The Sacred Luna

Chapter 10

(Sanya's POV)

Cold.

So cold.

I drift in and out, consciousness slipping through my fingers like water. Sometimes I'm aware of the grass beneath me, damp and scratchy. Sometimes I see stars overhead, impossibly bright.

Sometimes I feel nothing at all.

The sky lightens. Dawn approaching. Or maybe it's been days. I can't tell.

Lying on my side. Still in the garden. Still wet, though the water has soaked into the ground and my ruined dress.

He left me here.

All night.

The thought should spark something—rage, despair, anything. But I'm too numb. Too empty.

My eyelids are too heavy to keep open.

I let them fall.

Warmth.

That's what finally pulls me back.

Warmth spreading across my back where the worst pain screams. Soothing. Healing.

My eyes flutter open to find the sun fully risen, morning light painting everything gold.

I'm still in the garden. Still on the grass.

But something's different.

I reach back with trembling fingers, touch my shoulder where the belt left the deepest mark.

Thick ointment covers the wound. Cool and soothing, already working to heal the damaged skin.

I recognize the scent. Moon leaves. The same plant that covered our bed on the wedding night. Rare, expensive, with powerful healing properties.

Someone treated my wounds while I was unconscious.

My mind struggles to make sense of it. The ointment is fresh—applied recently, maybe within the last hour.

"Tyron?" I whisper to the empty garden.

Did he come back? Did guilt finally pierce through his rage?

Hope flutters weakly in my chest. Maybe there's still something good in him. Maybe the man who knelt beside my bed this morning is real. Maybe—

I need to thank him.

The thought gives me strength I didn't know I had. I drag myself upright, every muscle protesting. The dress—what's left of it—is ruined. Torn, muddy, stained with grass and blood.

But my wounds are covered. Protected. Already healing.

He came back for me.

I cling to this fragile hope as I limp toward the house. Each step sends pain through my body, but the ointment dulls the worst of it.

The back door is unlocked. I slip inside, leaving wet footprints on the polished floor.

A servant sees me and gasps, but I don't stop. Don't explain. Just keep moving toward Tyron's study.

I need to see him. Need to understand.

The study door is open. He sits at his desk, reading morning reports like it's any other day. Like he didn't beat his wife unconscious and leave her in the garden all night.

"Tyron." My voice comes out hoarse.

He doesn't look up. Just turns a page.

"Thank you," I continue, stepping into the room. "For the ointment. For helping me."

That gets his attention.

He looks up slowly, and the expression on his face makes my blood freeze.

Disgust. Pure, unadulterated disgust.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" His voice is flat. Cold. "To treat the wounds of an impure woman like you when I can't even stand to see your face?"

The words hit like another beating.

"But... the ointment..." I touch my shoulder, confusion warring with dawning horror. "If you didn't..."

"Someone else has been helping you, wife." He spits the title like a curse. "And when I find out who, they'll wish they'd let you bleed."

He returns to his papers, dismissing me like I'm nothing.

Like I'm less than nothing.

I stand frozen in the doorway, mind reeling.

If Tyron didn't apply the ointment, then who did?

And why won't they reveal themselves?

(Aaron's POV)

I watch from the shadows as Sanya limps away from Tyron's study, her fragile hope crumbling with every painful step.

My heart—whatever ghosts have that still feels—breaks into a thousand pieces.

She disappears around the corner, and I lean against the wall, letting the shadows swallow me. My hand—starting to fade now, becoming translucent around the edges—clenches into a fist.

The truth sits like poison on my tongue. The truth I can never tell her.

Because if she knew what really happened that night…

Five days ago, 11:00 PM.

I stand in my mother's small cottage, bags packed, truck loaded. Everything ready. In one hour, I'll meet Sanya at the crossroads. In one hour, our new life begins.

Mom hugs me tight, her small frame trembling slightly. "Be happy, my son. Sanya is a wonderful girl. You two will build a beautiful life together."

"Thanks, Mom." I kiss her forehead. "I'll call you when we're settled. You can come visit, see our new place—"

The smell hits me first. Smoke. Sharp and acrid.

Then the crackle of flames.

"Fire!" Mom screams, pointing at the kitchen. Orange light dances across the walls, growing brighter, faster.

I run to the front door. Locked. The deadbolt won't turn—something's jammed in it from outside.

"The back door!" I shout, grabbing Mom's hand.

We run through the small house. Smoke fills every room, thick and choking. The back door—also locked. Windows won't budge, like someone nailed them shut.

This isn't an accident.

Through the roar of flames, I hear voices outside. Male. Familiar.

"Make sure they don't get out."

"The whole place needs to burn. No evidence."

A second voice. Also male...and just as familiar.

Horror floods through me.

"Mom, the window—help me break it—"

I grab a chair, slam it against the glass. It bounces off. Again. The glass cracks but doesn't break.

The flames are everywhere now. The heat unbearable.

"Aaron!" Mom coughs, choking on smoke. "The bathroom—maybe—"

The ceiling groans. Cracks spiderweb across the plaster.

"Mom, RUN!"

I shove her toward the hallway, but the ceiling collapses between us. Burning wood and plaster, creating a wall of fire.

"MOM!"

Her scream cuts through the roar of flames. Then silence.

I try to reach her. The heat drives me back. The smoke fills my lungs, stealing my breath.

I fall to my knees.

Crawling on my hands, desperate to reach my mom.

The flames close in.

Then everything goes dark.