The world dissolved.
Not fell—
not broke—
just dissolved, like a watercolor painting left in the rain.
Moonlight melted into ink.
Silver pillars bled into shadow.
The floor beneath Lysandra vanished with a soft, horrifying sigh.
She didn't fall.
She sank.
Like hands of darkness were gently pulling her down.
"Lysandra!" Caelum's voice echoed, distant and warped.
"Fight him—stay with the light!"
She reached for him—
but her fingers slipped through silver dust.
The Shadow Heir held her wrist tighter.
Not bruising.
Not forceful.
But possessive.
Like she was something precious.
Something already his.
His voice curled around her like smoke.
Stop struggling. It will only hurt you.
Lysandra thrashed harder.
"Let me go! I don't belong to you!"
He didn't flinch.
The shadows wrapped around her waist, pulling her deeper into the dark void between realms.
His eyes—violet, molten, too intense—fixed on her trembling lips.
"You keep saying things you don't understand," he murmured.
"I understand perfectly," she spat.
"I want NOTHING from you!"
His expression shifted.
Not anger.
Not amusement.
Something deeper.
Something dangerous.
"You want answers," he whispered.
"You want truth.
You want control."
His thumb brushed over her collarbone mark.
"And I want…"
his voice dropped,
"…what is mine."
Lysandra trembled with fury.
"I am NOT yours!"
A slow smirk curved his lips.
"And yet you carry my mark."
She shoved at him with both hands—
a burst of moonlight shooting out.
For a second—
a heartbeat—
she saw surprise flicker in his eyes.
Then darkness swallowed the light whole.
He caught both her wrists easily, pinning them at her sides.
"Do not fight me," he said calmly.
"You will lose."
"I'd rather lose than bow to you."
Something sharp glinted in his gaze.
"Good," he whispered.
"I prefer a wolf with teeth."
The Shadow Realm
They slammed into solid ground before she could scream.
Lysandra gasped, her knees hitting cold black stone.
The air felt different here—
thin, metallic, humming with dark energy.
The sky overhead was a swirling mass of indigo clouds, shot through with veins of violet lightning. No moon. No stars.
Just endless night.
She stumbled backward, breath shaky.
"Where… where am I?"
The Night Heir stood beside her, completely unbothered.
"In my realm," he said.
"Between worlds. Between breath and shadow."
Lysandra stared at the horizon.
Shadow creatures crawled across distant cliffs—
some wolf-shaped,
some monstrous,
some shifting like wet ink.
Her wolf snarled inside her chest—
loud, furious, terrified.
We should NOT be here.
He brought us to HIS territory.
Lysandra backed away.
"No. No. You can't do this. I have to get back. Caelum is hurt. Evander—"
At Evander's name, the Heir's head snapped toward her.
His eyes darkened.
"He's not your concern."
"He IS," she hissed.
"He's human. He could die. And you—"
"Humans die," the Heir said flatly.
"It changes nothing."
She felt like he had slapped her.
"How can you say that?!"
He stepped toward her.
"Easily."
His voice turned colder.
"You are Moonblood. The last of your lineage. Born under a cursed eclipse. Chosen by ancient light."
His fingers lifted her chin.
"And you think your destiny lies with a mortal boy?"
Her breath caught.
"Destiny doesn't own me."
His smirk softened.
"No.
I do."
Lysandra ripped her face away.
"Why me?" she demanded.
"There are hundreds of wolves. Hundreds of powerful beings. Why me?"
The Heir looked at her—really looked at her.
Eyes glowing deeper than any night.
"Because you are the only one," he whispered,
"who was born to balance me."
She froze.
"What?"
"You are the Moon's chosen.
I am the Shadow's heir."
He walked in a slow circle around her, voice low and hypnotic.
"Light creates darkness.
Darkness consumes light.
We complete each other."
"I don't want to complete you," she whispered.
He chuckled softly.
"Want has nothing to do with fate."
He stopped behind her.
His breath brushed her ear.
"When the Blood Crescent shone," he murmured,
"two heirs were born.
One from moonlight.
One from shadow.
Bound by prophecy."
"No," she whispered.
"You're lying."
He stepped in front of her again.
"Am I?"
Lysandra shook her head desperately.
"No… no, it can't be. They would've told me. Caelum—"
He lifted a finger.
"Caelum lied to protect you."
She staggered back as if struck.
"No…"
"He hid your past," the Heir said.
"He hid me.
He hid what you are capable of."
Her hands shook violently.
"You're trying to manipulate me."
"I don't need to," he murmured.
"The truth does that for me."
He reached out—
slowly, gently—
and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Lysandra flinched.
"Don't touch me."
He tilted his head.
"It calms you."
"No," she breathed.
"Yes," he whispered.
Her wolf trembled.
Confused.
Drawn.
Repulsed.
Terrified.
He stepped closer.
"Do you want to know what scares you most, Moonblood?"
"No."
He ignored her.
"You are afraid," he said softly,
"because your power does not reject mine."
Lysandra's lip trembled.
"That's not true."
He leaned in—
too close,
too careful,
too knowing.
"It is.
Your power recognizes its twin."
She shook her head violently.
"No—Evander—"
His jaw clenched.
The gentle tone vanished.
"Stop saying his name."
She froze.
The ground beneath her trembled—
just a whisper—
but the Heir's eyes turned black around the edges.
"He is not part of your fate," he said.
"He is," she whispered stubbornly.
The Heir exhaled slowly through his teeth.
"Then I will remove him."
Lysandra felt her lungs collapse.
"Don't you dare—"
"He stands between you and who you are meant to become."
"He saved me!"
"He distracted you."
"He cares."
"He weakens you."
"No," Lysandra whispered, tears rising.
"He makes me stronger."
The Heir laughed—
low, hollow, cold.
"He is nothing compared to what we could be."
She backed away, shaking.
"I don't want 'we.' I don't want YOU."
His eyes darkened further—
hurt flickering so faint she almost missed it.
"You will," he whispered.
"No."
"You MUST."
"No!"
She turned to run—
But the shadows rose instantly, cutting her path off.
The Heir lifted his hand.
"Lysandra."
She froze.
His voice…
It wasn't cold.
It wasn't angry.
It was—
lonely.
"You do not understand the weight of what you are," he murmured.
"You and I… we were shaped by the same eclipse. Born from the same ancient rift. Our powers—our destinies—are tied."
"I'm not yours," she whispered again.
He stepped closer, eyes blazing.
"You are the only light that can challenge me."
A pause.
"And the only one who can destroy me."
She stiffened.
"Good," she hissed.
"Then stay away."
Something flickered in his expression.
Something dark.
Something broken.
"You think I want to hurt you," he whispered.
"You think I want your blood."
His hand hovered in the air.
"I want your fire."
She shook her head.
"I want your fury."
She backed away.
"I want your magic."
Her breath shortened.
"I want…"
his voice dropped lower,
"…your loyalty."
Lysandra trembled.
He leaned in.
"And I will have it."
"No," she breathed, shaking.
"Yes," he murmured.
"You will come to me.
Willingly."
Her stomach twisted with fear.
"Never."
His lips curved.
"Then I will make you choose."
The shadows swirled violently around them.
Lysandra screamed—
Not in pain.
In terror.
Because the Heir whispered one final sentence—
soft, cruel, and undeniable:
"Him… or you."
Then the darkness swallowed her whole.