The full moon that night burned unnervingly bright, as though the sky itself meant to lay bare everything happening beneath it. Emma, in her dazzling ball gown, could not recall exactly how she had left the banquet hall; she only knew that her feet were carrying her, unsteady, through an unfamiliar garden, flanked by flower beds she had never seen before, with a corridor in the distance leading toward a towering palace silhouetted against the black sky. Her face burned, her mind spinning as though she had been plunged into a drunkenness unlike any she had known. Where am I? Why does my body feel so wrong... She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to draw a deep breath, but her breathing only grew more ragged, as if an invisible fire were creeping beneath her skin, burning away what little reason she had left. She kept glancing back over her shoulder as she walked, as though someone were following her, though there was no one there at all, only rows of silent, still trees.
And then she collided with a firm, solid chest.
The collision sent Emma stumbling backward, but before she could hit the ground, an arm had already swept around her waist, pulling her flush against a warm body that trembled with its own ragged breathing. The man in front of her wore royal attire, a cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his face flushed no less than her own, his brows drawn together as though he were fighting to hold back some beast stirring awake inside him. His gaze locked onto Emma and would not let go, his breath coming fast and hot across the thin distance still left between them.
Who is this man? Why does a single touch make my whole body feel as though it's melting...
"Are you all right?" His voice was low and rough, gentle in a strange way, as though the last shred of reason left in him were still fighting to hold on to some courtesy even as the potion's power gnawed at them both.
Emma could not answer. She could only look up at him, her eyes clouded with a helpless longing, as though some invisible thread were pulling her closer to him still, no matter that somewhere far off, faint and muffled, her reason was screaming that this was a stranger, that she should not be standing this close to him. But the fire inside her was stronger than all that screaming. Her hand, as though it had a will of its own, rose slowly to rest on his chest, stroking gently over the fabric of his cloak, feeling his heart pounding wildly beneath her palm.
His breathing grew faster still, his face drawing slowly closer to hers. Emma raised a hand, her trembling fingers tracing the flushed curve of his cheek, as though she needed to touch him to be certain this was not a dream. And then he lowered his head and kissed her, fierce and hungry, as though the entire world outside this garden had ceased to exist.
Emma slowly sank back onto the soft grass, and the man braced himself above her on the ground, looking down at her with eyes clouded with a dazed, undisguised hunger. His hand traced slowly over her flushed cheek, so gentle that it made her close her eyes, surrendering herself to the sensation, with no way of knowing that this was the very moment that would decide the next seven years of her life.
She opened her eyes and wound her arms around his neck, drawing him down closer. He bent to kiss her again, deep and consuming, his hand easing the neckline of her gown down to bare the curve of her collarbone and the smooth white line of her shoulder. He lowered his head, pressing kisses there, gentle at first and then growing more fervent, while Emma gripped the front of his shirt, her breath coming in silent, ragged pulls. His cloak slipped from his shoulders and fell onto the grass.
That night, with the full moon standing witness, neither of them retained enough reason to stop. What happened afterward lived on only in broken breaths, in whispers with no name attached, in the warmth of two strangers' bodies entwined as though they had been searching for each other across some distant, forgotten lifetime. The small pendant slipped quietly from around Emma's neck and fell onto the grass, unnoticed by either of them.
When Emma opened her eyes again, she realized with a start that she was lying in the arms of a stranger.
The man was still deep in sleep beside her, shirtless, only the cloak draped carelessly over the upper half of his body, baring one solid shoulder in the early morning light. Emma bolted upright, her eyes wide with panic as she realized she too was covered by nothing but that same cloak. She quickly clutched the fabric shut, sitting up straight, her heart hammering.
No... it can't be...
A sharp pain flared in her head, forcing her to press a hand to her temple, trying to piece together the fragments of last night's memory, but she found only a blank whiteness tangled with an indescribable, feverish heat.
"How did I end up sleeping with a stranger like this?" she muttered, her voice thick with bewilderment, eyes staring blankly into the empty air ahead of her, trying to piece the broken fragments of memory back together.
What on earth happened? Why did I lose control like that...
And then a thought flashed through her mind, cold and sharp as a blade. "Was it that glass of wine?" she asked herself, frowning, and the more she thought about it, the more a shiver ran through her. The dizziness from the night before, the inexplicable heat, the complete loss of control over her own reason, all of it had begun with that very glass of wine.
Memory, like water long dammed up, suddenly broke free, pulling her back several hours earlier, to the banquet hall glittering under its crystal chandeliers, where it had all begun.
