When Grimmoon smiles
561 Words
Chapter Eight: When Grimmoon Smiled
Grimmoon knew.
Cities like Blacklily slept through tragedy.
Grimmoon did not.
The moment Sorren Ole crossed its gates with a princess in chains, the Crownlands stirred. Violet flames flared higher. The iron bells embedded in the watchtowers rang without being touched. Animals slunk into hiding. Pleasure houses went quiet for a single, reverent heartbeat.
Then the whispers began.
“A consecrated princess…” “Eighteen…” “Did you see her hair?” “They say the king carried her himself.” “Grimmoon has chosen.”
Word traveled faster than blood spilled on stone.
In the lower districts, men and women leaned from balconies draped in silk and scars, eyes gleaming with curiosity and hunger. In the fighting pits, bets were abandoned mid-shout as fighters turned toward the palace, sensing a shift in the air.
Something had changed.
Something valuable had arrived.
In the upper rings, the elders of the Crownlands gathered in shadowed chambers, their faces hidden behind bone masks etched with ancient symbols.
“A princess,” one rasped. “From that soft kingdom beyond the borders.”
“Soft blood still burns,” another replied. “Sometimes brightest.”
They argued in low, dangerous voices—not about whether Sorren was right to take her, but how long it would take before she shattered.
Across the city, Grimmoon’s citizens reacted in their own ways.
The merchants prepared offerings. Not gifts—tributes. A princess in the palace meant attention from the throne, and attention could be lethal or profitable depending on timing.
The pleasure guilds whispered excitedly, already crafting stories they would sell by morning—half-truths soaked in lust and fear.
The hunters sharpened blades.
Not because they were summoned.
But because instinct demanded it.
Grimmoon thrived on spectacle.
And a princess taken on her birthday? That was spectacle wrapped in prophecy.
In taverns carved into the bones of fallen beasts, tankards slammed against tables.
“Think she’ll last?” someone laughed.
“None do.”
“Not true,” another said quietly. “Some don’t break. They change.”
Silence followed that statement.
High above it all, in the palace of black stone, the city’s heart beat loud and slow.
The wards along the east wing pulsed brighter, reacting to Sarayah’s presence like a living thing recognizing new blood. The walls drank in her fear, humming softly as though pleased.
Grimmoon did not pity her.
Grimmoon did not hate her.
Grimmoon anticipated her.
From the highest tower, Sorren watched the city respond exactly as he knew it would. His kingdom was honest in its cruelty. It did not pretend to be kind.
A knock came at his door.
“My king,” an aide said carefully, “the city is… restless.”
Sorren’s gaze never left the streets below.
“Good,” he replied.
Restlessness meant hunger.
Hunger meant obedience.
“Let them whisper,” he continued. “Let them speculate. Fear sharpens the city. Curiosity feeds it.”
The aide swallowed. “And the princess?”
Sorren turned slowly, silver eyes glinting.
“She will feel it,” he said. “Even alone.”
He faced the window again as the city roared back to life—louder, darker, eager.
Grimmoon had been given something rare.
Something fragile.
And like all predators, the city was patient.
It would wait.
- Writer
