The Moon Court rose from the valley like a mausoleum dressed for worship.
Black spires pierced the sky like needles. Stone dragons coiled around silken flags, their mouths stitched shut with gold. The air was thin here — not cold, but sharp. Breathing it felt like swallowing snow dusted with blood.
Yue stood at the edge of the great outer gates.
They were taller than she imagined. Taller than memory. Taller than stories.
Carved not of wood or steel—but bone.
And inlaid with imperial jade.
The bones were bleached to a ghostly white — curved femurs, ribs, and spines stacked into columns like art. Not beast bones. Not animal.
Human.
The jade glimmered between them in narrow, elegant veins. A symbol, perhaps — purity pressing between the remains of those who lacked it.
Rin stood beside her, quiet.
Not touching. Not speaking. Just watching the guards, who watched him.
Six of them. Dressed in mirrored armor, their faces masked by silk. Each held a crescent-blade spear tipped in something darker than iron. But when Rin stepped forward, only slightly—
Three flinched.
The fourth dropped to one knee.
The other two stood still, unmoving, as if even blinking might offend him.
Yue's lips parted.
He hadn't spoken. Hadn't raised a hand.
He simply existed.
And that was enough.
Rin turned to look back at her. The gold in his eyes flickered with faint amusement.
"Do you want to go in first?" he asked.
Her pulse skipped.
"No," she said. "Let them look at you first."
He didn't smile. But his silence said he approved.
The gates opened without a word — no horn, no ceremony. Just the groaning of old bone on iron.
Yue stepped through second.
And as she did, she felt it:
A pressure in the air. A ripple under her skin.
The court's blood.
It pressed against her Vein like a grinding stone, trying to scrape her clean.
She staggered. For just a second.
No one reached for her.
No one spoke.
Except a voice ahead — female, clipped, highborn.
"May the child be beautiful," the woman said, approaching in a column of perfume and pearls.
Then, as if it were routine, she placed one silk-gloved hand gently on Yue's belly.
Yue slapped it away.
The woman didn't react. She turned and walked off, robes trailing behind her.
"Even," she said over her shoulder, "if the mother is not."
Yue stared after her, breath shaking.
Rin walked past her now, slow and easy. He looked down at the woman as he passed.
She didn't flinch—but she did stop walking.
Only after Rin was gone did she breathe again.
The moment Yue stepped inside the court's inner walls, something changed.
It wasn't the silence — that had already settled over everything like fog.
It wasn't the cold — though the wind that whispered through the towered walkways was bitter, despite the lanterns that lined every path.
It was something older.
Heavier.
A presence.
The very air felt watched.
The tiles beneath her feet were smooth, carved from mountain pearlstone. The trees, pruned into tight spirals, bore no leaves. Even the shadows looked designed — long, elegant, angled just so. Everything here was balanced. Curated.
But what pressed most against her was the scent.
Not perfume.
Blood.
Not fresh — cultivated. The Moon Court was built on veins. Every stone, every wall, carried residue from centuries of rituals. Her own bloodline—fragmented, undocumented, unfit—shuddered in its presence.
Her legs trembled.
She felt something under her ribs shift. Her skin tightened. The brand on her neck twitched like an open eye.
Her Vein was reacting.
She staggered slightly, placing a hand on her abdomen without meaning to.
Behind her, Rin slowed but didn't speak. He didn't need to. She could feel his attention land on her like weight.
Then came the voice.
Another woman. This one younger. Dressed in white silk layered with red embroidery — imperial court bloom patterns.
She stepped in front of Yue without bowing, without blinking.
"You smell raw," she said. "Like a slit vein. You should cover that. The elders will think you're still leaking."
Yue blinked.
Then the girl smiled, leaned close, and inhaled beside her cheek.
"New blood," she whispered. "I wonder if it'll shine."
Yue said nothing. She forced herself to breathe evenly. Her knuckles were pale on her robe.
The girl reached out — casually — and touched Yue's belly.
Again.
This time, not gently. Not reverently.
Possessively.
Rin moved.
Fast.
One step, and the girl's wrist was in his hand.
No noise. No warning.
He didn't squeeze. Didn't twist. Just held her. Firm. Inevitable.
The girl blinked. The smile flickered.
"You must be the dog," she said.
Rin didn't blink.
"I don't speak to meat," he said.
Then he let go.