❖ ❖ ❖
The royal banquet hall the night before had been awash in extravagant gold and red, crystal chandeliers casting a glittering light down over the long rows of tables where ministers, young ladies, and young lords sat eating and drinking amid boisterous laughter and chatter. Emma sat quietly in one corner, taking in the opulent scene around her with a look of unfamiliarity, her hand gripping the fabric of her skirt. This is the first time I've ever attended a banquet like this. Everything here feels so foreign. She reached for a biscuit on the plate in front of her and brought it to her mouth, trying to keep an outward air of composure despite the nervousness churning inside her.
Serena, resplendent in a magnificent ball gown that flattered her proud figure, sat down beside Emma with a bright smile, setting two brimming glasses of red wine on the table before them. The smile on Serena's lips was sweet, but her eyes gleamed with an unconcealed disdain.
"Good, isn't it, Emma!" Serena said, deliberately drawing out the name "Emma" like a taunt. "This is your first time attending a royal banquet, sister, so you'd better mind yourself carefully, unless you want to disgrace yourself in front of His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen!"
Emma kept her expression calm, continuing to eat her biscuit, and did not rise to the provocation. She always loves reminding me that I don't belong here.
Serena smirked, picking up another biscuit and holding it out to Emma. "Eat as much as you like, sister. Father takes me to so many parties that I'm sick to death of these things by now!"
Emma's fingers tightened around the half eaten biscuit in her hand. She looked up at Serena with a cold gaze but said nothing. Serena only smiled brightly and waved a hand as though entirely unaware.
"Don't be so tense!" Serena pushed one of the wine glasses toward her.
Emma eyed the brimming glass of red wine with hesitation. "I don't know how to drink wine," she admitted honestly, her voice a little embarrassed.
Serena burst out laughing, the bright peal of it ringing out amid the lively noise of the banquet. "You should get used to the taste of wine," she urged. "After all, Father is bound to take you to other parties in the future!"
Emma hesitated a moment longer, then slowly reached out and took the glass from Serena's hand. Maybe I should try to fit in a little more. It's only a glass of wine, after all. She had no idea that this very thought would push her life down a path with no turning back.
Serena smiled brightly, raising her own glass to clink lightly against Emma's, then brought it to her lips and drank a sip with visible relish. Emma still hesitated, looking down at the glass in her own hand. Serena glanced at her, a flicker of unconcealed impatience crossing her eyes.
"Go on and drink!" Serena urged, her voice still sweet as honey. "It's not as though I've put poison in it!"
Emma pressed her lips together, then lifted the glass and took a small sip. The sharp burn of the wine spread through her throat, making her grimace as she swallowed it down with discomfort.
"You really don't know how to enjoy yourself," Serena said with a scornful little laugh, hiding a flash of triumph in her eyes.
Only moments later, Emma felt her head begin to spin. She set the glass down on the table, her cheeks flushing with an unnatural heat, and shook her head a few times trying to clear it, but it was no use; the dizziness only grew heavier.
Serena watched her with a look of feigned concern. "What's wrong with you, sister?"
"I feel a little dizzy," Emma answered, her voice bewildered, a hand pressed to her head.
"You must be drunk!" Serena said, a glint flashing in her eyes that Emma, in her dizziness, could not make sense of. "Let me have someone take you to rest."
Serena turned and signaled to a maidservant standing nearby. The maid hurried over and bowed respectfully. Serena took hold of Emma's arm, helping her to her feet, and spoke to the servant in a gentle, instructive tone.
"Take my sister to one of the guest rooms to rest."
"Understood, my lady," the servant replied, bowing her head respectfully.
Emma stumbled and gripped the servant's hand, letting herself be led out of the banquet hall, no longer clear headed enough to notice Serena's gaze following her back, the corner of her mouth curling into a sly, excited smile.
"Enjoy the gift I have prepared for you, Emma," Serena whispered to herself, that smile still fixed on her lips, as though she had just planted a seed whose poisonous bloom only she knew the shape of.
❖ ❖ ❖
The palace corridor blazed with light from the lamps hung along both walls, stone statues standing silently in the corners as though watching the unsteady footsteps of the two women pass. The servant guided Emma along, while Emma's mind grew hazier and her body burned in waves, as though a fire were smoldering beneath her skin.
Suddenly Emma stopped, frowning as she looked around her, a rare flash of clarity cutting through the fog in her mind. "Where are you taking me?"
"My lady, I am taking you to the guest chambers to rest," the servant answered, her voice still calm.
Emma looked around, the surroundings coming into sharper focus, and a wave of unease rose in her. "But this leads deeper into the palace!" she demanded, her gaze turning sharp and cold even through the haze still clouding her mind. "What are you up to?"
