Blood-Moon Bride

"Hold her still." Sera didn't struggle. The cold hands on her arms were familiar, as were the stone floors slick with lye and prayers. She let them scrub her skin until it burned, her silence louder than the Elders' mutterings. “She doesn't cry," someone said. “Creepy little thing." “She's perfect," replied another. “She even smells like her." Sera blinked against the rising steam. The water stung, her scalp raw from the fifth rinse. She didn't speak. Couldn't. The scar beneath her jaw ached—an old burn, not of fire but of magic. “Bring the ivory." The handmaidens returned, carrying silk threaded with bone clasps. They dressed her like a bride, but no joy accompanied the ceremony—only smoke, incense, and the sour hush of sacrifice. A golden crest, still hot from the forge, was pressed to her shoulder. She flinched, only slightly. “Say something," a young acolyte dared, watching her eyes. “She can't," the High Priest answered. “She's not meant to speak. Just to be seen." Sera was led to the mirror. The girl looking back wore Lady Aelya's face—carved brows, inked lashes, lips the color of winter roses. But her eyes—Sera's eyes—held no vanity. Only stillness. “She'll pass," the Elder confirmed. "And when the Silverflame Alpha sees her?" "He won't care," said the Elder. "It's politics, not poetry." Sera knew otherwise. Because once, years ago, before her voice was burned away and her name buried under soot, a boy with storm-gray eyes had broken down in the woods behind the temple. She'd watched him punch trees until his knuckles bled. And when he collapsed, sobbing, she'd placed a honey-amber candy in his hand. He never saw her face. But he stilled. Breathed. Then guards came. She ran. She'd never forgotten him. The Alpha heir with shattered silence in his lungs. And now… she would be his bride. “Time," the Elder said. Sera was escorted out, her bare feet brushing frost-covered stones. The moon above was full—bloated, blood-tinged. The crowd in the courtyard fell silent as she passed, their heads bowed low. No one called her name. Because that name no longer existed. “Lady Aelya of Fog‑Fang," the announcer boomed. “Tribute to the Silverflame Keep, bearer of alliance and beauty alike." She stepped forward, mind blank, bones hollow. A commander in armor stepped beside her. The carriage stood open, draped in banners stitched with two wolves circling a crescent. He didn't look at her. “Get in." She obeyed. The door shut. Outside, drums thudded like a heartbeat. Inside, the silence returned. Until— “You stink of daisy," the commander muttered, sniffing the air. “They said Aelya preferred gardenia." Sera said nothing. He turned sharply. “Can you speak?" She shook her head once. He frowned. “Mute?" She nodded. “Well," he exhaled, sitting back. “That'll make the Alpha's life easier, I suppose." A pause. Then softer, “Not that anyone cares what he wants." They rode for hours. Forests blurred past. Guards rode in formation, spears gleaming. The wind seeped through cracks, and Sera curled her fingers tighter in her lap. Suddenly, the carriage lurched. A storm had rolled in—snow falling in thick, fast sheets. The wheels skidded. The convoy stopped. “We'll have to wait it out," said a guard outside. “We're near the border outpost." The commander grunted. “Set up camp." Tents rose. Fires lit. Sera was shown into a canvas shelter, barely warmer than the outside. She sat alone until footsteps crunched outside. The flap opened. Alpha Noah Silverflame stood there. She knew him instantly. Same eyes—gray, like the sky before a storm. He stepped in without invitation. “So," he said, gaze cold. “You're the bride." Sera stood. “I heard you were spoiled," he said. “Fragile. Fond of mirrors and minstrels. Yet here you are—mute and… staring." She didn't look away. He sneered, then glanced down. “What's that?" She reached into her cloak. Pulled out a small bundle. Unwrapped it. A single honey-amber candy lay inside. Noah froze. “…Where did you get that?" She held it out. He didn't take it at first. His breath came sharp. Then, finally, he snatched it, hand trembling. Noah turned away. “Don't play games." Sera knelt beside the fire. Pulled out a piece of charcoal. On a scrap of canvas, she wrote: *Gift for you.* He stared. “…Aelya would never remember that," he muttered. Sera said nothing. The wind howled outside. Sparks rose between them. Noah stood abruptly. “Get some sleep. We ride at dawn." He left. Sera curled into her blanket, her heartbeat matching the wind's whisper. She had no voice. But perhaps… she didn't need one to survive. Or to be heard. Not yet. But soon. The Blood‑Moon had claimed her name. Now, the snow would carry her silence. And if fate allowed—she would turn it into thunder.