That night, the moon did not return.
At first, nobody noticed.
Noctair was a kingdom used to storms. Clouds often swallowed the sky for hours, sometimes days. People continued their dinners. Taverns remained loud. Carriages rolled through rain-soaked streets beneath flickering lanterns.
But sometime after midnight, the kingdom began to understand something was wrong.
Because the darkness did not feel natural anymore.
It felt watched.
Seraphine could not sleep.
She sat beside her bedroom window still wearing the silver dress from the academy, her fingers curled tightly around the curtain as rain slid endlessly down the glass.
The sky felt empty.
Not dark.
Empty.
As though something sacred had been ripped out of it.
The moon was gone.
And somehow, deep inside herself, she knew the disappearance had something to do with him.
Lucien Arden.
Even thinking his name made something shift uneasily beneath her ribs.
She hated that.
Hated the way her thoughts kept returning to him against her will.
To the quiet amusement in his voice.
To the terrifying steadiness of his gaze.
To the feeling that something had changed the moment he touched her.
As though her life had split into two versions of itself.
Before Lucien.
And after.
A soft knock sounded against her bedroom door.
Her grandmother entered carrying a candle, its golden light trembling faintly across the dark room.
"You're still awake."
Seraphine looked back toward the window.
"So are you."
Her grandmother said nothing for a moment.
That silence alone unsettled Seraphine.
Usually, her grandmother filled silence quickly with warnings, opinions, irritation, anything.
Tonight she looked… distracted.
Older somehow.
"You should stay away from the windows," she said quietly.
Seraphine frowned slightly. "Why?"
Another pause.
"Tonight feels wrong."
The answer should have sounded ridiculous.
Instead, it sounded true.
Her grandmother stepped closer to the window beside her and stared out into the dark streets below. Rainwater reflected lantern light across her tired face.
"When I was younger," she said softly, "my mother used to say there are nights when the world grows thin."
Seraphine glanced at her.
"What does that mean?.
"It means certain things can cross more easily."
A chill slid slowly down Seraphine's spine.
Before she could ask another question.
A scream shattered the night.
Both women froze instantly.
The sound came from somewhere beyond the lower district. Distant enough to echo. Close enough to feel real.
Then another scream followed.
Closer.
The candlelight flickered violently.
Seraphine moved toward the window instinctively, but her grandmother caught her wrist sharply.
"Don't."
The word came out harder than expected.
Fear flashed briefly across the older woman's face.
Real fear.
And suddenly Seraphine realized something terrifying:
Her grandmother knew more than she admitted.
Another sound echoed outside.
Not screaming this time.
Footsteps.
Dozens of them.
People running through the streets below.
Voices overlapping in panic.
"The moon—"
"—gone—"
"—someone disappeared—"
Seraphine's pulse quickened.
"What's happening?"
Her grandmother released her wrist slowly.
But before she could answer—
Three knocks sounded downstairs.
Slow.
Measured.
Intentional.
Every muscle in Seraphine's body tightened instantly.
The knocking came again.
Her grandmother went pale.
Neither of them moved.
Then a voice drifted upward through the house.
Male.
Calm.
Dangerously familiar.
"Seraphine Vale."
Her breath stopped.
Lucien.
The candle flame trembled harder.
Her grandmother stared toward the bedroom door as if hearing a ghost.
"Stay here," she whispered sharply.
But Seraphine already moved.
She followed her grandmother downstairs despite every instinct warning her not to.
The tailoring shop below looked different at night.
Smaller somehow.
The shadows deeper.
Rain tapped softly against the front windows while the knocking came once more.
Three slow hits against wood.
Her grandmother unlocked the door carefully but kept the chain latched.
The moment the door opened slightly, Seraphine saw him standing there beneath the rain.
Lucien looked almost unreal in the darkness.
Black coat soaked through.
Dark hair dripping rainwater.
Silver eyes reflecting candlelight in ways human eyes should not.
For one terrible moment, Seraphine understood exactly why old stories warned girls about beautiful things arriving after midnight.
Because beauty made danger easier to trust.
Lucien's gaze lifted immediately.
Straight to her.
Not her grandmother.
Her.
Something inside Seraphine reacted so intensely it frightened her.
Recognition.
Not logical recognition.
Something older.
Something that felt almost like memory.
"You shouldn't be here," her grandmother said coldly.
Lucien's eyes never left Seraphine's face.
"I've been told that before."
"Then perhaps you should start listening."
A faint smile touched his mouth.
Not warm.
Almost tired.
"If I had listened," he said quietly, "the kingdom would already be dead."
The room went still.
Even the rain seemed quieter afterward.
Seraphine stared at him.
"What does that mean?"
For the first time since arriving, Lucien looked away from her.
Toward the empty sky beyond the windows.
And when he spoke again, his voice lost something.
Not emotion.
Distance.
"The moon is gone," he said softly. "Which means the Veil is opening."
The words settled heavily into the room.
Seraphine frowned. "The what?"
But her grandmother already understood.
Seraphine saw it instantly in the fear draining color from her face.
"No," the older woman whispered.
Lucien looked back at her slowly.
"Yes."
Outside, thunder rolled across Noctair like approaching collapse.
Then Lucien spoke the sentence that changed everything.
"They've started looking for her."
Silence.
Seraphine felt her heartbeat slow painfully.
"…Who has?"
Lucien's gaze returned to hers fully.
And suddenly the room felt far too small for the weight inside it.
"The things," he said quietly, "that feed on lonely girls."