The servant's grip on her arm tightened, all trace of her earlier deference gone. "My lady is drunk. Let me guide you to rest."
That tightening grip, and the change in the servant's voice, made Emma's survival instinct flare up stronger than even the dizziness gnawing at her. She wrenched herself free in a panic, throwing what strength remained into shoving the servant to the ground, then stumbled off in a run, with no idea where she was headed, only that she had to run, as far from that place as she could get.
Emma ran on and on until she found herself lost in a dark garden, her hand pressed to her head, her gaze unfocused, stumbling among unfamiliar flower beds. Where is this? Have I lost my way? She murmured, her voice trembling. "I feel so wrong! My body is burning up!"
And then she collided with a man, his cheeks flushed, his breath coming fast and uncontrolled. Emma stumbled backward, but an arm caught her in time, wrapping around her waist and drawing her close against his warm chest.
"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice strangely gentle.
Emma and the man gazed at each other, lost in desire, every last guard down. Her hand came to rest on his chest, stroking slowly. His hand tightened around her waist. He bent and kissed her lips, and they held each other, kissing fiercely in the empty garden, beneath the full moon still hanging round and whole overhead, bearing full witness to that fated moment for the second time in Emma's fragmented memory.
❖ ❖ ❖
The memory broke off there, pulling Emma back to the present, sitting numbly amid the dew soaked grass, her eyes fixed on the man still sleeping beside her. Every last piece had finally fallen into place to form a complete picture, and that picture made her clench her jaw, her fists tightening with fury.
"She dared to drug me with a love potion!" Emma's voice shook with both fury and fear. "I have to get out of here quickly!"
No one can see me like this. No one can ever find out what happened last night. She quickly pulled the cloak tight around herself and got to her feet, her body still weak and unsteady. The necklace with its blue crystal pendant shaped like a half moon, the only keepsake her mother had left her, lay quietly in the grass beside the sleeping man's hand, unnoticed by her. She spared him only one last glance, a look tangled with panic and a vague regret she could not explain even to herself, then turned and left the garden, vanishing into the darkness.
❖ ❖ ❖
Kael came rushing into the garden not long after, calling out his prince's name as he ran. The sight before him made him freeze for half a heartbeat: Henry lay motionless on the grass, shirtless, his sculpted abdomen bared. Kael bolted forward in alarm, snatching up the cloak lying nearby and draping it over Henry's body.
"Your Highness!" Kael called, shaking him, his voice full of alarm. "Wake up, Your Highness. What happened to you?"
Henry's eyes slowly opened, and he sat bolt upright, one hand rising to rub his head, his brows drawn tight against a dull throbbing pain at his temple. He looked down at the cloak draped loosely over him, his expression no less bewildered than Kael's.
What happened to me? Why is there nothing but a blank space in my mind...
"Did you see a girl leaving here just now?" Henry asked, his voice still hoarse.
Kael stared at him blankly. "I didn't see anyone, Your Highness!"
Henry rubbed at his temple, trying to conjure up some shape, some face, anything that might help him remember. But it was useless. "I cannot recall her face," he admitted, his voice carrying a helplessness he rarely let show in front of his men.
His gaze suddenly caught on something in the grass, a small necklace with a blue crystal pendant shaped like a half moon, lying quietly among the dew soaked blades. Henry bent down, picked it up, and studied it in his palm, his fingers closing around the small piece of jewelry as though it were the only remaining clue to a night that had slipped entirely from his memory.
"I must find her," he commanded, his voice hardening with resolve.
"As you command," Kael replied, bowing his head.
Henry stared out toward the horizon, slowly brightening with the coming dawn, his eyes holding not only confusion but a simmering anger. Someone stripped me of my reason, stole an entire night I cannot even remember. Whoever did this will pay for it.
"Find out who drugged me today," Henry said, his voice cold as ice. "Whoever did this will die for it."
His hand closed tight around the necklace in his palm, as though holding on to a vow of his own making. He did not know that the very girl this necklace would lead him to search for in the years to come had been driven into his arms the night before by that same love potion, the two of them made into pawns in a game neither of them had even realized they were playing.
❖ ❖ ❖
Seven years passed, long enough for a wound to close over, but not long enough to erase the scar left beneath.
That morning began like every other morning of the past seven years, slow and quiet, with no sign at all that it would be the last peaceful morning of the life Emma had worked so hard to build. She woke before the rooster's crow, a habit ingrained since the very first day she had set foot in this remote village, when she had still carried a small life inside her and owned nothing but a single cloth bag and a few spare coins. The village lay tucked behind a low ridge of hills, far from any of the major roads leading back to the capital, remote enough that no one had ever bothered to question a young woman arriving alone and pregnant to settle there, and peaceful enough that she had been able to raise her son without ever having to look back over her shoulder.
