Chapter 2 – Tangled Tracks
867 Words
"You're saying the witch sang to the wolves?"
"That's what Old Marla claims. Swears she saw Vera glowing under the last full moon."
Vera stood behind a rack of dyed fabrics, breath held, listening.
"I always thought she was odd," another woman whispered. "Talks to herself. Walks alone at night. And those gloves—never takes them off."
The marketplace buzzed with morning gossip, but the words sliced cleaner than butcher knives.
She clenched her jaw and stepped forward. "Excuse me."
The two women flinched.
"You were talking about me, I believe?"
"Vera—no offense meant," one said hastily. "You know how people talk."
"No," Vera said coolly, "I don't. I'm usually working."
She grabbed the last spool of gray thread, dropped coins on the counter, and left without another word.
---
Back at the workshop, the air felt too quiet. Her apprentice, Lanie, avoided eye contact.
Vera set the thread down. "Something you want to say?"
Lanie bit her lip. "I saw them posting something… near the square."
"What kind of something?"
Lanie hesitated. Then pulled a folded parchment from her satchel.
Vera unfolded it.
A wanted poster. Ink-sketch—her face. Or a face like hers, sharper and thinner, but unmistakable.
WANTED FOR MOON-SINGING, HERETIC CHANT, AND UNLICENSED HEALING.
Her mouth went dry.
Lanie whispered, "They say you're a moon-singer, Vera. That you enchanted wolves. That someone found wolf hair in your attic."
"That's ridiculous."
Lanie stepped back. "I believe you—but others won't."
A knock shattered the silence.
No time to run.
Two imperial inquisitors stood at the door—one in gray velvet with brass buttons, the other tall and unsmiling.
“Vera Thorn?" the woman asked.
“Yes," Vera said carefully.
“You're summoned for questioning. Effective immediately."
“For what?"
“Suspected sorcery. Evasion will be considered admission of guilt."
“I'm not going anywhere without a warrant."
The man stepped forward, revealing a scroll sealed in gold wax.
“By order of the Lunar Seat," the woman said, “you are hereby detained for transport to the capital."
---
The prison wagon jolted forward, chains clinking. Vera sat between two strangers—one asleep, the other sobbing softly.
Her wrists were bound in velvet cuffs, deceptively soft but tight. Each bump in the road jarred her bones.
The sky darkened.
“So this is how it ends," she muttered.
The old woman beside her opened one eye. “First time?"
“Being accused of heresy? Yes."
“Don't speak when they ask questions," the woman said. “Don't flinch. Don't beg."
“I'm not afraid."
“You will be," the woman whispered.
---
Night fell.
At the next rest stop, soldiers built a fire and passed stale bread. No one looked Vera in the eye.
She stared at the flames, then at the broken talisman in her pocket. Its once-bright opal now looked dull, cloudy.
She hadn't thought of the silver-haired boy in years. Not really. Not outside of dreams.
But now, chained, alone, her thoughts returned to him.
Had he truly been a boy?
Had he cursed her, even without knowing?
The old woman leaned in. “You keep fingering that thing. Must be important."
“It was my mother's."
“Or it was never meant for you," the woman said softly.
---
By the third day, the capital's outline appeared—spires like needles, walls like jagged teeth.
The wagon rolled into shadow.
A masked steward greeted her with a deep bow. "Welcome, Lady Candidate."
“…What did you call me?"
“You'll understand soon enough."
Vera's breath hitched as the guards unshackled her, bowed, and stepped aside.
The steward gestured toward a gold-lit corridor. "Please follow. Your bath awaits."
“My what?"
“The Emperor has decreed your inclusion in the Moonlock Ceremony."
“I was arrested."
“You were selected," the steward corrected.
“I'm not a candidate for anything."
“You are now."
---
The baths steamed with rosewater. Handmaidens scrubbed her raw, brushed her hair till it sparked. One slipped a silk dress over her head.
“I don't want this," Vera said.
“You don't have a choice," the maid replied.
---
That night, in a room of moonstone floors and scentless candles, Vera stood alone in front of a mirror.
She didn't recognize the girl staring back—braided hair, bare shoulders, trembling lips.
She whispered to the room, “If this is some joke, it's not funny."
No answer.
Then, a soft voice behind her.
“You're not a joke, Vera. You're prophecy."
She turned.
A man stepped out of the shadows, cloaked in indigo and fur-lined armor. His hair was silver. His eyes—
Yellow.
Feral.
Her heart stopped.
“You."
He didn't smile. “I waited five winters."
“You vanished."
“I had to."
“You tricked me."
“No." He stepped closer. “You saved me."
Vera backed against the mirror.
“You were dying."
“I still am."
His gloved hand hovered near her cheek but didn't touch. “But not if you stay."
She swallowed. “What are you?"
“Emperor."
“You're insane."
He tilted his head. “And you're mine."
---
- Writer
