Ill Met By Moonlight

I can still vividly remember the day it all began, the moment I stepped into that mansion, marking the start of my downfall.  

Helen Wills’ delicate hands squeezed mine, and I could feel fear pulsing through my veins. Helen, my late mother's older sister, was one of the last living members of my family, of our lineage.  

I’m scared, Aunt Helen…” I whispered, my voice trembling. She shot me a stern look. 

"Stop with the nonsense, Camille,” she replied firmly. “We have no choice. There's no place for you in our home anymore. Your parents are dead, and you know your duty as an omega, as the last heir of the Larsens."  

I was just a child, but I understood the words coming out of Helen's mouth as if they were a spell. She repeated them every night before I went to sleep, as if trying to carve them into my mind. The survival of our lineage depended on procreation, but not with just anyone—only with the one who held the most power: an Alpha of the Imperial Viegas family.  

"From today onward, you will live with the family of the Counts Ingraf,” Helen announced, practically dragging me through the garden. “You will grow up with their daughters and learn their customs until the time for your marriage comes. As the last young woman of the Larsens, you must honor us.”  

She stopped abruptly, gripping my small, fragile arms tightly. Her eyes stared at me mercilessly.  

"The future of our family depends on you,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea how important this is? How proud your mother would be?"  

There wasn’t a single day that passed when I didn’t remember those words.

"Please, Your Majesty, stay awake… keep pushing, the baby will be born soon…" The midwife’s anxious voice dragged my consciousness back to the present, and I continued. I screamed, clutching the bedpost as I pushed. My body shook as if it would break; the pain was unbearable, too much to endure. Even though I had known this pain before, having gone through this hell several times, I knew it could get worse—there was no greater agony than holding your dead child in your arms.

I prayed for them every night, for them to be well with the Goddess.  

I prayed every day before I slept, pleading with the moon to bless me, to allow me to hear the lively cries of each child I carried in my womb. It was all I wanted because I knew I would only truly be happy when that happened.

"Push! I can see the head!" Everything around me felt tangled, my strength fading. The only thing keeping me conscious was him—my child—and the will to hold him in my arms.

My nails dug deeper into the wood with each contraction. When I thought I couldn’t make it, when I believed it was too late, I heard the sound I had longed for. It was as if the pain vanished along with the weight crushing my chest. I smiled, and the tears running down my face were no longer from pain.

“My son… My little one…” I whispered weakly, almost pleading, as I reached out to hold him. And when he was placed in my arms, I understood that what I was feeling was true love.

His cry was full of life, and his skin was rosy and healthy. My baby was alive, and he was strong—a beautiful, healthy boy, the next heir in the line of succession.

As soon as my eyes rested on him, I felt peace. His tiny eyes opened and then met mine. In that instant, he stopped crying. It was as if he recognized me, as if he knew who I was.

I wanted to smile, to laugh, to get up from that blood-soaked bed and dance with joy, but something was wrong—something I hadn’t noticed before, maybe because of the euphoria. Looking around again, more carefully, I saw the shocked expressions on everyone’s faces—the midwives, the priests, and the servants. Unlike me, they didn’t seem happy. Instead of smiles, their faces were marked with worry.

“Call His Imperial Majesty quickly… tell him his son is born…” The priest from the Temple of Oblyo spoke with a trembling voice, as if the words had scratched his throat. He turned to me, and then I felt it—the pain. It hadn’t gone away, and just looking at his anxious face made me even more certain that something was terribly wrong.

I closed my eyes, holding my son tightly against my body, feeling his warmth, his breath. I prayed again, pleading with the Goddess with all my might for everything to be alright, for her to heal me and allow me the joy of living with this blessed little being. But instead of her, it was that damned priest who came to me, snatching my little son from my arms as if he had never belonged to me.

“The Empire thanks you, Your Imperial Majesty. We are all grateful for your sacrifice,” he said, bowing his head, as did everyone else in that grand, decorated room. My head spun.

“Please… give me back my son…” I demanded, outraged, still not understanding what all this meant.  

Grateful? Sacrifice? This had to be a joke, a cruel joke.  

Only when he refused to return my baby and I struggled to rise did I realize.

“My Lady… don’t strain yourself too much… otherwise, your time will be cut short…” One of the midwives held me up, preventing me from collapsing to the floor from weakness. When I looked down at the bed, I saw it was wetter than before, more stained with red.