In Cairnreach, the moon never set.

  Snow fell in a kingdom where the sun was a rumour told by foreigners. It drifted endlessly, soundless and pale, piling against stone and iron until even footsteps seemed swallowed by it. Moonlight glazed the towers and streets as though the world had been sealed beneath glass—untouchable, preserved, cold.

  Beneath that light, the king was dying.

  Seraphiel sat at a polished desk, his feet not quite touching the floor. The wood was cold even through his sleeves, and the room smelled faintly of old paper and wax that had burned too many nights in a row. Somewhere beyond the walls, wind pressed against the palace like a patient hand.

  "Seraphiel," his tutor said, tapping the table with a thin finger, "you must keep your thoughts here, not wandering in the clouds."

  The tapping echoed too loudly. Seraphiel blinked and looked up.

  He was young—fourteen, perhaps sixteen—and thin in the way of children raised indoors. One eye regarded the tutor attentively, dark and reflective. The other was simply not there. The socket was smooth and unscarred, as though something essential had been forgotten at birth rather than taken.

  "I am listening," Seraphiel replied. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. "You were explaining the crown."

  The tutor sniffed. "The rite, not the crown. Words matter."

  He slammed a leather-bound tome onto the desk. Dust scattered into the air, making Seraphiel's nose itch. A dark, coppery stain marked the cover, dulled by age but never quite fading.

  "There are three orders in Cairnreach," the tutor continued. "Nobles. Royal auxiliaries. And royalty itself. Each is chosen. Each pays accordingly.”

  Seraphiel's gaze drifted—not to the book, but to his reflection in the polished wood. He tilted his head slightly, watching how the candlelight slid past the hollow where his other eye should have been.

  "Our ancestors," the tutor went on, "struck a bargain when Cairnreach was founded. They asked for the moon's veil and the snow that preserves all things. They wanted beauty beyond decay."

  The word beauty lingered unpleasantly.

  "And what was taken?" Seraphiel asked quietly.

  The tutor smiled, pleased, as though this were a test finally answered correctly. "A defining human feature. Each of blessed blood lacks something. Fingers. Teeth. Sight. Something greater, the higher one stands."

  Seraphiel lifted a hand and touched the edge of his eye socket. The skin there was always cool, no matter how warm the room became. He lowered his hand without comment.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "No one knows who the pact was made with," the tutor added. "But the crown speaks with authority. Perhaps it is the same entity. Perhaps not. What matters is obedience."

  Soft footsteps interrupted him—irregular, hesitant, out of rhythm with the palace's usual precision.

  A man entered the room. Frail. Sightless. Mute. His breathing rasped faintly as he crossed the floor. He knelt with care and slid a letter forward with trembling hands, the paper whispering against stone.

  The tutor broke the seal.

  "The king is dead."

  The words did not echo. They did not need to. They settled into the room like ash, dulling the air.

  The funeral came quickly. Too quickly.

  Seraphiel remembered flashes: the smell of incense burned too strong, the way snow melted against silk and darkened it, the weight of stillness pressing on his chest while voices droned words he had memorized long ago. He watched the coffin disappear beneath layers of white and felt nothing at all—except a certainty that sat heavy and unmovable in his stomach.

  I am not ready.

  The crown would not wait.

  That night, the palace felt emptier. Corridors stretched longer than they should have, and every footstep sounded like an intrusion. Seraphiel stood outside the king's chambers. The door was ajar, and pale moonlight spilled across the threshold, sharp enough to hurt his eye.

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  "You cannot enter," the frail man whispered hoarsely. "This is the king's chamber."

  The grip was weak. Cold.

  "I am the king," Seraphiel said, shaking him off. His heart was beating too fast now. "Move.”

  He stepped inside.

  Someone was seated on the throne.

  The figure wore the crown.

  The air was dead-cold—not winter cold, but absence. A hollow chill that seemed to leach warmth from bone and breath alike. Seraphiel's chest tightened. He could hear his own pulse, loud and uneven.

  The crown was known to kill pretenders. It crushed skulls, burned flesh, split bone. Only blood heirs could survive it.

  Guards surged forward. Hands seized his arms. He did not resist. The stone floor scraped his palms as he was dragged back, the cold biting through skin and cloth.

  "You are no longer royal," one of them said, voice flat. "The crown has granted your wish."

  Seraphiel laughed. The sound tore out of him, sharp and hysterical, wrong in the quiet hall. "What wish?"

  They threw him into the courtyard.

  The snow there was deeper, uneven. He stumbled and fell hard, the shock knocking the breath from his lungs.

  "No commoners on the grounds."

  The gates slammed shut with a sound like finality.

  The parade began before dawn.

  Music echoed through the streets—bright, shrill, too loud. Banners snapped in the wind as they were raised for a king no one had seen. Seraphiel stood among the crowd, shivering—not from cold, but from sensation.

  Everything was too much.

  Colors were sharper, bleeding into one another. Sounds overlapped until his head ached. The smell of bodies, metal, smoke, and snow churned his stomach. He pressed a hand to his face, breathing shallowly.

  Then he understood.

  He realized what had been taken from him all his life.

  A man appeared on a balcony.

  "A message from the king," the representative announced. "There will be no banquet. Supplies are… limited."

  The crowd murmured, restless.

  "And the king calls for volunteers. Medical research. One hundred crowns a year. Lodging provided."

  The gates burst open. Young men surged forward, boots slipping in snow, voices raised with hope or desperation.

  Seraphiel did not move.

  There were no dormitories. No surplus. The crown did not lie.

  Something was wrong.

  As the crowd swallowed the volunteers, the representative added softly, almost reverently, "The king lives again. And forevermore."

  No one listened.

  Seraphiel stood alone beneath the moon—one-eyed, dethroned, and finally whole—just in time to understand what that truly meant.