Moonlit Vows Of Vengeance

Chapter 119: Revelations

The court gala had quieted into a ghost of itself, its echoes still haunting the floors by the time I returned to my chambers.

The dress clung to me like armor I couldn’t peel off. I stood at the mirror, fingers trembling as I unclasped the last pin from my hair. I had smiled through every insult tonight, every backhanded toast and whispered speculation. They thought they could break me by confirming what I already knew—that I wasn’t divine anymore.

But gods didn’t need approval to exist. And queens didn’t need permission to rule.

A knock came—soft, rhythmic. Familiar.

"Kieran," I called, already sensing his presence.

He entered without waiting. His tunic was undone at the collar, his expression grim.

"We found Marin’s accomplice," he said. "A steward named Halrik. He tried to flee the estate under disguise."

I faced him fully. "Did he talk?"

Kieran nodded, but there was something in his face that unsettled me. "He did. Before he tried to bite down on a death rune. Fiona stopped him in time."

I inhaled. "And?"

"He said Marin was never truly Hollow Crescent. She was deeper. Older. She served someone called the Crimson Wolf." noveldrama

The name felt like a blade dragging across memory. "That’s not a name," I murmured. "It’s a title. One that hasn’t been spoken in centuries."

"I thought it was a myth," Kieran said. "But Halrik swore it wasn’t. He said the Crimson Wolf is already within our borders. Watching. Preparing."

I moved to the window, staring out into the midnight stretch of the kingdom. "How long?"

"Unknown," he replied. "But if Marin was placed here before you even returned, this plot could be decades old."

"Caelum," I whispered. "He’s moving through other players. He’s preparing for war, not just in the divine realm—but in this one."

Kieran stepped closer. "You’ve always known it wouldn’t end with one throne reclaimed."

My reflection in the window was unfamiliar now—part girl, part goddess, part shell. "We’re still vulnerable. Too many still question me. They see my silence at the Wolfstone as weakness."

"They forget that silence can come before a scream."

I turned to him then, something raw flashing through me. "We need a list. Every house with ties to the old Crescent line. Anyone who’s vanished in the last year. Any child born under the blood moon."

His brows lifted. "Children?"

"If they’re bringing back the Crimson Wolf, they might not just be reviving old loyalties," I said. "They might be crafting a host."

A knock at the door cut through the rising tension. This time it was a servant.

"My lady," she said breathlessly, bowing. "The prisoner is awake."

"Which prisoner?"

"The one from the southern dungeon," she said. "The assassin. He’s asked for you directly."

I exchanged a look with Kieran.

The dungeon beneath the palace was cold, despite the braziers that burned along the stone corridors. It smelled of damp metal and mold, and the walls echoed with the distant cries of those who’d already broken.

The assassin sat chained to the wall, his wrists bruised from resistance. But he looked... amused. Like someone who had long expected this moment to come.

"Queen Athena," he greeted, as though we were meeting for tea. "I was wondering when you’d visit me."

I remained standing, arms crossed. "You’re lucky you still have a tongue to speak with."

"I won’t for long," he said, smile sharp. "They always come to claim what they fear I’ll reveal."

"You tried to kill me."

"No," he said slowly. "I was never meant to kill you. I was meant to fail."

The silence between us snapped like a taut thread.

"You wanted to be caught."

"Not wanted," he said. "Planned. You needed a warning, Moon Queen. One you couldn’t ignore. One to rattle your court, expose your cracks."

"Who sent you?"

He chuckled. "You already know. He walks between gods and monsters now. And he’s not alone anymore."

I stepped closer. "You said ’they always come.’ Who are they?"

The assassin’s gaze flicked to the shadows. "The beasts you abandoned when you became something greater."

My breath caught. "You’re talking about the exiled."

"They’re coming back," he whispered. Some want you."

That stopped me cold.

"You’re lying."

He laughed, hoarse and bitter. "Then why are you shaking?"

Kieran placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Enough. We’ll extract what we can from him."

As we turned to leave, the assassin called out one last thing. "You don’t have time to choose who you want to be anymore"

Back in my chambers, I couldn’t sleep.

