EPISODE 5: Prayer Beneath The Moon God

The night air smelled of frost and pine, sharp enough to sting Rubella’s lungs. She climbed the outer stairway alone, the hem of her gown whispering across the cold stone. Every step pulled against bruises that still pulsed from the evening’s “lesson”—Agusta’s rings had left a constellation of dark marks along her arms and ribs. The queen’s fury had been worse this time: no single outburst, but a calculated storm that lasted until the candles gutted and the servants pretended not to hear.

Now the castle slept. Only the moon remained awake.

Rubella pushed through the final door to the rooftop terrace. Wind swept her hair across her face, silver in the moonlight. From here she could see the valley drowned in mist, the forest glimmering like a frozen sea. Above, the moon hung full and bright, a coin of pale fire. She wrapped her cloak tighter and let the silence settle.

It was supposed to be just another night of endurance—another silent retreat after pain—but something inside her stirred, a memory older than words. She closed her eyes.

When did this begin?

The question carried her back, not to this bruised twenty-year-old body, but to the child who had once stood on this very terrace years ago. She had been nine then, small and trembling after the grand-hall humiliation. That night, too, she had fled to the roof, seeking air after Agusta’s cold, jeweled blows. And there, in the hush of moonlight, she had whispered a plea she barely understood.

“Please… someone help me.”

She hadn’t known she was praying. Only that the moon felt alive, an unblinking witness when no one else would listen.

Now, eleven years later, the words return to her unbidden.

Her breath clouded the air. “Moon…light god,” she murmured, the name tasting strange and ancient. “If you were listening that night, if you’re listening now—” Her voice cracked, and she bit it back. “I’m still here. Still trapped in this cage. How much longer do I endure before I disappear?”

The wind shifted, carrying a low rustle from the forest below, like a whispered answer—or only the night playing tricks.

Rubella tilted her head to the vast white disk above. The moon’s glow carved silver lines along the bruises on her hands. She flexed her fingers and winced.

“Do you want this for me?” she whispered. “Do you want me to break quietly? To fade while they call it obedience?”

No response came, yet the cold light seemed to sharpen, a gaze impossible to evade. Memories bled together: Agusta’s hissed commands, her father’s distant silence, the mockery in Eva and Emma’s eyes. Years of swallowed screams and careful masks.

She spoke louder, the words tumbling before she could stop them. “God of the moon—if you are real—tell me. Do you want me to die like this? Beaten until there’s nothing left? Is that your plan for a daughter of this bloodline?”

The echo startled her. The terrace gave nothing back but the hollow rush of wind, yet she felt the question hang in the air, heavy as the stars.

Her knees weakened. She sank to the cold stone, palms pressed to the icy floor. Pain rippled through her ribs where Agusta’s rings had struck, but she stayed there, a lone figure under the enormous sky.

Images rose behind her closed lids: a girl of nine staring at the same moon, whispering the same desperate plea. That child’s voice merged with her own, two timelines folding together.

“Take me out of this,” she said, almost a cry. “Or give me the strength to end it myself.”

The honesty startled her. She had never spoken of ending anything—not to servants, not to herself. Yet here it was, raw and undeniable. The moonlight soaked every word, a cold baptism.

For a long while she simply breathed, letting the night press against her skin. Slowly, her heartbeat steadied. She realized she was not asking for rescue anymore. She was a demanding witness. If the god of the moon existed, he would see her. If not, she would see herself.

She rose, every bruise protesting. The moon seemed closer, immense and watchful. A strange calm spread through her chest, neither comfort nor surrender, but something sharper—a resolve.

“I will not die here,” she said, voice steady. “Not like this. Not by her hand, not in silence.”

The declaration felt like a spark catching dry wood. For the first time, the terrace no longer felt like a place of escape but from the beginning.

The wind quieted, as if listening.

Rubella lifted her chin and spoke once more, a vow carried on the cold air: “If you want me to endure, then give me the strength to become more than they can cage. If you want me to fight, show me the path. But if you stay silent, know this—your moon will one day shine on a queen who owes nothing to fear.”

The moon gave no answer, yet its light seemed to burn brighter, painting her bruised silver, turning every scar into a mark of defiance.

Rubella turned toward the stair. Each step back into the sleeping castle felt different—no longer retreat but return. The bruises still ached; Agusta’s shadow still waited. But the prayer, or perhaps the vow, had changed something invisible.

Somewhere deep inside, the nine-year-old child who had once begged for rescue stood taller. And the woman she had become carried that strength with her into the dark.

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