The impact sent shockwaves through Morgana's spine as her back hit the cold marble wall. Her breath escaped in a sharp gasp, the sound of shattering porcelain filling the air as the antique vase exploded into glittering fragments across the floor.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, heart hammering against her ribs as her eyes lifted—trembling, reluctant—to meet the figure before her.
Majesty.
Moonlight painted him in silver and shadow, transforming him into something from dark fairy tales. A thin ribbon of blood traced from his hairline to his temple, gleaming like wine against his skin. But it was his smile that made her blood turn to ice—that slow, predatory curve of lips that spoke of secrets too dark for daylight.
His eyes, once warm brown, now held depths that seemed to go on forever. They weren't human eyes anymore—they were black holes threatening to swallow light itself.
"Is that all you've got, Anna?" The words rolled from his throat like smoke, each syllable crafted to cut deeper than any blade. His voice carried undertones that made her skin crawl, harmonics that spoke of power that shouldn't exist.
He moved toward her with hunting cat grace, each step calculated. Violence radiated from him in waves so thick she could taste it—metallic and bitter, like old pennies and fear. This wasn't the reckless Majesty she remembered. This version moved with apex predator confidence.
Her legs betrayed her, carrying her backward in a stumbling retreat. "Don't come any closer."
The words fell like broken things, fragmented and weak. But mercy wasn't coming.
He moved with inhuman speed, crossing the distance between heartbeats. His fingers wrapped around her wrist like iron shackles, the grip so tight she wondered if her bones might snap. The contact sent violent electricity up her arm—dangerous and wrong.
Panic exploded in her chest. She pulled against his grip, twisted, threw her weight into breaking free, but his hand might as well have been carved from stone.
"Look at me, Anna." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, but somehow filled the entire room. There was command in those words, authority that demanded obedience.
Her lips trembled as she fought the compulsion. "No... please."
His thumb pressed into her inner wrist, finding her pulse and resting there like a promise. "I said, look at me."
Despite every instinct screaming not to, Morgana found herself slowly lifting her gaze. Her jaw clenched so tight it ached, tears burning behind her eyes like acid. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
Majesty leaned closer, close enough that his breath ghosted across her cheek. The scent of him—once comforting, now tainted with copper and ozone—filled her nostrils.
"You've changed," he murmured, something almost reverent in his voice. "More defiant. I like it."
His eyes moved over her face, drinking in every detail of her terror like a connoisseur savoring wine. He was enjoying this—her helplessness, her panic, the way her pulse hammered against his thumb.
"You want to know why I came back?" he asked, voice barely audible but terrifying in its quietness. "Look at what you did to me."
Before she could protest, he was guiding her free hand to his forehead, pressing her fingertips against where blood had marked him. Her breath caught as her skin made contact with his.
The gash was gone.
Completely, impossibly gone. The skin beneath her fingers was smooth and unmarked, as if the injury had never existed.
"What are you?" she whispered.
His smile widened, showing teeth that seemed sharper than they should be. "The better question is, what do you think I'm about to do to you? Were you expecting a kiss?"
Sharp knocking cut through the tension like a blade.
"Morgan? What was that crash? Are you okay?" Amara's voice filtered through the heavy door.
Majesty didn't flinch. If anything, his smile grew more satisfied. He leaned until his lips almost touched her ear. "Don't even think about it. Tell her you're fine... sweetheart."
The endearment dripped like poison honey. Morgana's lungs felt squeezed in a vice, but she forced words past the terror. "I'm fine, Mama! I just broke a vase!"
His chuckle vibrated through his chest, low and rich. His lips brushed against her neck, feather-light and deliberate. Every nerve screamed in protest, but her limbs refused to obey.
"Have you seen Majesty anywhere?" Amara's voice came again.
"No..." The word came out too quickly, too sharply.
Majesty pulled back just enough to look at her, dark eyes glittering with cold amusement. "You're mine, Anna. Whether you like it or not."
"Why are you doing this?" she managed to whisper.
His answer was worse than anything she'd imagined. "Because I missed you," he said, and the softness was genuine—but it was the genuineness of madmen and monsters, obsession wearing affection's mask.
Between one blink and the next, he was gone. She stumbled forward, but there was nothing to catch. He had moved to the window with impossible speed, melting into shadows and disappearing like smoke.
The silence felt heavier than his presence had. The only evidence he'd been there was blood smeared across her wrist and the cold memory of his touch burned into her skin like a brand.
