Chapter Text
“Tell us a story!”
The children clamored around Shiro even as the priests tried to shoo them away and off to bed. He laughed and waved his hand. “Let them stay. I haven’t told you a story for months, I think we have time for a quick one tonight.” The children cheered, settling in around him to listen.
It was the perfect night, the air perfumed with the scent of wisteria and evening primrose and the full moon bright overhead. It was a night of celebration when the White Lady showed her face to the world. The Temple of the Moon rose ancient behind them, lit with soft lanterns that swayed in the breeze and shining with gilt silver that still shone after thousands of years. It was said the White Lady built the temple herself, which was why it stood strong against the test of time.
Prince Takashi Shirogane, heir to the Moon Kingdom, had spent much of his childhood in this peaceful, secluded paradise far from the capital city and his mother’s court. The royal family was so much more than political leaders, they were the spiritual link between the people and their Lady goddess. It was their duty was to defend them against the darkness just as she had all those years ago. His mother was High Priestess, and Shiro her heir apparent. Shiro had been raised as both a warrior and a priest among the night blooming flowers and the gentle sounds of water cascading over smooth stone to take up the mantle of High Priest. The capital city was lovely, his mother’s palace draped in silks and riches from across the Kingdom, but in his heart, this was always home.
“Your highness, you’ve had a long trip. The children can wait until tomorrow after you’ve had a chance to rest.”
Though he’d traveled the kingdom to share his tales and read his scriptures, tonight his audience came from the Temple’s orphanage. For many of them, it was the only home they knew, though some still had family among the villages. Many of the children would go on to join the Temple’s ranks as attendants, apprentices, and if they were lucky, priests. Many sought the blessings of a priest in the family as much as they did the relief of losing a hungry mouth.
Whatever their reasons, the Temple welcomed each and every child without question, and it was a known fact that the prince was always a dependable source for a second helping of dessert.
“One story won’t break what a thousand miles have failed.” Shiro argued easily, and the priest sent him a concerned scowl. Shiro was quite familiar with it. It had been the same one he’d seen for over a decade now.
“That depends on the story.”
“Then I’ll tell an old favorite,” Shiro excused, casually adjusting his silver overcoat that hung over his snow white robes. For a moment, the long string of black prayer beads that he wore around his wrist was visible, but out of longstanding habit, Shiro always kept the lone white pearl on the strand hidden. It kept its place on the inside of his wrist where it beat against his pulse, a solemn reminder of the White Lady in Her kingdom. On his right shoulder was a thickened patch of cloth adorned with prayers written in silver thread, a ceremonial perch for his White Lady, should She in Her preferred form of a great snowy owl seek rest.
He took a seat, where the rest of the group had gathered a veritable mountain of cushions and blankets, and the children closest to him immediately mimicked his stance. His attendants would forgive the mess. Normally Shiro lived as frugally at the Temple as he did while on the road, leaving them with little to clean. “The story of the White Lady and the Golden Empress.”
The priest didn’t throw his hands into the air, but Shiro suspected he wanted to. He was already too late. A servant had come in with a tray of tea and sweet bread. They were in for a long night.
“Once upon a time, there was no light in the darkness. The Golden Empress ruled over her kingdom, bright and proud, but selfishly hoarding all human’s worship for herself. She built her palace on the highest peak and demanded that all life submit to her rule. In the day, she spread her warm light across the world, but at night, she shuttered the doors of her palace and the world was plunged into darkness.” Shiro began the familiar tale that every child in the kingdom knew by heart.
The children giggled and jostled each other, one small girl spilling her tea all over her friend, who let out a shrill wail as they started shoving. Shiro was quick to distract, picking up the soggy little boy and settling him on his lap. He held out his fingertips, a shimmering ball of silvery light dancing his hand. The little boy sniffed, eyes wide in surprise as he reached for the miniature moon.
“The White Lady saw the suffering in the darkness where monsters and shadows preyed on the mortals. She took pity on us when we called out for help and plied the Sun Goddess with sweet wines and flattery until she fell asleep in her arms. While she slept, she stole some of her light and escaped back into the sky, giving us light and hope in the darkness, and a way to fight the monsters of darkness.”
He tossed the sphere of light above the children’s heads as it burst into a thousand sparkles before disappearing. The kids cheered, trying to catch the glittering pieces. “That’s why you still fight the monsters!” One little girl called out, swinging her pillow around like a weapon and Shiro laughed.
