As expected, Queen Aisha had fallen into a great depression following the death of her beloved. She wore nothing but grey and would not leave her chambers for a week at a time; on worse days, she would refuse to eat and as a result had grown quite skinny. It was a shame, the maids would say, for the queen had the most beautifully buxom figure. But even if she hadn't become rail-thin, the dreary velvet gowns she moped around in wouldn't have done it justice.

The three-day mourning period for Lady Moonborne and her two sons had long since passed, but everyone knew that it would take Her Majesty much longer to recover from her loss. The court had begun to grow impatient with Aisha's constant seclusion. By consequence, a lot of Artemisia's glitz and cheer had faded without the party queen to raise their spirits with another boisterous feast. The king made no effort to try and bring his wife out of her misery, and neither did her son.

By then, Marrok still hadn't been hit by the guilt and pain that he had been bracing himself for. Instead, he found himself waiting with bated breath for when he could seal her in her grave for good. It hadn't occurred to him at the time, that if his younger self could see him then, he would be horrified. No, he was too drunk on his newfound power and his lust for Jannali to truly see beyond his actions.

But it would begin to seep through. In the few spare moments he had with his mother, he could see it in her blank stare, such a drastic change from cheerful, bubbly Aisha. She had no proof, of course, that he was involved with Genevieve's death in any way. No one else at court showed the slightest suspicion towards their prince and princess, as Jannali had promised. In Aisha's eyes, though, Marrok could see the blame and disappointment tumbling like a frothy potion. Somehow, she knew. Maybe not directly, for if she did then Marrok would have already been punished to kingdom come, but in the back of her mind it was clear—her little Twinkles had dimmed to nothing but blood.

It had to go slowly, Jannali would remind him. Every day they would push a little bit further. Make her see things. Flood her with despair. Give her the impression that the long night would last forever and she would never again catch a glimpse of Luna's artificial sunlight.

"You are alone," Marrok had once heard the queen mumble. "There is no one in your head but you."

She was wrong. From the sides, in Aisha's sleep, during meals, Marrok and Jannali sat by and watched with amusement the slow unraveling of the woman who was once the rose of Artemisia. The king and the queen's close friends had deserted her, unwilling to put up with her constant gloom. She had been forced to seek help from several crown-sanctioned psychologists, and they all recommended that she go on strong antidepressants and hope for the best. But all the drugs and therapy in the world were powerless under the three months of constant manipulation by the king's son and a daughter of House Delacourt.

Marrok supposed that was another reason behind his father's insistence on Jannali as his bride. House Delacourt was one of the most talented families aside from that of Blackburn, and a reputation of producing an abundance of accomplished thaumaturges. With she and Marrok, a descendant of Cyprus Blackburn, together, they would surely produce children with glamour so strong that they would be envy of all of Luna.

Channary was not yet two and so far the only hint of glamour she had shown was the occasional distorting of her appearance during a temper tantrum. Which, as of late, had become more and more frequent as she was denied constant access to her grandmother. She had grown used to the queen's constant coddling and did not like to be without some kind of attention.

But Aisha only continued to slip away, and on a dull Thursday afternoon, one of her ladies-in-waiting walked into her chambers to find her bridal crown from when she married Tybalt shattered on the floor in an explosion of pearls and gold. There were bloodstains on the carpet that continued into a trail to where Aisha sat in her porcelain tub. A knife had fallen to the ground, and the deep cuts up her wrist drained into her crimson bathwater.

The servants were quick to clean up the mess and Luna was once again led through mourning. Although they grieved their queen, of course they did, her suicide came as a surprise to no one. And before long, the kingdom's attentions had been turned to King Tybalt, who was growing older and more tired with every court meeting and political function. By the way of the nobility, they began to secretly hope for the day when the new power would replace the old one at last.

The people did not have to wait long for this; within six months of his wife's death, Tybalt lost his life in a regolith explosion not far from one of the mining sectors. Along with the three thaumaturges and six court members that had accompanied him on this annual inspection trip, nothing remained of the old monarch within the dust and ash but the crisp smell of burnt flesh.