The shadows under my eyes had become permanent. The lines around my mouth, deeper. I touched the place just above my heart where I used to feel power stir like a second soul.

Nothing.

But something was coming. The Crimson Wolf. The exiled gods. Caelum.

All threads in a tapestry I hadn’t woven—but would have to finish.

I didn’t know what I would become to survive it.

But I knew I wouldn’t survive it as I was.

Not anymore.

Tomorrow, I would call a summit.

If they wanted a war of power, I would show them power could be born not just from divinity—but from unity. From fury. From every piece of me that refused to kneel.

The firelight in my chamber danced low across the walls, casting long shadows. The halls outside had gone quiet—no footsteps, no council murmurs, no whispered threats. Just silence. For once.

Kieran hadn’t spoken since we returned from the dungeon. He stood by the hearth, one arm braced above the mantle, the firelight catching in his silver-streaked hair. His jaw was clenched, his back taut, but I could feel the storm within him even from across the room.

I stood near the window, staring out at the moonlight brushing across the rooftops of the rebuilt palace. I should have been thinking of the Crimson Wolf. Of Caelum. Of the next move. But all I could think about was how tired I was of always being made of stone.

"You’re quiet," I said finally.

He turned slowly, eyes dark and unreadable. "You’ve been holding yourself together by sheer force of will."

"You think I’ll fall apart now?"

"No." He walked toward me, each step deliberate. "I think you deserve something softer. Even for just one night."

I looked at him—truly looked—and felt the pressure I had been holding inside crack. My composure, my queenly mask, all the iron I’d wrapped around myself to keep from crumbling.

"I’m scared," I admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

"So am I," he said, close enough now that I could feel his breath against my skin. "But not of them. Not of war. I’m scared of losing what little of you I’ve managed to keep near."

I swallowed, throat tight. "You never asked me for anything. Never pushed."

"I didn’t want to break what was already shattered."

"But I’m still here."

His fingers brushed against my cheek, then slid down to cup my jaw. "And you don’t have to carry it alone ever."

I didn’t answer with words.

I leaned into him, slow and certain, my mouth finding his in a kiss that was not rushed or desperate—but aching. Honest.

Kieran responded with a quiet groan, pulling me into him like he had waited too long. Like he hadn’t dared to hope I would ever reach for him like this.

We stumbled back together toward the bed, our mouths locked, breath growing heavier. I tugged at the clasps of his tunic, feeling the muscles beneath flex as he peeled the fabric away and tossed it aside. My dress followed, layers slipping off me like falling petals, until I stood bare under the moonlight with only his gaze holding me still.

He paused, looking at me like I was something sacred and breakable. "You’re beautiful even when you bleed."

I pulled him down to me, hands tangled in his hair. "Then make me forget the war."

Our bodies met like they had always known each other. No hesitation. No guilt.

His weight above me was a comfort, not a burden. His hands slid over my hips, down my thighs, worshipping every inch like he was memorizing the way I felt under him. When he finally entered me, it was slow, deep, and devastatingly intimate.

I gasped, gripping his shoulders, my back arching into him.

Kieran held still, eyes locked on mine. "I need to see you."

"I’m not going anywhere," I whispered.

He began to move—long, rhythmic strokes that lit fires under my skin. We moved together like we had done this a thousand times in another life. No rush. No frantic need. Just this slow-burning pull, this gravity between us that refused to break.

His lips moved across my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my breast. I let my head fall back, moaning softly as waves of sensation built and broke across my body.

"You’re trembling," he murmured.

"Mmh," I gasped.

His hand slipped between us, fingers brushing against the place that made me cry out. I clenched around him, hips rising, chasing that edge. He pressed his forehead against mine, breath ragged.

"I’m close," he whispered.

"Don’t stop."

When I finally shattered, it was with a cry into his shoulder, my nails digging into his skin. He followed soon after, spilling inside me with a hoarse groan, his arms tightening around my waist like he didn’t want to let go.

We lay tangled together, breathless and flushed.