Fate during the Midnight
1120 Words
The relaxation court was louder than usual.
Harriet sat with the other Lunar girls in the crescent-shaped pit near the centre—white cushions, quiet moods, and the scent of pressed silverleaf hanging faintly in the air. They sat in clusters, like usual. Betas flanked one end of the courtyard, loud and theatrical as always—debating war tactics they’d never practice. Alphas held court in the stone-arched alcoves, talking as though they ruled the moon itself. Omegas, a few of them, mostly girls, lingered by the garden steps—heads low, eyes cautious.
Everyone was talking about the Trials.
“You have to cut your palm with the silver blade,” one girl said. “Right on the altar stone. If the blood glows, the Moon sees you.”
“That’s not how it works,” someone argued. “You prick your finger and speak your name aloud.”
“Either way,” said another, a Lunar girl beside Harriet, “it’s just a ceremony for people desperate to be something they’re not.”
Murmurs of agreement passed between them.
One of the girls—Marien, pale-eyed and sharp—wrinkled her nose. “It’s pathetic, really. Trying to change castes. You’re born a Beta, stay a Beta. Born an Omega, you suffer. That’s how the world is.”
“We’re the ones who get it right,” said another. “The Lunars. We don’t chase power. We serve the Moon. We stay steady.”
Everyone nodded. Everyone except Harriet.
She just sat there, arms folded over her legs, pretending to listen, while her thoughts drifted far beyond the sanctuary.
Scenting candles. Murmuring incantations. Dreaming of strangers’ faces and waking up just to recite it like prophecy.
She didn’t want that. She didn’t want to bless other people’s lives while hers stayed still. She didn’t want to spend the next twenty years kneeling at altars, whispering things that she never fully understands.
One of the girls beside her nudged her arm. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m listening,” Harriet said.
“Good. You should hear what Alphas say about us.”
“I already know.”
A hush fell across the court suddenly, like a spell had passed through the space.
Two figures in deep navy cloaks stepped into the middle. Everyone turned.
Alpha representatives.
The one in front, a tall woman with braids wound tight in gold bands, raised her voice so it carried across the stone yard.
“Any candidate wishing to participate in this year’s Alpha Trials must submit their name and blood before midnight. You must present yourself alone at the Circle of Stone. No substitutions. No proxies. No prayers to mask your fear.”
Her eyes flicked across the Lunars for just a second—and lingered.
“Tomorrow morning, the chosen names will be revealed and blessed. The rest will be erased.”
And with that, the Alphas turned and left.
A few Betas whooped. Some clapped.
The Lunar girls sighed as one, shifting back into their circle.
“Disgusting,” someone muttered.
Harriet’s pulse beat hard against her wrist.
Midnight.
She didn’t say a word. She just sat there—quiet, still, and burning on the inside.
Evening came with silver skies and silence.
Dinner was quiet. Her mother served white soup and bitter roots, blessed under candlelight. They spoke little, but it was enough to remind Harriet of everything left unsaid.
"The council still wants you to lead the ceremony?" Harriet asked, her voice quiet.
Her mother nodded without looking at her. "They ask every year it holds."
"And you still tell them no?"
She placed the last bowl down. "I tell them it goes against the Moon. But they only hear tradition."
"So... will you go?"
Her mother paused. "It’s not about me going. It’s about what the Moon allows."
Harriet looked at her. "How do you know what the Moon allows?"
Her mother doesn't answer. Harriet knows she's pushed her luck.
“Did you finish reading the Moon Verses?” her mother asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. The path to peace is repetition.”
Harriet chewed slowly, the food like chalk in her mouth.
Later, as the candles burned lower, her mother moved through their home in her usual rhythm—checking the altar, smoothing the covers, whispering small prayers under her breath. She passed Harriet in the hallway without even looking at her.
Then, from her bedroom doorway, she said:
“You’re not meant for the Trials, Harriet. You’re quiet. You’re thoughtful. That’s who you are. It’s enough.”
Then she closed the door behind her.
Harriet stood there for a long time, the air around her still and warm.
Quiet. Thoughtful. Enough.
She went back to her room, but she didn’t lie down.
Not yet.
The clock in the temple tower struck ten. Two hours.
Her hands trembled as she dressed, leaving in dark clothes, soft shoes, no jewellery.
The house was still. Her mother’s door was closed. Candles flickered behind it.
Harriet stepped out into the night.
The Circle of Stone sat at the centre of the town—a wide, low basin carved with old runes and moon symbols, lit by white fire that never burned out. In the centre stood the Bloodstone, rising from the earth like a fang, smooth and glimmering under the moonlight.
She stood before it, alone. The whole place was quiet, even the wind had stopped.
From her pocket, she pulled the silver pin she had taken from one of her ceremonial robes. She pricked her finger. Blood welled up, dark and trembling.
She stepped forward and placed her finger on the stone. “Harriet,” she whispered.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the Bloodstone pulsed—once. A faint glow, white and violet, ran up the centre. The ground beneath her feet seemed to hum.
And then it happened.
A deep cold passed through her chest—not pain, but not pleasant either. She gasped, falling to one knee.
Her hands dug into the dirt. Her breath caught.
And in the back of her mind—just for a second—something stirred. Not a transformation, but a pressure, as though something inside her had simply woken up.
She heard a sound. A growl? Did she just growl?
The glow faded. The stone grew still.
Harriet sat back, breathless.
She looked down at her palm. The blood was gone. But a mark remained—faint and silver, in the shape of a crescent moon.
She was still herself. But not entirely.
Something had shifted.
She rose slowly and turned towards the dark streets.
Midnight had not yet come. But something beneath her skin had already shifted.
- Writer
