The Moon’s Alluring Journey

Ashvin’s Home

We crested the last hill just as the sun dipped low behind the hills, washing the fields in golden light. The countryside stretched wide around us—rolling meadows, groves of olive trees, and neat rows of ripening grain. Birds wheeled overhead, and in the distance, a cluster of rooftops marked the estate.

Ashvin slowed his horse, eyes softening as he took in the familiar land. “Still smells the same. Earth and thyme and old wood.”

I inhaled deeply. The air here was warmer than the north, tinged with lavender and smoke from distant hearths.

“Home,” he said quietly.

The manor stood in a thicket of flowering trees, a two-story stone structure wrapped in ivy and pride. Modest compared to palaces, yet elegant in a way that felt earned, not bestowed. A banner with his family’s crest—two olive branches crossed over a copper sword—fluttered in the breeze.

The gates creaked open as a steward recognized Ashvin. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he bowed low, whispering something to a footman before hurrying toward the manor.

“I suppose I should’ve written ahead,” Ashvin muttered.

“Probably,” I said dryly. “You did bring the Imperial Princess home with you.”

He gave a lopsided grin, but tension hovered in his shoulders.

By the time we reached the courtyard, several figures were waiting—among them, a tall woman with dark hair streaked in silver, wearing a deep green gown with a brooch at her collar.

Ashvin dismounted and approached her first. “Mother.”

She looked him over with a hawk’s eye. “You’ve gotten leaner. And you still slouch.” Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a firm embrace.

Only then did her gaze shift to me. Her expression, though respectful, turned formal.

“Your Highness,” she said, dipping into a practiced curtsey. The others followed, a wave of bows and murmured greetings.

I dismounted and returned a nod, trying not to let my weariness show. “Lady Tava. It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s an honor to host you,” she replied evenly. “Though I admit, we hadn’t expected... such a visit.”

“I didn’t expect it either,” I said truthfully. “But we’re grateful for your hospitality.”

Her gaze lingered a moment too long, weighing something unspoken. Then she gave a curt nod. “Of course. You and my son are always welcome here.”

Servants rushed to take the horses, and a young girl—Ashvin’s sister, I remembered—peeked out from behind a doorframe, eyes wide. She gave me a small, awkward wave and then vanished inside.

The interior of the manor was as I remembered it from years ago—warm, with stone floors softened by woven rugs, shelves of books, and the scent of rosemary drifting from the kitchens. Familiar, but different. The last time I’d been here, I was younger, brighter-eyed—and still unaware of what fate had planned for me.

At the long dining table, the first few minutes were stilted. Conversation circled politely—weather, travel conditions, crops. Everyone was careful. Measured. Only Ashvin seemed natural, easing the tension with dry jokes and familiar jabs.

It wasn’t until his younger sister, Mira, finally dared to ask, “Is it true you ride silver wolves into battle now, Princess?” that the mood cracked.

I laughed. “Not unless Ashvin has been lying to you.”

He raised a brow. “Only a little.”

By the time the bread had been broken and stew passed around, the formality had faded. There was warmth now, hesitant but growing. Even Lady Tava’s sharp gaze softened when she saw how tired I truly was.

“You’ve traveled long,” she said as the dishes were cleared. “We’ve prepared a room for you upstairs. Ashvin, you’ll take the south wing.”

“Separate wings?” I teased. “Is that for modesty or protection?”

Tava didn’t smile. “Both.”

Ashvin gave me a look that clearly said tread carefully.

Later that night, in the quiet of my guest chamber, I stared at the ceiling, the sound of wind rustling the ivy just outside the window. The bed was softer than anything I’d slept in for days. Still, sleep eluded me.

They didn’t say it, but I knew what they were all thinking: I was royalty. Their son’s commander. And for all their respect, I would never truly be one of them.

Not unless something changed. Yet sleep refused to come.

The silence of the manor, broken only by the occasional creak of the old wood beams and the rustle of trees outside, felt heavier than it should have. I tossed in bed, stared at the moonlit ceiling, and finally gave up.

Wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, I stepped quietly into the hall. My bare feet barely made a sound as I moved past closed doors, candle sconces dimmed for the night. The familiar scent of dried herbs and old stone drew me further until instinct carried me down the servant stairwell and through the back corridor.

The greenhouse lay just beyond the kitchen garden, its windows aglow with faint silver from the moon above. I remembered it from my first visit—glass panes stained with age, curling vines climbing the framework, and a warmth inside that came not from fire, but from life.