook my head as if to get rid of those memories and stepped outside.
---
The corridor beyond is empty, the silence unnatural. My heart races as I slip through the shadows, turning corners at random. The palace feels like a cathedral carved from stone and power. Every hallway whispers secrets. Every painting watches me. There’s magic here—I can feel it thrumming under my skin.
But I don’t know if it’s the castle… or me.
Eventually, I find a staircase that leads up to a high balcony. I step into the sunlight, gulping in the crisp air like it’s salvation.
Mountains rise in the distance. Pine trees stretch like green flames across the land below. And to the west—beyond the outer wall—I can just make out the glint of a river.
Freedom.
Then a voice cuts the air.
“You’re not supposed to be out here.”
My stomach drops.
I turn slowly.
Kael stands in the archway, golden eyes molten, his jaw clenched tight. He’s not wearing a crown, but he doesn’t need one. Power coils around him like a storm. His presence presses down on the world around him.
I back toward the balcony’s edge.
“I needed air,” I say, lifting my chin. “You locked me in.”
“I protected you.”
“From what?”
“From the wolves waiting outside these walls. From the memories that could break you if they return too fast.” His voice raises as he kept speaking. Then he took a deep breath and said. “From me.”
His voice is low now. Not angry. Frustrated. Torn.
I swallow hard. “I’m not a child.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re a Queen who forgot her crown.”
That stops me.
His hand lifts — not to touch, but to point past the wall of the palace. “Do you remember what’s beyond that river?”
I shake my head.
“I do,” he says. “I remember the first time you crossed it. On foot. Soaking wet, freezing, furious. You stood in this very courtyard and challenged my father’s reign.”
My breath catches.
Kael’s eyes darken, softening for the first time. “You were fire and fury, Lyra. And mine.”
I flinch at the word. “Stop saying that. You keep calling me yours. But I’m not. Not now.”
“You are,” he says. “You just don’t remember what it means.”
He takes another step forward. I brace myself.
But then something strange happens.
Kael crouches — low, like a knight before a goddess — and places his palm flat over his chest.
“I swore a vow to protect you,” he says. “Even from yourself. Even if you hate me.”
I don’t speak.
I can’t.
Because something in me burns at those words. Something old and wild. My pulse stutters.
But I don’t let him see it.
“I want answers,” I whisper. “Not riddles. Not titles. Truth.”
Kael rises. There’s a strange look in his eyes now. Hope. Or fear. Or both.
“Then come with me.”
“Where?”
“To the vaults,” he says simply. “Where the past sleeps.”
- Writer