Seven years now. I've come such a long way, farther than I ever thought I could bear.
She pinned her hair up neatly and put on a simple, coarse spun dress faded with the years, then went out to the back yard to lay out the herbs she had gathered the day before to dry in the sun, her fingers brushing over each familiar leaf as though turning the pages of her own life's diary. This plant treated fever, that one stopped bleeding, and that one vivid green leaf, the only one that reacted to the strange power flowing through her blood, was used to strengthen the potency of her most important remedies. No one in the village knew why this young healer's hands were so skilled at curing illness; they only knew to come to her whenever they fell sick, and she was always there.
Emma's small clinic sat tucked away at the end of the village road, a plain but cozy wooden house. Inside, an old wooden desk holding her ledgers stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by wooden shelves stacked with the herbs she had gathered and dried with her own hands over the past seven years, arranged in an order that only she understood. In one corner stood a small bed with clean, coarse spun sheets, kept for patients too ill to be treated standing up. The scent of herbs hung faintly in the air, mingling with the smell of damp wood and the morning sun slanting in through the open window, a scent so familiar to Emma now that it had become almost a part of her own breath, the one remaining fragrance from a life she had taught herself to forget most of.
Outside her door, a row of long benches lined the wall, where three women in the plain long dresses of commoners sat waiting their turn. An older woman sat hunched over, clutching her stomach, letting out a soft groan now and then from a dull, persistent pain. A younger one held a small child asleep on her shoulder, dark circles ringing her eyes from sleepless nights. The third sat the quietest of the three, fingers absently smoothing the hem of her dress, waiting with the patience of someone long accustomed to a hard life. Their murmured conversation blended with the birdsong outside the window, forming a familiar backdrop Emma had listened to for seven long years. This was the rhythm of life she had built for herself with her own two hands, a slow, quiet rhythm, in which she was no longer the daughter of a nobleman who had once worn a ball gown into a lavish royal court, nor the girl who had once fled in panic beneath a moonlit sky. Here, she was simply Emma, the healer the whole region had come to trust, and for her, that was enough.
Sometimes, in the rare quiet moments between tasks, Emma still wondered whether she was truly living a life of her own, or merely hiding behind the shell of a new name and a new profession, waiting for the day her past would come knocking. But each time the thought rose up, she pushed it aside with the same hands that had grown so used to healing others. As long as Amer is safe, as long as he has a peaceful childhood, nothing else matters anymore. That was the vow she repeated to herself every morning, like a daily prayer, enough to keep her hands from trembling whenever she picked up a knife to cut medicine, enough to keep her eyes steady in front of her patients, even though somewhere inside her there remained a nameless emptiness that seven years had never quite managed to fill.
She sat at her worktable, looking at the woman seated across from her, her face worn with exhaustion, the dark circles beneath her eyes betraying endless sleepless nights. Emma smiled gently to reassure her, resting her hand lightly over the woman's. A soft blue glow crept from her palm, spreading a soothing warmth over both their joined hands. Is this a gift, or a curse my mother left me? Emma sometimes still asked herself that, every time that strange power in her blood answered another person's pain.
She lowered her hand, looked up at the woman, and offered a gentle smile. "Don't worry, my lady. You're only suffering from exhaustion. You just need to nourish your body a little more."
In the corner of the room, little Amer, his soft dark hair slightly tousled, stood beside the medicine shelf, his small hands quickly gathering a handful of green herbs and dropping them into a large glass jar, shaking it firmly a few times exactly the way his mother had taught him. The jar flared briefly with a warm golden glow before fading out again, like a small trick of magic whose meaning only the two of them understood. Amer ran over to Emma, his eyes bright with pride, and placed two little green pills he had just taken from the jar into his mother's hand.
My son is growing up so fast. It feels like only yesterday he was a baby in my arms, and now he's helping me measure out medicine.
Emma took the two pills from her son's hand, ruffling his hair gently before placing the medicine into the woman's palm. "Take these two pills before your meal when you get home," she instructed.
The woman happily took the pills, bowed her thanks, and left, her face noticeably less troubled than when she had walked in. Emma watched her back disappear beyond the door, a small, familiar comfort rising in her chest, the one feeling that convinced her these seven years had not been lived in vain.