“You’re right. Everyone in the royal family serves to fight the things who live in the darkness just like the White Lady. We’re here to keep you safe!”
The kids cheered again, a few smacking each other with their cushions and pretending they were brave princes and warrior princesses, doing battle with the supernatural creatures that lived in the shadows.
“Alright, alright. Say thank you for the story, but it’s time for all of you to go to sleep.” One of the elder keepers said gently as the children groaned, but he had decades of experience herding unruly children to bedtime. Shiro knew personally that it would be no use arguing.
He waved goodbye at the children as one of the priests touched the edge of his sleeve. “Your highness, a word?”
“What is it, Koan? Is everything okay?” Shiro asked, his brows furrowed with concern as he sent a quick glance towards the closest window. The moon had already moved beyond its highest point in the sky. It was too late to begin most rituals of worship; they would be chased by the sun before the enchantments could settle. Even Shiro would have called it late, and the Temple of the Moon was not known for its easy sleeping habits.
To his surprise the old priest laughed, an easy smile across his face. “Fear not, my Prince. Matters of the temple can wait until morning. No, this is merely a matter of an old man’s heart, and perhaps the hope that nightmares are not as powerful as they seem.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Shiro said, but he’d already relaxed. He started undoing the long sashes of cloth from around his waist, draping them ceremoniously in a woven cabinet before he undid his silvery toga. It would be good to sleep in a bed again. Meanwhile, Koan helped himself to tea, draining the pot for both of them. When Shiro had slipped into a casual robe of soft cotton, they made their way without speaking to the north-facing alcove. Its high windows gave them a sprawling view of the mountainside, moonlight making the snowy peaks shimmer with an ethereal glow. It was a position they’d kept since Shiro was a little boy and drank more honey than water in his tea.
“Is it true what they say, in the east?” Koan looked more sad than nervous, weighed down with tired resignation. Shiro wished he could give him better news.
“I’m afraid so. The Kingdom of the Sun is getting more daring with their attacks.”
The legend of the White Lady and the Golden Empress may have been just that, but there were kernels of truth that kept it from fading into history. Shiro was taught that when the Gods split the sky, the Sun and Moon were tasked with protecting the Heavens. Yet the Golden Empress turned greedy, and their kingdoms had warred ever since. Their battles grew so fierce that the Gods turned away in disgust and left their battleground to rot, and the White Lady, and the Golden Empress would spend eternity paying in blood.
Shiro knew that storytellers, priests, and scholars alike all had a hand in embellishing the legend to fit their needs, but the overall tale remained the same. The Kingdom of the Sun and the Kingdom of the Moon had been in battle for as long as anyone could remember. Even their moments of peace were tenuous at best, and now it seemed like a return to war was coming.
This time, it might not have been entirely their enemies’ fault.
There had been a begrudging sense of respect for their rivals, the Sun Kingdom warriors were unlike any in the entire world. While the Moon Kingdom kept itself hidden, cities scattered among the mountainous islands, wrapped in mist and magic, the Sun Kingdom turned their magic to war. Their soldiers were the fiercest in the entire world, sworn to valor and to duty. Their kingdom spread across the world and their power only grew. Or so his mother had told him. Those days of Sun Kingdom glory had ended long before he’d been born.
The Galra had taken the Sun Kingdom two generations ago. Skilled horsemen and nomads, they’d descended from the North like a swarm of locusts. They didn’t fight as honorable warriors, raiding the northern Sun territories for centuries and slowly building their own homeland cobbled together from stolen lands. They brought their own magic and poisons into the capital city under the banner of diplomacy and infected the Emperor’s court like a cancer. By the time the attack came, sweeping in under cover of night, it was too late and the Galra had slaughtered every last member of the Sun Kingdom’s royal family. In one night, the world was thrown out of balance and chaos reigned.
No one knew why they’d turned from the endless grasslands of their home country, or their sudden interest in the Sun Kingdom, but there was no one brave enough to ask. The Galra ruled the Sun Kingdom now, lead by their self-proclaimed Emperor Zarkon. They saw him as a God. an immortal creature who had lived ten thousand years and founded their people from the blood and dust of the steppe. In the Moon Kingdom, they whispered that Zarkon had instead made a deal with a demon for his power or worse, was a demon himself, living in corrupted flesh to appear mortal and hungry for blood, and the tales only grew more and more outlandish as they spread.