There wasn't even a body to bury.

Marrok had no time to even hear about his father's end before he was thrust into chaos. Suddenly, in the wee hours of the night, he was forced awake by the banging on his door and shouts that could be heard throughout the palace. It was the one odd time where Jannali decided on sleeping in her own rooms, leaving the crown prince alone to face the mob on the other side.

His heart hammering, Marrok opened the door and braced himself for the worst. He was met with servants, guards and thaumaturges, all pink in the face and crying with grief and joy: "The king is dead! Long live King Marrok of Luna!"

No expense had been spared for his coronation, which took place a mere week after his father's sudden passing. Artemisia bloomed anew after being in and out of constant mourning; the buildings, which had previously taken on a grey air, glowed white with pride. Death was no longer the master of this fair city teeming with lies in every corner, for Marrok was on the verge of taking its place.

It had taken until that day for him to begin missing his mother. Jannali would be replacing her now, as queen consort. Marrok had wanted to name her queen regnant, his equal in every sense, but Jannali was quick to protest and disapprove. Lunar monarchs didn't often tend to share their power with their spouses, and those who did were always caught in the court's hideous backlash. Jannali said that they wouldn't be the ones to evoke the wrath of the aristocracy. They wouldn't stand out. They would attract no particular attention. For that was the serial killer's greatest talent, after all—the ability to blend in seamlessly.

Marrok obeyed, of course he did. And as he secretly watched Jannali getting dressed for the ceremony, a dull ache made itself known in his gut. She was striking in a white gown teeming with black lace and rubies stitched in every fold of fabric. Her pale glamour had been refined still, and her purple eyes met his for an electrifying second before he stole away to go and get ready himself. The image of her pale-pink lips and chalky complexion made him cringe. It wasn't Jannali. But of course it wasn't—the new queen was an illusion of simplicity and invisibility, just like the court wanted to believe. His beautiful Jannali, his Ugly J, was his alone to admire, to touch, to love.

The coronation was drawing closer. Marrok sat by and allowed himself to be fitted into his ceremonial dress. And during the tedious process, he decided that he would be the same for Jannali. His true appearance would be something he kept only for his wife, just as hers was solely for him. Alone, with only moments before he was due to walk down the aisle to receive the crown, he changed his glamour from the blonde boy to a silver god, tall and lithe and made of marble. His red hair had straightened to a near-white shade tucked around his ears. He made himself in Jannali's image, as pale as the moon and his eyes a deep, mesmerizing green, like a poisoned apple.

The trumpets blared. The doors opened. Marrok gulped and smiled with radiance as he entered the great hall, where he was met with the thunderous applause of all the aristocracy that had gathered to witness the crowning of their new king. He cast a glance over to Jannali, who stood to the side of the altar, eyes wide with amusement. She obviously approved of his new costume. In the audience, Marrok also caught sight of little Channary, now the heir to the throne. She payed no attention to her father's coronation and instead opted to play with her stuffed toy on the pew. At least her governess had the sense to give her a distraction so to keep her quiet.

The court was soon silenced at they seated themselves and the ceremony began. The crown prince was told to kneel. Marrok glanced up the officiant, the same nameless face that had performed his wedding, as he placed his father's crown on his head. The vows that he was expected to say came pouring off his tongue with a surprising amount of sincerity. He had always thought that he would never truly be ready to rule. His father had not been the perfect king, not by a long shot, and Marrok couldn't even measure up to him. But now, looking at all the grotesquely glamoured nobles staring up at him with their sneering eyes, he felt power settling into every pore, every fibre of his being. He was the predator. They were the prey.

Jannali, from where she stood at the side, showed no emotion whatsoever. Yet, Marrok could sense the same coming from her, pride and lust managing to push through her immaculate facade. The cup filled with dark wine, to symbolize the blood of the people, was brought to him. Marrok smiled and sipped it slowly, relishing in the sharp tang of iron and terror that ruled his tongue instead of grape.

