The moon rose slowly over Ardyn, round and luminous, as if it had been polished just for the festival. Its light draped the city in a silvery glow, catching on the crystal lanterns strung between rooftops and reflecting off the shallow pools arranged along the streets. Everywhere Elara Wyncrest looked, the world shimmered in blue and white. And everywhere, voices buzzed with excitement.
It was the night of the Moonbinding Festival—
the night when threads awakened,
when lives changed,
when destiny reached down like a gentle hand.
But destiny had never reached for her.
Elara stood at the edge of the main terrace of her family estate, hands resting lightly on the carved stone railing as she watched people gather in the square below. The faint hum of lyres and flutes drifted from the musicians' platform, weaving in and out of the growing crowd. Children ran between adults with glowing paper lanterns shaped like stars. Couples held each other close, whispering hopes they were certain would come true.
She exhaled softly. If she listened closely, she could almost pretend the night didn't sting.
"Elara."
She didn't turn. The voice was familiar—steady, warm, impossible to ignore. Rowan stepped onto the terrace, his boots quiet against the mosaic tiles. The golden embroidery on his midnight cloak caught the moonlight like threads of fire.
"You vanished," he said. "Again."
"I needed air." Her tone was gentle, not defensive. Rowan didn't deserve her walls. He only wanted to help.
He came to stand beside her, following her gaze toward the crowd. "You know," he murmured, "you're allowed to enjoy the festival even if—"
"Even if my thread never glows," she finished for him.
Rowan didn't deny it. He only sighed, folding his arms over the railing. "I hate how much this night hurts you."
Elara managed a faint smile. "Not everything is meant for everyone."
"That's nonsense." He shot her a look—sharp, earnest, as stubborn as the boy he'd once been. "You've spent your whole life helping others find their path. If fate had any sense, it would have sent someone stumbling into yours by now."
Elara let her fingers glide absently across her collarbone, where the moon-thread should have rested—an invisible, ancient tether that remained cold and quiet inside her. "Some of us aren't written into the story of destiny."
Rowan opened his mouth to argue, but the sudden sound of drums rolling through the square cut him off. The crowd shifted, voices rising with anticipation. The air itself seemed to vibrate.
"It's starting," he murmured.
Lanterns dimmed in unison. The moon brightened. And silence swept across the square like a tide.
Every year, this moment marked the awakening. People closed their eyes, hands lifted to their chests where their threads lay dormant. Some prayed. Some trembled. Some smiled through tears.
Elara watched from above as the first glimmers appeared—soft sparks of light blooming on people's skin, threads awakening like fireflies emerging from sleep. The lights stretched outward, weaving through the air, drifting toward the one they were meant for.
Gasps rose. Laughter. Sobs of relief.
A young girl cried as her thread connected to a boy she had known all her life. An elderly man fell to his knees when his long-silent thread flickered to life after decades. The crowd cheered, surrounding him with joy.
It was beautiful.
Painful.
And impossibly distant.
Elara swallowed the familiar tightness in her throat. She told herself it didn't matter. That she had accepted her place long ago. That she wasn't searching for anything tonight.
But as the threads brightened everywhere around her, her chest felt unbearably hollow.
Rowan reached for her hand. "Elara—"
Before he could finish, the ground shuddered.
Just slightly—barely enough for anyone in the square to notice amid the celebration—but Elara felt it. A pulse beneath the earth. A tremor in the air. As if something ancient had stirred at the edge of her perception.
Her breath caught.
The moon dimmed for the briefest heartbeat. The wind shifted direction. And deep in the center of her chest—
A spark.
Not a glow. Not a flare.
A spark.
A warmth she had never felt before flickered just under her skin, like the first breath of a dormant flame.
Her hand flew to her sternum.
Rowan stared. "Elara?"
She couldn't answer.
The warmth deepened. A thread—thin, faint, trembling—slid into existence beneath her skin, glowing as softly as the last light of dusk. She felt it tug, not outward into the city, but somewhere deeper, farther, beyond the square, beyond the crowd, toward the darkened hill at the edge of Ardyn.
Impossible.
Her heart pounded so hard she felt lightheaded. Her knees weakened. She had imagined this moment a thousand times, each time with hope carefully rationed, each time letting herself dream only for a moment before logic snuffed it out.
But this—
this was real.
"Elara, breathe."
She shook her head slowly. "Rowan… it's happening."
His eyes widened. Joy and disbelief warred across his face. "Then go. Follow it."
But she couldn't move. The glow was faint—too faint. Moon-threads were supposed to shine brightly, unmistakably, but hers flickered like it wasn't sure it had the right to exist.
What if it vanished?
What if it was a mistake?
What if fate was mocking her?
The thread pulsed again. Urgent. Pulling her toward the shadows beyond the square.
"Elara." Rowan's voice gentled. "You've waited your whole life for this."
Her breath trembled. "I'm afraid."
"I know." He squeezed her hand. "But go anyway."
For a long moment, Elara stood frozen in the silver-blue glow of the festival, surrounded by joy that was no longer distant but overwhelming. Her thread tugged again—firmer, insisting.
And she took her first step.
Down the terrace stairs.
Through the crowd.
Past the glowing lanterns and the music and the laughter.
The thread pulled her toward the dark edges of the city where the festival lights no longer reached.
Toward the abandoned hill where no one ventured at night.
Toward the figure standing alone beneath the twisted yew tree—
a man with silver hair that caught the moon like a blade,
eyes shadowed beneath a hood,
and an aura that felt colder than the night itself.
He lifted his head.
And in that moment, her thread blazed.
Not bright—
but undeniable.
His eyes widened, a flicker of something sharp and startled breaking through the darkness around him.
As if he, too, felt the pull.
As if he, too, recognized her.
Elara's breath hitched.
He stepped forward.
Just once.
Enough for moonlight to catch the scars along his jaw and the cold fire in his gaze.
"Don't come closer," he said—quiet, low, and dangerous.
But her thread pulled again, brightening despite his warning.
And Elara understood one thing with absolute clarity:
Destiny had not forgotten her.
It had simply waited for the wrong man—
or the most dangerous one.
Either way, her life had just changed forever.
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