Caged Moon

The Servant’s Mark

Written By: Zinny Mund

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Chapter 07



The years crept by in silent misery for Aurelia Nyx, the forgotten princess of the Crescent Kingdom. No longer swaddled in mooncloth or cradled under silk canopies, she now wore rough-spun dresses the color of soot and ash, and her tiny hands, meant for holding scepters and roses, were raw and blistered from endless scrubbing.

At barely five years old, Aurelia roamed the palace corridors like a shadow, a ghost no one cared to see. The servants called her "Charcoal Girl" behind her back—sometimes to her face—with cruel smirks twisting their mouths. "The soot-rat," whispered the maids as they passed. "The cursed one," the guards muttered as they averted their eyes. Even the cooks would shoo her away from the kitchens with flapping towels, fearful that her presence would sour the bread or spoil the milk.

Her daily tasks were many. Sweep the grand marble halls. Polish the silver goblets in the dining chamber. Wash the fine silks and linens of her cousin Lyra’s wardrobe—garments once meant for herself. She scrubbed until her fingers bled and her knees bruised on the cold stone floors. When she faltered or grew slow from hunger, the steward would cuff her ear and hiss, "Lazy brat! You eat our food, you work for it!"

Aurelia bore it all in silence, the weight of confusion growing heavy in her chest. She could not understand why she lived like this—why the maids sneered, why the lords ignored her, why Lyra, her cousin, the so-called "Hope of the Kingdom," mocked her cruelly at every chance.

“Charcoal Girl,” Lyra giggled one morning, reclining in her canopied bed of moon-silk and emerald lace. “You missed a spot. There. By the window. Scrub harder, or I’ll tell Mother you were spying again.”

Aurelia clutched the rag tightly, her small fists trembling. She kept her head down and said nothing. Lyra’s voice rang on, sugar-coated and venomous.

“Do you know why you’re nothing, little soot-rat? Because your mother was a traitor and your father a fool. Uncle Kael told me so. They tried to curse the kingdom, but he saved us. He saved everyone.”

Aurelia flinched. The words stabbed deeper than any whip. Could it be true? Were her parents wicked? Were they truly the monsters Lyra claimed?

Lady Calista made sure the poison seeped deeper. When Aurelia dared wander into the main hall or the garden paths, the new queen would appear with her perfumed train and her honeyed lies.

“Poor child,” Calista crooned one afternoon, bending low to brush a lock of tangled hair from Aurelia’s face. “You are lucky to be alive, little one. Your mother was not as kind as you think. She wished to curse this kingdom… to bring ruin to us all. It was your uncle who saved you, who keeps you safe from the shame your blood carries.”

Aurelia stared up at her, wide-eyed and wordless. The warmth in Calista’s voice did not match the ice in her smile.

“You must remain humble, girl,” Calista whispered. Obedient. Grateful. Serve well, and perhaps you will be allowed to stay in this palace a little longer.”

Then she turned, her gown whispering like silk snakes across the marble floor, leaving Aurelia standing in the shadow of fear and confusion.

But questions stirred in her small, fierce heart.

“Is it true?” she asked one of the older maids that night as they scrubbed the lantern sconces in the west wing. “Was my mother… evil?”

The maid stiffened, her brush pausing mid-scrub. She glanced fearfully down the hall before hissing, “Don’t ask such things, girl. You’ll bring ruin on us both.”

“But my father… the king—”

“No!” the maid snapped, dropping her brush. She turned wide eyes on Aurelia, filled with panic. “Say no more. Forget those names. Forget them. Or you’ll end up like the others who asked too much.”

“Who?” Aurelia whispered, her chest tightening.

But the maid shook her head violently, gathering her things and scurrying away like a frightened mouse.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken truths.

In the nights that came after, Aurelia dreamed strange dreams. Of a tall man with silver eyes and a red-marked palm. Of a woman with moonlit hair who sang to her in a voice like starlight. Of a mirror cracking. Of a wolf howling beneath a crimson sky.

She would wake in her tiny cot, heart pounding, the faint shimmer of power flickering on her fingertips—quickly fading before she could understand.

Elder Zephyr visits rarely now. When he did, his face was drawn and worried, his eyes scanning the corridors for unseen threats. Once, when he thought she was sleeping, he knelt by her bedside and whispered, “Hold on, little Luna. The time will come. Not yet… but soon.”

Aurelia pretended to sleep, biting her lip to keep from asking the thousand questions burning in her mind.

But the questions grew. Why was she treated as less than dirt? Why did no one speak her name with kindness? Why did the wind whisper when she cried? Why did the moon seem to glow brighter when she stood beneath it, alone in the courtyard at night?

Why, when Lyra tripped and fell one day, did the vines in the garden twitch and coil as if they wished to strike her?

Aurelia knew, deep in the quiet place of her soul, that something inside her waited. Something caged. Something powerful.

But for now, she scrubbed the floors and polished silver.

For now, she bore the name "Charcoal Girl."

For now… she waited.