Bloodbound Crown

The howl of the wind rattled the shutters as Nora Awen crouched over the scuffed floorboards of the servant quarters, scrubbing at a stubborn stain with oyster-shell grit. Across the low ceiling, the lantern's guttering flame threw her lean shadow into sharp relief. She kept her head bowed, her woolen hood drawn low, ears alert to every creak in the corridors above. “Morning's coming," rasped Grisel, a haggard kitchen maid, from the next cot. Her voice was thin as cracked ice. “You'll want to finish before the overseer's rounds." Nora forced a smile. “Aye, I'll be ready." Her tone was neutral—no hint of the anger coiling in her chest. She'd learned long ago that voicing dissent earned a whip, not sympathy. Footsteps pounded on the stair: heavy, authoritative. Nora stowed the shell and rose, brushing grit from her apron. Grisel grabbed a shivering rag and leaned close. “Heard talk—tonight's the Consort Trials. Crimson snow drifts in the courtyard already. Omen of the Blood Moon, they say." Nora's heart stuttered. “Hudson's superstition." But she let the skepticism slip into her voice, masking the tremor beneath. Any mention of the Blood Moon made noble blood run hot—or mad. A roar of voices echoed down the hallway. The overseer, Rudwick, appeared at the doorway, his soot-streaked face as embittered as ever. “Break's over!" he barked. “Boots to shine, hearths to stoke. Move!" Nora swallowed and fell into line with the others. In the courtyard, the wind-bitten snow glimmered crimson under torchlight. Ruby flakes drifted across black cobblestones like bits of stained silk. At the far end, a litter overturned: the trailing cloak of Crown Prince Leon Seres lay splayed on stone. He should have returned weeks ago from his campaign at the Frostfang frontier. Rumors spoke of heroic victories—and dire wounds. Grisel shivered. “He's here." Rudwick gave a barked order to two guards. They hefted the litter upright. A stagger of muffled moans issued from inside. Guards formed a guard of honor—or perhaps a cordon to keep servants and healers away. Nora's pulse fluttered. She inched closer, voyeurs and courtiers clustering behind waiting healers. From beneath the heavy furs, a single gauntleted hand fell slack. “Move back," growled a registrar, and shoved at the gathered crowd. Healings were not a servant's business. But when the younger guard twisted the cloak aside, Nora saw the wound—a ragged s***h across his torso, rent edges coated in snow and dried gore. Leon's eyes—but for a moment—flickered with something wild. His breath came in tortured gasps, and the court physicians hesitated on the threshold, gowns flaring in the wind. “Move aside!" barked High Healer Meredis. “Mandate of the Crown dictates palace healers only." She raised a slender staff, sigil blazing. Nora's throat went dry. Each servant knew her place—but the prince… He was half-feral, still dangerous even wounded. And yet… A sudden convulsion shook him. His body arched, boots scraping against the stone. An animal's roar rumbled from his throat, raw with rage and pain. From somewhere in Nora's memory, a lullaby stirred. She stepped forward without thought, voice pitching low: “Hush now, wounded wolf, rest your weary head Let moonlight calm you, let fears be shed…" All movement froze. She crossed the courtyard in three strides, heedless of Rudwick's shout. Torchbearers recoiled as she slid to her knees beside the litter. The prince's golden eyes snapped open, wild as a forest fire. He tried to snarl, but Nora's hand met his brow. “Steady," she whispered, hand warm against the fever—and something else, something unexpected. The wound paled, the roaring subsided. He blinked, gaze finding hers, confusion etched in silver-blue iris. Behind her, a gasp. The guards bristled. Meredis's staff wavered. A hush steeled the courtyard. “He… he's calm?" whispered the youngest physician. Rudwick's whip cracked through the air, but the guard captain caught it. “Hold." His voice was firm. “Mademoiselle, step away. This is no place for servants." Nora rose, skirts tangled, knees scraped. She offered a curt nod. Her heart thundered—she had done the impossible. But was it mercy… or a curse? She saw the prince's freed hand clench the fur lining of his mantle as guards hauled him upright. “Who are you?" Leon rasped, voice harsh but coherent. The wind stole his words, but his intent came clear: he wanted her name. Nora fell silent. No one had name for a servant. She turned away, head high, though her stomach knotted. Behind the guard lines, courtiers murmured. Meredis's lip curled. “Anomalous magic," she hissed. “This will be hushed." As the litter was forced onward, Grisel slipped an envelope into Nora's palm. “Now you're marked," she muttered. “They'll call you witch—or worse. Keep your head down, or they'll down it for you." Nora's fingers clenched the paper. She swallowed. Tonight's mercy had painted a target on her back. If the Blood Moon truly brought omens, hers was the one of a jagged fate. The prince disappeared through the heavy doors of the Great Wing. Nora stood alone in the crimson snow, wind biting through her thin cloak. She struck a match against her sleeve, lantern flame dancing across her determined face. “The only thing they see is a tool," she murmured. “But I will find my parents… and answer their silence." The court doors snapped shut, echo rippling across the courtyard. Red snow drifted through the closing gap, swirling like blood spilled against black stone. Nora tucked the envelope in her bosom and turned toward the servant stairs. Dawn would bring the Consort Trials, and with them, a thousand eyes. Yet none must know she could channel lullabies into life. None must know her father's work had taught her truths they feared. Clutching the lantern, she vanished into shadow, footsteps swallowed by the howling wind and the drifting crimson flakes. In the attic above the palace, a pale moon watched, heralding the beginning of her reckoning.