It didn’t matter what Zarkon was, his poison was real enough. The Sun Kingdom didn’t care about honor anymore, they cared only about conquest. The armies of noble warriors were turned into invaders, adding land to Zarkon’s growing collection. He had even grown bold enough to start raiding along the Moon Kingdom’s coast, pillaging towns and capturing slaves.
Koan sipped his tea and looked out over the mountains, steam curling up from between his hands. “I know you want to join the army and fight. I can see it in your face, my Prince.”
Shiro sighed. Royals of the blood were spiritual leaders only, letting the Council of Elders and the army handle all political and military matters for the country. While his mother wielded great influence and wisdom, she and hers had no sway in the Kingdom’s decision for war. “I know my duty, but a warrior is a warrior. I can fight a Sun soldier just as well as any demon, you know that. I should be protecting my people, not letting the Galra ravage our coastline while I sit here doing nothing. How long until they try a full scale invasion?”
“A warrior is not only a warrior when he holds the heart of the kingdom in his hand.” The priest returned gently. “You are too important to lose. Even more than you know, your highness.”
Shiro frowned, an argument already half formed on his tongue, but Koan looked towards the horizon and sipped his tea with almost pointed determination. Shiro could do nothing but follow suit. In the distance, the sky was lightening, not by much, but enough to know that the moon’s reign would be coming to an end. The prince sighed with his entire body, rolling his eyes towards the Heavens before sulkily shoving a sweet bun into his mouth. His mentor laughed and ruffled his hair, a breech of protocol that they both pretended not to notice.
“Rest well tonight. You’ve earned it.”
“You just don’t want me to pester you.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
It felt good to laugh. Normally Shiro was drained enough following a pilgrimage away from the Temple, but seeing the destruction left by the Sun Kingdom’s attacks had left him even more shaken than usual. They finished the rest of their meal in companionable silence before retiring for the night. He didn’t know it yet, but it would be the last time Shiro ever saw his mentor.
A prince of the blood was afforded the best room in the temple, a new luxury now that he was too old for the children’s hall, but even the priests’ best was simple, their finery reserved only for ritual in the shrine. There were simple cotton sheets over a soft mat on the floor, none of the silks or embroidery of his mother’s palace. The room was almost bare, a low brazier burned to keep out the lingering spring chill and the paper thin walls catching the shadows from the garden trees.
Shiro lay down with a sigh, happy to wrap himself in the last few quiet hours before the day began. It didn’t last long.
That night, he lost any hope of peace.
He woke with the low tolling of a warning bell booming out over the Temple. Light flickered against the walls, but it wasn’t the bright light of morning. Fires raged out in the garden and all Shiro could hear was the sound of people screaming.
He leapt to his feet, still in his simple sleep garments, and grabbed for his weapons. A steel sickle attached to a long chain that ended in a heavy orb, its blade curved in the Lady’s crescent image. He had used it to bring down dozens of monsters, but he never thought he would have to use it here. The Temple was the holiest site in all of the Moon Kingdom, even the demons wouldn’t dare to attack them here. He flung open the door and froze in horror. Instead of demons, the morning sunlight glinted off the burnished golden armor of hundreds of mortal soldiers.
No!
Shiro was allowed only one moment of hesitation, and even that felt like too much. He threw himself into the fray with a vicious snarl, drawing on all he’d been taught to protect him and sharpened it with years spent in practice. He had never drawn human blood before, but that day he felt like he was drowning in it. He fought side by side with the able-bodied fighters, giving the too young and too old under the Temple’s protection a chance to escape, but they were vastly outnumbered. The invaders chipped away at their ranks, claiming them one by one. They battled across the courtyards and through the halls, trampling the carefully placed offerings to worship their beloved Lady goddess, staining her temple with blood and death. Still Shiro wouldn’t stop fighting, his eyes wild with feverish light, his sickle in one hand, countless spells balanced in his other. For every priest they cut down, he would take ten soldiers.
It just wasn’t enough.
They surrounded him, the last of the Temple’s defenders, swords raised high. The soldiers of the Sun were cruel in victory like no one believed they could be. The last thing Shiro saw was the splash of light over blood stained armor, like molten gold.
A new dawn was rising. The moon had fled.
He should have died then and in the months afterwards, he wished he had. The survivors were chained in iron and dragged aboard massive Sun Kingdom warships to transport back to the mainland. The Galra had never struck so deeply within the Moon Kingdom before and they’d destroyed the very heart of his people. His mother would be forced to act now, but he knew she would prefer concealment over war. She and the Council of Elders were always on agreement in that matter. If the Galra were brutal enough to attack the Temple of the Moon itself, he doubted even her magic would stop them.
