You could never quite swallow the bitterness that rose in your throat whenever you remembered how easily your father had given you away.

The words had fallen from his lips as though he were commenting on the weather — light, indifferent, final. He never knew that with them, your world had cracked cleanly in two.

“You are to marry Prince Aerion. I expect you to behave as a good wife and bring no shame upon our house or our name.”

That was all.

You remembered the Sept — the heavy scent of incense, the suffocating hush of silk and whispers. The way your vision blurred as Aerion draped the black cloak over your shoulders, binding you to him before gods and men alike. Even then, even at the very end, some foolish part of you had hoped he would look at you and decide you unworthy. That he would cast you aside and free you with a single, merciful word.

How naïve you had been.

Your vows caught in your throat, each one scraping on the way out. You kept your gaze lowered, terrified that if you met his eyes you would shatter completely. Later, when the feasting ended and the doors closed behind you, your hands trembled so violently you could barely untie your corset.

Hope had followed you into that chamber.

That hope also died there.

Aerion had not been cruel for cruelty’s sake — which somehow made it worse. He had been distant. Entitled. Impatient. Your tears had meant nothing. Your pain had been expected. The only mercy he granted you was leaving once he was satisfied, the door shutting with quiet finality behind him.

You had lain awake long after, staring at the canopy above, something cold and resolute settling inside your chest.

So you drank the moon tea.

The first time, your hands had shaken as you lifted the cup to your lips. The bitter taste had made your eyes water. But no one noticed. No one suspected. And when nothing happened — when days passed and silence remained — your fear turned into something reckless.

You convinced yourself you were clever.

Each time he summoned you, you made certain the tea found its way to you afterward. A quiet transaction from the Street of Silk. A secret swallowed in the dark. Six moons passed with no swelling belly, no whispers of heirs.

You thought yourself safe.

Until the night you stepped into your chamber and found him waiting.

He stood by the window, moonlight carving his figure in silver and shadow. His shoulders were rigid. His jaw clenched. Something crumpled in his fist.

Your blood ran cold when you recognized the cup.

Porcelain. Delicate. Damning.

He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles blanched white.

“How stupid can you be?”

His voice was low, strained thin as wire — not loud, not yet, but trembling with something far more dangerous than shouting. When he turned to you, fury burned bright in his violet eyes.

“Six moons,” he continued, each word precise and cutting. “Six moons and no child.” His lip curled slightly around the last word. “Do you truly take me for a fool… wife?”