Seven years. Long enough for her to learn not to flinch anymore at the distant sound of hoofbeats, long enough for her to believe that the past she had left behind in that lavish royal palace had closed shut behind her for good. She rarely allowed herself to think about that moonlit night, about the stranger's face she had glimpsed clearly only once under the moon, about her mother's necklace that she had lost in her panicked flight. On certain nights, once Amer had fallen fast asleep, she would still quietly raise a hand to her neck, to the place where that necklace had once hung, and wonder whether that man still remembered anything of that night at all, or whether to him she had only ever been a faint shadow that had dissolved along with the wine.
No. I mustn't think about that anymore. I still have Amer. As long as he is safe and happy, that's enough.
She told herself this every time the old memories crept back, and today was no exception. She stood up, meaning to call in the next woman waiting outside the door, the morning sun streaming through the open window and gilding the whole small clinic in gold, everything as quiet as it had been every day before.
Until the pounding of hooves and the chaotic footfalls of an entire company of people rang out in the yard, tearing apart a peace that had gone undisturbed for seven straight years.
The three women waiting on the bench all startled and jumped to their feet at once, the young mother clutching her wailing child and scrambling to one side just as the clinic door was flung open without mercy. A company of royal soldiers in gleaming armor came storming in, their armor clanking against itself, filling a room that had only ever known the quiet of a pestle grinding herbs and birdsong drifting in from the porch. Emma shot up from her seat, the wooden chair beneath her toppling over with a dry clatter, her heart pounding in her chest, her bewildered eyes sweeping over the unfamiliar faces flooding in, a mother's instinct sending her gaze first to find Amer, and she saw her son still standing by the medicine shelf, his round eyes wide with both fear and curiosity.
What is happening? Why would royal soldiers come all the way out to a place this remote...
Behind the soldiers, Kael, in the uniform of a royal guard, his face etched with worry and exhaustion, held up Henry's unconscious body with one arm, his voice hoarse as he shouted for a healer and called back for more attendants to carry in supplies, the small room suddenly crammed full of bodies and noise. The man he supported wore the dignified attire of royalty, now caked with road dust and blood, the front of his cloak torn open in a long gash, a deep stab wound at his chest still seeping dark red blood, spreading across the fabric and staining even the arm of the guard struggling to keep him from collapsing. Their footsteps left faint trails of blood across the clinic floor, and the metallic scent of fresh blood mixed with the familiar smell of herbs, creating a strange odor that made Emma shudder involuntarily.
Emma froze in place, her entire body rigid, her eyes locked onto the pale, blood drained face of the unconscious man before her. A face she should have forgotten long ago, a face that surfaced only in fitful dreams she always fought to banish the moment she woke, a face she had once sworn to herself she would never allow herself to remember. But now, under the morning light pouring straight into her small clinic, that face reappeared with every feature unmistakably clear, impossible to deny, as though seven years of running had dissolved in the space of a single breath.
It's him...
In that instant, all the chaotic noise around Emma sank away into a distant haze, the soldiers calling to one another, Amer softly calling for his mother, Kael still shouting for her to save him, all of it blurred into indistinct sound before a single truth slamming straight into her heart. The memory of that full moon years ago, of the warmth of a stranger's body pressed against her own, of the necklace slipping from her neck to fall onto the dew soaked grass, all of it rushed back at once, relentless and unforgiving, giving her no time to prepare for any of it.
Emma stood stunned, her legs turned to stone, unable to tear her eyes from the man lying there barely breathing before her, the man she had quietly left behind beneath the moon seven years ago, carrying with her a secret she had believed she could bury for the rest of her life, a secret now lying motionless right in front of her, blood still pouring without pause from the wound in his chest, as though fate had decided the time had come for everything she had once buried to be laid bare again.
Kael was still shouting for her, his voice breaking with panic, begging her to act before it was too late, telling her this was an order that could not wait, that the life of an entire kingdom now hung on the tips of her fingers. But Emma remained frozen where she stood, unmoving, her ears ringing so that she could no longer make out a single word he said. Amer, sensing something was wrong in his mother's sudden stillness, crept closer, his small hand reaching for the hem of her skirt the way he always did for reassurance, his round eyes lifting to search his mother's face, then moving to the strange, bleeding man on the bed, with no idea that this man was the answer to a question he had never once dared to ask aloud.
It was only when her son's small hand tightened around the fabric of her skirt that Emma seemed to snap out of her daze, forcing her legs to move again, forcing her trembling hands to remember the profession she had spent seven hard years mastering. But even as she took her first steps toward the bed, where the man from that long ago moonlit night now fought for his life, one question kept echoing inside her, more persistent and more frightening than any wound before her eyes: whether fate bringing him back into her life this way was a miracle, or only the beginning of a new storm, one that would sweep away everything she had struggled for seven long years to build in order to protect her son.