The ship was a misery, the survivors crowded into the holds with other victims plucked from the coastlines for weeks until they returned to the mainland. There were few survivors from the Moon Temple and none exposed his identity to the Galra, his survival depended on their silence. If they realized they had a prince of the blood in their possession, he wasn’t sure what these monsters were capable of, but he watched what their negligence caused. Day after day, sickness and exhaustion claimed their numbers, and when Shiro was the last survivor capable of a funeral prayer, he wept bitterly.
As bad as the ships were, the port of Quanzhou was worse. He had heard about the Sun Kingdom’s port cities, but he’d never seen anything so grand before. The city sprawled in every direction, the peaked roofs of temples and administrative buildings rising above the ramshackle homes. It dwarfed even his mother’s largest city, he couldn’t imagine what the Sun Kingdom’s capital would look like.
They didn’t have much of a chance to enjoy the sights before they were herded like cattle to the slave pens, stripped and scrubbed and displayed on the auction block for sale.
Rebellion was quelled swiftly and brutally. Shiro gained his first of many scars in that way. He quickly learned to save his energy, he was trapped among enemies that would happily beat him to death. In order to survive, he would have to pick his fights carefully.
The prince lost track of how many days he spent there, hungry, dispirited and humiliated, dreaming of his homeland and freedom. In the daylight, he flinched away from cruel hands and expectant stares. For the first time in his life, he was taught to fear the night. Shoved in his cage with a dozen others, he was helpless to stop the cries that echoed through their pens, the desperate pleas for mercy, and the broken sobs that followed when mercy was denied. If merchandise was damaged the next day, resourceful merchants simply lowered their prices. And the cycle continued.
The slavers moved him twice. Only afterwards would Shiro realize that it was because his block were sold in bulk. He was passed over more times. He wasn’t delicate enough for pleasure work. He was too old for the seedy thieves’ guild. He was sure he would be forced into hard labor, but Shiro didn’t know how unlucky he truly was, until one day, he was dragged from his cell along with other men and woman of sturdy build and forced to kneel before an official in imperial armor. Gold plates gleamed as bright as the sun they represented, a sight Shiro had already learned to hate.
The Garrison wanted him, and his life would be forfeit to the arena.
Eight full moons later…
The newest addition to the Garrison had a small, slight frame, and a messy shock of brown hair. On his first night at the Garrison, not unlike others in his position, he cried. He seemed as if he would fly away on a strong breeze, still struggling to carry the burden of the manacles slaves always wore around their ankles, wrists, and throat. Shiro had marked him that first night, the young man’s vulnerability quickly identifying him as a target. It didn’t take long until he attracted attention. There was nothing Shiro could do to free him, but he could spare him some suffering among the other fighters of the Garrison.
The young man looked like he wouldn’t make it past his first battle, but when Shiro sat by his side in the mess hall or walked him through the sparring sequences in the training yard, Matt was left alone by fighters and guards alike.
“Eat,” he said softly as the found a free space in the mess hall and sat balancing bowls of watery rice mush on their knees. It was a large tent that covered rows of battered tables, and always smelled vaguely like rancid meat. Shiro wouldn’t share his rations, as much as he wanted to, but he wouldn’t let Matt ignore his own. “You have to keep your strength up.”
It was the second rule at the Garrison. The first was survive, through any means necessary. They lived at the pleasure of Emperor Zarkon in their own walled enclosure in the middle of the army’s training grounds. They were all from scattered homelands, men taken from conquered countries and brought together for one purpose: to fight. They were entertainment for the rich and idle, and a brutal reminder for the poor, but most of all, they were a threat to the Empire’s enemies. A reminder of the fate that waited for them after defeat.
He nudged the young man, trying to encourage him to eat. “It’s not that bad, just give it a try.”
“T-thanks.” The other captive said, barely whispering the word. In all the time they’d been together, he’d rarely spoken. He swirled his wooden spoon through the thin rice gruel and choked down a mouthful. Shiro watched him carefully to make sure he kept eating. He had to the look of one of the Sun Kingdom’s own people. “I’m Matt.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Matt. You are… you’re one of the Sun people, aren’t you?”
Matt nodded sharply, keeping his head bowed. “From the southern forests. I’ve never been this far north before.”
There was a faint tremor in his voice and Shiro leaned into the other man’s space, offering any comfort he could. Prisoners of war were bad enough, but the Zarkon had had even started enslaving his own people. This was more brutal than anything his people had heard. He bowed his head and silently prayed for the White Lady to protect his mother and their lands from these barbarians.