Morgana sank to her knees among the scattered vase fragments, hands shaking as she gathered the pieces. The sharp edges bit into her fingers, drawing thin lines of crimson, but she welcomed the pain. It was clean and honest—so different from the twisted wrongness of whatever Majesty had become.
*Hang in there, Morgana. The Neon Moon Ceremony's almost here.*
*Please, Moon Goddess, let me find my true mate—before this devil destroys me completely.*
---
Elsewhere in the House
The overhead bulb cast a sickly yellow light across the cramped attic, its filament dying in stuttering gasps. Shadows pulsed against slanted walls while dust motes danced in the suffocating air.
Amara knelt in the far corner, tearing through a cardboard box with desperate fingers. Brittle newspaper clippings crumbled at her touch, photograph albums stuck together with time, leather journals cracked like dried earth.
"Where is it?" she whispered, raw with urgency. She'd been searching for hours. The scroll had to be here—tomorrow she would finally tell Noah the truth about Majesty.
"Looking for something, dear?"
The voice cut through the silence like a blade. Amara's body went rigid, recognizing the voice she'd hoped never to hear again.
Noah stood three feet behind her, holding a rolled parchment. The parchment. His usually warm brown eyes were flat and unreadable—something terrible in their emptiness.
"This wouldn't happen to be what you're looking for?" Each word was precisely enunciated, careful as a surgeon's cut.
Blood drained from her face. "Where did you get that?"
Noah's jaw tightened. "The better question is why you've been hiding it from me."
"I wasn't hiding it—"
"Five years." His voice rose, filling the space. "Five years, Amara. And you never once told me that Majesty is a prince."
The words hit like physical blows. She wanted to disappear into the dust and shadows.
"I was going to tell you tomorrow. That's why I needed the scroll—to explain everything. I swear on my mother's grave."
Noah stared at her, emotions playing across his face—hurt, betrayal, love dying in real time. "I trusted you."
The words fell with the finality of a judge's gavel. Amara flinched as if struck.
"It wasn't her fault."
They turned toward the doorway. Majesty stood there like a shadow given form, perfectly still, perfectly composed.
"I told her to keep it from you," he said, voice flat and matter-of-fact.
"Noah, please." Amara struggled to her feet. "I'm not involved with the palace anymore. I cut all ties years ago."
Noah's gaze moved between them. She saw the exact moment something inside him shattered—a subtle shift in his posture, a dimming of light in his eyes.
"I shouldn't have gotten involved," he said quietly. "I'll see myself out."
He moved past Majesty without a word, their shoulders nearly brushing. Amara listened to his footsteps on the stairs, each one a nail in their relationship's coffin. The front door opened. Closed. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Majesty stepped fully into the attic, his presence filling the space like smoke. "You wanted to speak to me about something, mother."
"Yes. It's about your father."
The change was instantaneous. Majesty's body went rigid, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. "Don't talk about him. I don't want to hear it."
He pivoted toward the entrance, but Amara's hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist. "Majesty, please listen. Your father feels—"
"The king." His voice cut like a blade. "Call him the king, mother. That's all he's ever been to me."
"The king wants you back."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "I'm not going back."
"You need to go back. No matter what happened, he's still your father."
Majesty spun around, eyes blazing with fury. "Father? He abandoned me, left me to die in the old palace like refuse. Have you forgotten what he said? How he threw me out like I was diseased?"
His voice rose with each word, careful control cracking to reveal the wounded boy beneath.
"I remember, but you're a prince. You belong in the palace."
"Belong?" He laughed harshly. "I belong nowhere. That's what he made sure of."
He began pacing like a caged wolf. "I'm here because you wanted me to join the ritual, despite knowing the moon goddess decreed I won't have a mate. Let me perform the ritual and leave this place forever."
"What if you find your mate?"
Majesty stopped, turned back to her. "It's not possible."
"Then let's make a deal. If you find your mate during the ritual, you'll go back to the palace."
He turned slowly, cold amusement crossing his features. "Mother, you sound so certain, as if you know something I don't."
He moved closer, forcing her to tilt her head back. "But it would be better if I don't find her. Because if I do..." Something terrible flickered across his face. "She won't survive me. The darkness in me would consume her before she could understand what she'd been cursed with."
The words hung between them like a death sentence. Amara saw the truth in his eyes—not just abandonment's pain, but something deeper, more twisted. Years of isolation had carved something dark and hungry into his soul, something that would devour anything pure that came too close.