Luna Vincit

The cold wrapped around him like a merciless specter, his breath uneven, trembling. His fingers danced across the piano keys, each note echoing through the hollow corridors of his mansion. His long, ebony hair cascaded over his pale face, veiling the ivories from his sight, yet not a single note faltered. Passion bled into every chord, and perfection was merely an afterthought—his heart dictated the music, not his mind.

His white dress shirt, billowing and ill-fitting, hung loose over his frail frame, untucked from the depths of his black slacks. He sat hunched, his spine curled like a broken willow, his bare feet brushing against the pedals. The rhythmic patter of rain against the windowpane melded into his melody, a silent accompaniment to his lament.

And at last, she arrived.

Her glow seeped through the gossamer curtains, beckoned forth by the wind’s obedient whisper. She unveiled him, her radiance illuminating the shadows that clung to his form. And still, his hands never ceased their restless pursuit of sound, the melody winding into something more, something reverent. His gray eyes, once dulled by sorrow’s embrace, flickered—an ember catching fire. The melancholic symphony shifted, the notes sharpening with purpose, yearning, resolve. 

She had come for him.

But salvation is never without sacrifice.

Enthralled by her celestial beauty, he failed to see the silent chains curling around him. The Moon had chosen him, and he, blind to the cost, surrendered willingly. She was his muse, his light in the abyss, and in return, he was to be hers—his soul bound in eternal servitude. He played for her, his devotion unwavering, his fate sealed in the heavens where night reigned supreme.