The blood of his people. The blood of his prospects.

The blood of his blood.

Noble after noble paraded about the courtyard, flaunting their twinkling outfits and perfect glamours. Music filled the air and spun as the violins turned and the flutes tittered above all else. The reception was being held in the vast open of the palace's front property instead of the ballroom; Marrok thought that they needed a change of scenery. The long night had fallen once again, and no sunlight had been projected all day, instead showcasing the ocean of stars and faint galaxies on the canvas of space. Silver lamp-posts draped with white lilies flanked the edge of the yard, and the aristocrats were free to dance on the smooth glass beneath their feet. It was quite reflective, but at that point in the night no one really seemed to mind that their glamour was rendered moot.

And endless flow of congratulations and wishes to his future health came Marrok's way, and he accepted every one with a smile. Dancing was a constant affair that night—he always had some lady or another twirling in his arms and fishing for his attentions. All except Jannali, who danced with men that hovered much too close for the king's liking. Now that she was queen, she was surely expected to take on lovers and maybe even produce a few bastards. The thought made him writhe with jealousy and discomfort, for most of these lords were twice her age. But the nineteen-year-old queen was anything but fickle. She had only ever shown desire for her husband.

Marrok felt like a hypocrite at his immature qualms—it was all part of the show. Those men were like Jannali's father, and Marrok knew well what had become of him. And surely Jannali felt the same way about the flirtatious girls that would've given anything to warm the king's bed. As the sea of people tumbled into a new current, Marrok longed to get ahold of his wife and bring her close to him, to kiss her passionately in front of everyone, to reassure her that she was the only one he would ever want, and to be reassured as well. But Jannali managed to slip away every time, swept into the arms of yet another leering snake as a ravishing noblewoman accepted the king's hand instead. And every time, she would glance back at him with a sly grin.

Marrok began to grow tired of her little game, though. So he pulled himself from the crowd and made his way to a table overflowing with every kind of dessert imaginable. The chocolate tarts, he decided, were good enough to deserve a second commission. He would have to ask for the baker's name.

He heard squeals and giggles from where his daughter sat alone but for her governess, who made sure to watch her closely as she failed to weave flowers into a crown. She had plucked the blooms from a vine on the wall and tore them before she managed to put the flowers into her hair. Instead of getting angry, though, Channary simply laughed as the remnants of petals and stems fluttered to the ground. Marrok smiled and walked up to the child, which garnered no response from her, even though the governess was quick to stand and bow before her monarch.

"Channary?" Marrok asked, kneeling down to the baby's height. "What are you doing?"

Again, no response. The governess cleared her throat and Channary glanced up at her. "Your Highness, His Majesty wishes to speak to you."

Channary's eyes widened. "Who?"

"The king," the governess whispered, obviously mortified. Marrok, for his part, was taken aback. Had he really been so absent that the child didn't even recognize her own father?

Flustered, the governess bowed again. "My apologies, Your Majesty. It's late and Her Highness is quite tired, but she refuses to go to bed—"

Marrok held up a hand and the woman fell silent. "Are you having fun with the flowers, Channary?"

The princess finally turned to him. Her mouth was open slightly and her tiny fingers still grasped onto the destroyed lilies. "No," she murmured.

"Well, if you're bored, would you be so kind as to allow me this next dance?" Marrok held out his hand, and in the tense silence that followed, his mother's words began to creep back into his mind. The first years of any child's life are always the most important.

Channary narrowed her eyes and let the flowers fall to the floor. She stared at the king, taking him in, calculating this stranger's odd familiarity. Finally, she shook her head and crawled over to her governess. "Bed," she declared, pointing towards the palace.

"But Your Highness, His Majesty wants to—"

"Bed!" Channary whined, gripping onto the woman's skirts. The governess glanced apologetically at the king.

"It's alright," said Marrok, already beginning his retreat. "She should be getting to sleep anyway."

She's only a year old, Mother. She doesn't know the difference.