The girl stumbled back a half-step and caught herself. Her face changed—like a curtain dropping. She turned, brushing imaginary dust from her robes, and walked away with no further glance.
Yue stared after her.
"You didn't hurt her," she said, voice low.
"No," Rin replied. "She's already marked. She's not mine to break."
Yue looked at him sharply.
But he was already walking again, toward the deeper gates.
The corridor that led to the central court was so silent it seemed to hum.
Every servant they passed bowed without sound. No one made eye contact. No one acknowledged Yue—not even with a glance.
But she felt them looking.
Not at her.
At her stomach.
She almost wanted to cover it with her hands, but refused to give them the satisfaction.
They arrived at a chamber shaped like a teardrop — narrow at the entrance, widening toward the far end, where a raised platform held only a single kneeling cushion and a black lacquer desk.
A man stood behind it.
Old, pale, draped in silk robes the color of bruises. His eyes were milky white—blind—but his expression gave nothing away. A long braid hung over one shoulder, dusted in powder. His fingernails were dipped in ink.
He did not bow.
He did not smile.
He simply said:
"Sit."
Yue didn't move.
Rin stood behind her, silent.
"Chamberlain Shun," the old man said, gesturing to himself. "Mouth of the Empress Dowager. I manage the mortal logistics of the Moon Womb Accord."
"The what?" Yue asked.
He tilted his head.
"The housing of sacred bearers," he clarified. "That is what you are."
"I'm not—"
"You are," he interrupted. "Or you wouldn't be breathing."
Yue's fists clenched. "Where are you putting me?"
He slid a slip of silk paper across the desk. It was blank.
"You will reside in the Vein-Womb Pavilion. It's quiet. Secure. Mostly sealed."
"Mostly?" she repeated.
Shun did not smile, but she could hear it in his voice.
"You'll be monitored, of course. No fire will be permitted. No mirrors above the waist. No salt. No live meat. All meals must be boiled twice. All waste must be sealed in wax."
She stared.
"Your blood must be recorded daily. Color. Texture. Volume. If it smells like peach skin, you must report immediately."
"You think I'm going to obey that?"
"You think you have a choice?"
Yue's mouth opened—and closed.
"Rin may not sleep inside your room," Shun added. "But he will be assigned a threshold position. For now. Until he breaks someone."
"I'm not staying there."
"You are," he said simply.
She stood taller. "And if I walk away?"
"Then you are no longer sacred." He turned his blind eyes toward her. "And the court has no use for unclaimed meat."
She didn't flinch. Not visibly.
But inside, something in her twisted.
Not in fear.
Not in shame.
In fury.
A servant entered through a side door carrying a silver-bound scroll.
She did not meet Yue's eyes as she placed it at the edge of the lacquer desk and stepped away without a word.
Chamberlain Shun tapped the scroll once.
"This," he said, "is your daily protocol."
"I'm not signing anything," Yue snapped.
He ignored her.
"You are to remain in the Vein-Womb Pavilion until the Empress Dowager declares otherwise. No other consorts, heirs, or bearers are permitted within five body-lengths of your quarters."
Yue narrowed her eyes. "Because you're protecting me?"
"Because we are protecting them."
She blinked.
Shun's milky eyes didn't shift. "You carry something unpredictable. The child is not of court lineage. It is not of pure Vein. It is not known."
"And that scares you."
"It fascinates the Empress."
Yue stepped closer to the desk, jaw tight. "You think I'm a relic."
He nodded. "Perhaps. A vessel. A phenomenon. A puzzle. Certainly not a person."
Her fingers twitched. "You're honest."
"Blind men have no use for lies."
She turned to Rin, who stood silently a pace behind her. Watching. Still as stone.
"You're letting them do this?" she said.
He didn't speak.
Shun picked up the scroll and unrolled it with a snap.
"No fire in your rooms. The heat interferes with blood resonance.
No mirrors above the waist — Vein irregularities sometimes manifest in the face.
No salt in food or bath — it may corrode the mark.
No speaking between the third and fourth court bells — this is when your Vein will be tested through distance-induced fluctuation."
"I didn't agree to any of this," Yue said.
"You don't need to," Shun replied. "You're breathing. You're marked. And your womb is no longer your own."
Yue stepped back like she'd been slapped.
For a moment, the silence felt sharp.
Then Rin moved.
One step.
Chamberlain Shun went still. His head tilted—not with fear, but calculation.
