Chapter 8: The Moon That Watches
The world beneath the moon had long since quieted, yet one small figure remained awake.
Atop the terrace of the Grand Duke's sprawling estate—far above the city lights and noise—an 11-year-old boy sat alone. His eyes, sharper and colder than they should be for a child, stared upward. The moonlight gently kissed his pale skin, illuminating his silver-white hair and the crimson irises that burned with silent intensity.
Sirius Farah Von Ross.
To the world, he was the only son of the most powerful man in the empire. The child of the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess—two living legends. To his tutors, he was a prodigy. A quiet boy, curious yet composed, maturing far beyond his years.
But to the moon, he was something else entirely.
He sat cross-legged on the stone tiles, parchment scattered around him. Ink-stained fingertips gripped a pen, dipping it into a nearby bottle as he wrote in silence. Line after line flowed from his thoughts like a forgotten rhythm being recalled from centuries ago.
He never titled these poems. There was no need to.
"The moon rises not in haste,
but with the grace of something eternal.
Its glow touches me, yet I remain untouched,
as though it remembers more than I have forgotten."
Each night, he wrote something new. Words he never read aloud. Words no one else ever saw. Beneath the same sky where she had once held him, where her voice had whispered ancient promises.
He didn't say her name. Not even in his mind. The moon was enough. The moon was her.
When he finished writing, he laid the parchment aside and picked up a charcoal pencil. With practiced ease, he drew. Always the moon—sometimes full, sometimes waning—sometimes hidden behind clouds, sometimes reflecting over water. Each sketch carried a mood. A longing. A silence that screamed for something lost.
His parents had noticed his habit long ago. "He finds the moon beautiful," they said with gentle smiles. "Many do."
They weren't wrong. Across the empire, moon worship was common. After all, the Moon Goddess was the second strongest of the Five Divine—believed to offer hope, stillness, and peace. The Moon Church had followers in every province, and when Sirius turned eleven, his mother had softly asked one night at dinner:
"Would you like to visit the Moon Church someday, my son?"
Sirius had paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. A strange, unreadable flicker passed through his eyes.
"Maybe," he said, quietly.
His father hadn't pushed the topic. The Grand Duke, sharp and unreadable in his own right, only nodded.
Later that night, Sirius returned to the terrace. The moon was high.
He whispered, not in longing, but in promise.
"One day…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
The night wind carried his intent.
He remained there until sleep took him. His small frame leaned against the terrace railing, moonlight still shining down like a memory not yet lost.