The world spun around her as the weight of the news settled in—she was going to die.
Moon refused to believe it. It couldn't be true. She hadn't even done anything significant with her life yet. There was still so much she wanted to do, so much she needed to do.
"How do we know there's no cure?" she asked, her voice unsteady. A cold dread curled inside her chest, pressing against her lungs like a vice. If there truly was no cure, then how would she take care of her sister? How would she protect her mother, the only healthy parent she had left?
Her father, Ronan, had once been a strong man—old, yes, but with a sturdy frame and a thick beard now streaked with white. Yet, age had caught up with him, and sickness had followed. Now, he could barely lift himself from bed. It was her mother, Navara, who held their family together. The head of the household in all but name.
Moon often wished she were older, just a few more years, like her sister Gracelyn. But Gracelyn, despite being three years her senior, wasn't always the most responsible. Moon sometimes envied her carefree nature, though right now, there was nothing enviable about the uncertainty gripping her.
"The disease is… unlike anything we've seen before," the woman in front of her continued, her expression grim. "Its effects are so severe, so rapid, that even the best doctors can't determine where it came from, let alone how to stop it." She hesitated, then added, "The entire country is in danger. My husband works for the newspaper—he says it's spreading faster than anyone expected."
Moon's stomach churned. The fear inside her deepened, but she forced herself to stay calm. She wasn't even sure if she had it yet. It was too soon to panic.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Navara glance up from where she was kneading dough. Her mother's brow furrowed as she took in Moon's pale face.
"Is something wrong?"
Moon quickly shook her head. There was no way she would tell her—not yet, not like this.
Just then, the front door of the bakery swung open, the bells above it jingling softly. Heavy footsteps followed, each one measured, firm, almost rhythmic. The sound was a welcome distraction.
"I'll take care of the customer," Moon said hurriedly, eager to escape her thoughts, and hurried toward the front.
As she stepped into the main room, she instinctively straightened her apron. "Good evening," she started but paused, taking in the figure before her.
The person standing there was dressed in expensive, meticulously tailored clothing—rich fabrics that spoke of nobility. But despite the delicate embroidery and pristine condition of the outfit, it was clear that these were not a woman's clothes. The sheer height alone made that obvious. Even when standing upright, Moon's gaze barely reached his chest.
She hesitated. "...Sir," she finally said, forcing herself to follow her mother's teachings. It was improper to look a nobleman directly in the face, but curiosity burned within her.
"Are you here to pick up an order you placed?" she asked.
Silence.
Something about his presence made the air feel heavier. When she finally dared to meet his gaze, she was met with sharp, piercing eyes—cold, distant, unreadable. There was an emptiness in them, as if the man behind them felt nothing at all.
Was this what all nobles were like? Arrogant, detached?
Her eyes flickered over his features. Dark, thick wavy hair, combed back flawlessly. His face was sharp, sculpted like a statue carved from marble, every line of his jaw and cheekbone defined with precision. He was… breathtaking. Like something out of an old myth, a Greek god brought to life.
Her gaze drifted lower, tracing the strong lines of his nose, then down to his lips—full, surprisingly soft-looking, the kind of lips that seemed made for kis—
"Yes."
His deep, cool voice shattered her thoughts like glass.
Moon's breath caught. Embarrassment flooded her, heat creeping up her neck. Had she really just gotten lost in admiration for a complete stranger? She needed to get a grip.
"I-I… um…" She swallowed hard, cursing her own nerves. "May I know the name it's under?"
"Elara Hale."
A woman's name.
Moon blinked, something in her gut twisting before she could even understand why. "Great. I'll get that for you," she murmured, turning on her heel and making her way to the back.
The moment she stepped into the kitchen, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"Elara Hale?" she muttered to herself, as though saying the name would ground her.
"Elara Hale?" Gracelyn echoed, much louder. "Oh! That's the bride's cake order."
A wedding cake. Moon's stomach tightened further.
Gracelyn handed her the cake—a beautifully crafted piece, white with gold accents and intricate frosted ruffles. Moon stared at it for a moment, pushing away the ridiculous feelings swirling inside her. It didn't matter who the nobleman was, or why she felt unsettled about him picking up a wedding cake for someone else.
She had bigger things to worry about.
Steeling herself, she walked back out, balancing the cake carefully in her hands. "Here you go. That will be twelve coins for the baking, eighteen for the ingredients, and—"
The world suddenly tilted.
Her vision blurred. The room around her swayed, distorting into unfocused shapes. A sharp, unbearable heat pulsed through her body, setting every nerve alight. The cake in her hands wobbled, tipping dangerously.
No.
Her limbs felt like lead, her hearing reduced to nothing but a sharp ringing in her ears.
Something was wrong.
The last thing she saw was the stranger's sharp, cold eyes watching her before everything went black.