"I would advise," he said calmly, "that the beast not interrupt court language. There are chains designed for creatures who forget the rules."
Rin didn't move again.
But something in the air darkened.
Yue looked at him. His jaw was clenched. His hands loose at his sides—but barely.
He was waiting.
Waiting for a word from her.
She said nothing.
She turned to Shun.
"I'll go to your Pavilion," she said. "But not because you tell me."
Shun gave a shallow bow of the head.
"I expected no less."
The walk to the Pavilion was long, but not quiet.
Not because anyone spoke.
But because of what they didn't.
The guards that flanked her wore half-masks of black jade, faces unreadable, voices absent. They moved like ghosts — choreographed and expressionless. Rin followed behind her without speaking, his steps soft but unmissable.
But it wasn't the soldiers that made Yue's pulse spike.
It was what she saw along the corridor.
Silk cages.
Dozens of them. Latticed with golden thread, standing tall as doors, wrapped in sheer gauze curtains that fluttered despite the still air. Inside each sat a woman.
Some stared straight ahead, blank-eyed, backs straight.
Others wept quietly.
And a few… smiled. At nothing.
Each wore layered robes, hands resting on slightly rounded bellies. Some were visibly further along. Some were barely marked.
Each bore a brand.
Not like hers.
Hers was a crescent moon, black and pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Theirs were silver vines, or flame knots, or inked glyphs that shimmered with obedience.
They looked like ornaments.
Like vases.
No — like livestock preened for display.
She passed one with hair like snow and a bandaged neck. The girl met Yue's gaze and blinked, slow.
"Glass," she mouthed, lips barely moving.
Yue stopped.
"What?"
The girl leaned slightly toward the silk.
"The glass consort," she said, voice soft and fragile. "The beast's girl."
Yue stared.
Others turned their heads now. Slowly. Carefully.
One clutched her belly tighter.
One tilted her head in what might've been envy.
"You're not supposed to walk," said one.
"You're not supposed to bleed," whispered another.
"What did you do to get a beast?" asked a third. "Was it pain? Or pleasure?"
A guard struck the bars of the cage. The voices went silent.
Yue kept walking.
Her mouth was dry.
At the far end, a grand arch opened into a private hallway — no silk, no guards. Only black stone and one wide door carved with a silver circle and a single crescent slash through it.
The symbol of a soulmark.
Her mark.
Her cell.
The door to her quarters swung open without a creak.
No guards stepped through. No one gestured.
They didn't need to.
She understood the signal:
Enter. Be quiet. Be grateful.
The room was enormous.
High ceilings with draped silk panels in muted silver and ash-blue. A sunken bathing pit steamed faintly in the far corner, ringed in candleless glass lanterns. A low table sat untouched beneath a tall window, which bore no view — only a lattice of wood and soft-filtered light.
But it was cold.
Not by temperature — by presence.
There was no warmth in the walls. No scent of woodsmoke. No echo to her steps. Every inch had been stripped of comfort, color, and softness.
Even the bed was low and flat, shrouded in sheer curtains embroidered not with flowers — but with glyphs.
She walked to the center of the room, arms stiff at her sides.
No mirror.
No fire.
No salt.
She knelt by the shallow water basin meant for cleansing and dipped her fingers in.
It was cool, not cold. Clean. Scentless.
She leaned over it and stared at her reflection.
The girl who looked back was pale, marked, and no longer uncertain.
Her eyes were too wide, her cheek still bruised, her lips chapped — but her gaze had sharpened. Somewhere in the distance between that broken palace and this sterile chamber, a piece of her had cracked open.
And what lay beneath was not afraid.
She touched her neck. The brand was darker now. Thicker. Alive.
"I don't belong to him," she whispered.
The mark didn't answer.
She dipped her hand in the basin again, this time letting the cool soak her wrist.
The silence stretched.
But through the quiet, something reached her.
Breathing.
Soft. Measured. From the other side of the door.
She stood, walked to it, and pressed her fingers lightly against the wood.
He was there.
She didn't need to see. She could feel it.
Rin.
Sitting. Watching. Breathing.
Just outside. Like a wall. Like a chain.
She leaned her forehead against the door and let her eyes close.
Only one word escaped her lips:
"Stay."
From the other side, he didn't speak.
But he didn't leave.
And the brand on her neck pulsed… once.