The Midnight Prince

Did He Escaped?

The Midnight Prince

Ashen



“Did the little cinder boy get caught?” my daughter asked.

I looked into the fire.

The flames bent low over the wood, turning blue at the edges before settling gold again.

“Not that night.”

My son sat forward. “So he escaped?”

“For a moment.”

“That means yes.”

I smiled faintly. “Escape is a tricky thing. Sometimes your body gets away before your heart understands it has been left behind.”

My daughter frowned. “That sounds sad.”

“It was,” I said. “Because the boy did not only leave the palace that night.”

“What did he leave?”

My fingers brushed the old ring on my hand.

“Something his mother gave him.”

I ran until the palace became moonlight behind me.

The mask burned against my face.

Every bell that rang through LunariaNova felt like a hand reaching for the back of my neck.

Seventh.

Eighth.

Ninth.

I vaulted over the garden wall, landed hard, and nearly lost my footing on the stone path beyond. My lungs tore at the cold air. My legs wanted to stop. My heart did not allow it.

Not yet.

Not while the princess’s voice still followed me.

Wait.

A name. Give me a name.

I pressed one hand against the burning mask.

It pulsed beneath my palm, the magic inside it breaking apart in thin, silver-blue lines.

“Veyra,” I breathed.

The tenth bell rang.

Nothing.

I turned down the servants’ path, heading for the lower gate.

“Veyra.”

The eleventh bell struck.

The mask burned hot over my eyes near my cheek.

Pain flashed hot across my skin.

Then a hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed the front of my coat.

“There you are,” Veyra hissed.

The world folded.

Not turned.

Not spun.

Folded.

The palace path, the moonlit stones, the cold air, all of it bent inward like fabric being gathered by invisible fingers.

Silver dust exploded around us.

For one breath, I smelled apples, rain, and old magic.

Then my boots hit frozen ground behind the SilvaFrost packhouse.

I stumbled forward.

Veyra caught me by the sleeve before I hit the snow.

“Easy, little disaster.”

The twelfth bell rang in the distance.

I tore it from my face.

Cold air struck my skin.

The mask lay in my hands, dim, its moonlit glow gone.

Veyra looked me over.

Her expression, for once, did not carry a joke.

“You ran late.”

“I ran at midnight.”

“You were supposed to run before midnight.”

“I was busy.”

“With what? Dying?”

I swallowed.

The princess’s eyes flashed in my mind.

Her laughter.

Her hand in mine.

Her voice softening when she said some wolves were shy.

“No,” I said quietly. “Something worse.”

Veyra’s face changed.

Not much.

Just enough.

“Oh,” she said.

I looked away.

That was when my fingers reached for the ring.

For the weight I had worn so long that its absence felt impossible.

Nothing.

My hand froze.

I touched my other fingers.

My pockets.

The inside of my glove.

My shirt.

“No.”

Veyra stilled. “Ashen?”

“No, no, no.”

I searched again, faster. Coat. Gloves. Sash. Boots, as if somehow the ring had slipped there and not vanished into the worst possible place in the kingdom.

“It is gone.”

Veyra’s eyes sharpened. “The ring?”

My throat closed.

“My mother’s ring is gone.”

The words left me hollow.

I could survive bruises. Hunger. Cold floors. Callan’s fists. Seraphine’s voice. My father’s silence.

But that ring was the last thing my mother had pressed into my palm while blood stole her breath.

It was proof she had existed.

Proof she had loved me.

Proof the promise was real.

I staggered back against the woodpile.

“I dropped it.”

Veyra did not ask where.

She already knew.

“The princess has it,” she said.

I closed my eyes.

Moon.

Princess Moona PentNova had my mother’s ring.

The ring I did not understand.

The ring my mother died trying to explain.

The ring tied to secrets Veyra never said aloud.

“I have to go back.”

“No.”

“Veyra.”

“No,” she repeated, and this time her voice was not young. It was ancient enough to make the snow stop falling. “The palace is awake. The princess is alert. The wolves are suspicious. Your brothers are still there, and if you go back now, you will not be returning alone.”

“I cannot leave it.”

“You already did.”

The words struck hard.

I looked at her.

Regret flickered across her face, but she did not take it back.

“Survive tonight,” she said, softer. “We will worry about the ring after.”

“What if she finds out?”

Veyra’s gaze moved toward the palace lights in the distance.

“Then destiny has become impatient.”

Before I could answer, carriage wheels sounded far down the road.

My family was returning.

Veyra stepped back into the shadows.

“Go,” she whispered. “And Ashen?”

I looked at her.

“Act tired. Not guilty.”

“That is terrible advice.”

“It is the only kind you follow.”

Then she was gone.

I entered through the back before the carriages reached the front courtyard.

The packhouse was dark except for the kitchen hearth. Nara slept curled on a thin blanket near the servant rooms, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. I stopped long enough to pull another blanket over her shoulders.

She stirred. “Ash?”

“Sleep,” I whispered.

“Did you finish the chores?”

“Enough.”

Her eyes opened slightly. “You smell like flowers.”

My heart stopped.

The mask had hidden my scent from wolves.

Not from my sister, apparently.

I tucked the blanket closer. “You are dreaming.”

“Pretty flowers,” she murmured, then slipped back into sleep.

I stood there a moment longer, listening to her breathe.

Two more weeks.

That was all.

Two more weeks, and she would be eighteen.

Two more weeks, and I would take her away from this house.

From my father.

From Seraphine.

From every wolf who thought her softness was permission to hurt her.

The front doors opened.

Voices spilled into the hall.

Callan laughing.

Cael quieter.

Seraphine complaining about palace music.

My father saying nothing.

I slipped into the shadows before they could see me.

By morning, my body felt like it had been beaten with its own bones.

But chores did not care whether a boy had danced with a princess, lost his mother’s ring, or slept less than an hour.

Wood still needed chopping.

Fires still needed feeding.

Breakfast still needed preparing.

I pulled my hood low and split logs behind the packhouse while dawn bled pale over the snow. Each strike of the axe sent pain through my shoulders. My palms were cracked from yesterday’s labor. My knees still ached from scrubbing floors.

And my finger felt naked.

Every few minutes, I reached for the ring that was no longer there.

Every time, panic rose fresh.

By the time I carried the first armload of wood to Lady Seraphine’s private quarters, my arms trembled. I stacked the logs beside the hearth, lit the fire, then returned to the kitchen.

Nara tried to help with breakfast.

I stopped her at the door.

“No.”

She frowned. “Ashen, I can carry plates.”

“Not today.”

“I am not made of glass.”

“No,” I said, softening my voice. “You are made of trouble and stubbornness. But today, you are doing laundry on the west side.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That is far from the dining room.”

“Exactly.”

“Ash.”

I pressed the stale heel of bread from my pocket into her hand.

“Eat first.”

She looked down at it, then back at me. “You did not eat.”

“I am older.”

“That does not mean food works differently for you.”

“It does when I say so.”

“That is not science.”

“It is brother law.”

She rolled her eyes, but she ate.

Good.

I took the breakfast tray myself.

Lady Seraphine and her sons were already seated when I entered. Callan looked half-asleep and irritated by the existence of morning. Cael sat beside him, quiet, his gaze lowered to his cup.

Seraphine wore a pale robe trimmed with white fur, her hair braided over one shoulder. Even at breakfast, she looked like someone posing for a portrait called Merciless Winter.

I kept my hood low and began setting plates on the table.

“Ridiculous,” Seraphine was saying. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

Callan tore into a piece of bread. “The princess made a spectacle of herself.”

“She made a spectacle over him,” Seraphine snapped.

My hand paused over the teapot.

Him.