Their meal was cut short.
“It’s this one.” A slave attendant announced. He guided one of the soldiers into the mess hall, stopping in front of Matt who cowered back away from him. Even if Shiro didn’t know who he was, he would have known he was Galra. He was dressed in the fur-lined armor of the nomads instead of the burnished gold of the Sun soldiers, flaunting his heritage over those who served him. Yet despite foregoing their armor, he wore the prominent cloak clasp provided to the officers in the Sun Kingdom’s armies. The golden trinket, adorned with black pearl and hand-carved by the empire’s most prominent artisans and priests, was meant as a celebration of his heroism and rank, and was said to possess wards that were both protective and invigorating. Shiro bet he stole it.
Around his throat were small trinkets that Shiro had taken too long to recognize as the finger bones of the Galra soldier’s conquests. His long black hair was pulled into a tight braid, sleeked back with oils. It added a severity to his harsh features.
Sendak, Commander of the Emperor’s troops and one of the cruelest men in camp. He was massive, a wall of thick muscle and scars, one eye missing and covered with a silk bandage. Shiro had avoided his attention over the months, but Matt was not so lucky. Sendak reached for him, yanking the young man up to his feet.
“This is one of the fighting monks from the Jade forests? I thought they were supposed to be warriors of great renown, this one looks like I could break him in half with my bare hands.” He sneered, giving Matt a shake. “I doubt he would last five minutes in the arena, he’s a waste of gold. Get him ready for the fight.”
“Leave him alone.” Shiro spoke before he realized it and earned a derisive laugh.
“You’d dare speak to me? Know your place, worm.”
“I said leave him alone.” Shiro stood, and he faced the commander without flinching.
It happened too quickly for Shiro to think through his actions, and even if it hadn’t, he doubted he would change anything. The commander drew his sword, the sound of metal sliding too loud in the suddenly silent mess hall, but Shiro was already moving. He swung at the inside of the commander’s elbow where it was most vulnerable, and lunged forward, bashing him across the face. As the commander stepped back, regaining his balance, Shiro stole his sword out of its scabbard and pointed it at his face.
The reaction was instantaneous. Heat raced up his arms and legs and burned across his throat, and Shiro screamed as he fell to his knees as his shackles flared with magic. The Galra soldiers surrounded him, beating him into the carpeted floor. Shiro tried to fend them off, but his limbs felt weak, sluggish with foreign curses. He was nauseous long before he was kicked in the head.
It always ended this way. Shiro had just never challenged anyone with such a prominent rank before. Other gladiators were more forgiving, and other gladiators couldn’t touch him so easily.
“Halt.” Commander Sendak’s voice rang clear. Shiro would only know learn later that one of his men had raised his sword to deal a finishing blow.
Shiro’s vision swam briefly and blood spilled over his eyes, but he still noticed that during the scuffle, Matt had rushed to the far end of the tent with the other gladiators. Small victories, Shiro reminded himself as he was dragged to his feet. He hung limply between two guards, forced to kneel by their commander’s feet.
Sendak touched his face slowly, sneering when his fingers came away red.Small victories. Shiro repeated to himself, this time with more force. He’d stolen the pride of first blood from the commander. Sendak kicked him hard enough to bruise his ribs, and despite every effort not to, Shiro gasped in pain. He would have curled up on himself if he was free.
Sendak sneered venom in his native tongue. The Galra had a harsh but melodious language, like every sharp syllable was designed to be sung. Shiro didn’t understand it, but he’d picked up a few words, and the way the soldiers laughed told him their commander must not have been very nice to him. He shifted back to the lilting tones of the Sun Kingdom’s speech with a ferocious grin.
“You’ve caught my attention, mutt. You’re not going to like having it.”
Shiro looked up defiantly, refusing to cower under the gaze of his ‘master.’ “You have no honor.” He snarled, accent clear as Sendak’s smile widened.
“You’re one of those Moon brats, aren’t you? I heard you’re all thieves and mystics, I’m surprised they had any warriors at all for our entertainment.” He leaned forward, studying Shiro with the intensity of a dog fighter picking out a prized animal. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you.”
He turned with a sweep of his cape and a chilling command. “Make sure he’s ready for the ring. I want to see him perform before we determine his punishment.” Sendak left with a flourish as the remaining Galra aimed another sharp kick at Shiro’s head, sending him spiraling into darkness.