The words struck her like a blade.
Choose me.
Not whispered by Evander.
But spoken in his exact voice—
the warmth, the tremor, the breath of it.
Her wolf stiffened violently.
Evander's eyes widened. "Lys…? I didn't—I didn't say anything."
She knew that.
She felt that.
But the shadow-wolf…
the twisted reflection of her own…
stood only a few feet away, its form shifting like liquid darkness, its jaws slightly parted as though it were smiling.
And the voice came again—
softer this time, weaker, as if trying to slip under her skin unnoticed.
"Lysandra… come to me."
Evander stepped in front of her instantly.
"That's not me," he said sharply. "Don't listen. Don't even look at it, Lys—don't—"
But she couldn't look away.
Because the shadow-wolf now had Evander's eyes.
Not fully.
Not exactly.
Just enough that her heart jolted painfully.
The Heir stepped forward, shadows rising in warning.
"It's learning your weaknesses fast," he said, voice dark.
"This Realm is not subtle."
Evander glared at the wolf-shaped shadow. "Why does it sound like me?"
"Because you are what she fears losing," the Heir answered simply.
"And what she fears losing is what the Realm uses to break her."
Lysandra's throat tightened.
The wolf-shadow took a step closer.
Step… step…
Each touch of its paws made the ground pulse faintly.
As if the darkness was following its command.
Evander moved in front of her again.
"Lysandra, stay behind me."
The Heir snapped, "Do not block her view. This is her trial, not yours."
"She's not facing that thing alone!"
"And she is not alone," the Heir replied.
Lysandra lifted a shaking hand.
Enough.
"Stop."
Her voice cut through the swirling darkness, and both men froze.
The wolf-shadow's head lifted, tilting curiously, as if pleased by her sound.
Lysandra took a breath—
slow, steady, controlled.
She had gone through one trial.
She had survived the shadows mimicking her parents' voices.
She had endured the Realm testing her fear.
She would not break now.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
The Heir stiffened instantly. "Lysandra—don't—"
But she wasn't answering the voice.
She wasn't speaking to the whispers.
She was speaking to the creature—
to the manifestation of her wolf's shadow.
The rules allowed that.
The shadow-wolf lowered its head, staring straight into her with Evander's eyes.
Then its mouth opened slightly—
And Evander's voice slipped out again.
"You know the truth."
Evander backed away, horrified.
"Stop using my voice!"
The Heir's shadows tightened.
"The Realm doesn't care for your comfort."
Lysandra's wolf rumbled inside her chest, pacing, restless.
It wanted to move closer—
wanted to challenge—
but Lysandra pressed her control deeper, keeping her wolf from reacting too soon.
The shadow-wolf spoke again.
Softer.
Slower.
More insidious.
"He is fragile…
He will break…
He will leave you bleeding…"
Evander flinched as if struck.
"Don't listen," he begged. "Lysandra—please—don't listen."
Her fingers curled.
Because some part of the voice…
some part of those words…
stung with a truth she had never confessed.
Evander was fragile in this world.
He was her heart.
He was the easiest way for the Realm to shatter her.
The Heir stepped close, lowering his voice to her ear.
"This is the essence of the trial," he murmured.
"It will tempt your wolf with doubt.
It will tempt you with fear.
Only if you believe the words will they become real."
The shadow-wolf growled—
a sound layered with Evander's voice beneath it.
"He will slow you down."
The Realm felt her hesitation.
The darkness around them pulsed, echoing the wolf's words.
Evander clenched his jaw and stepped beside her instead of in front of her.
His hand found hers again—shaking, yes, but still reaching.
"Lysandra," he breathed,
"I know I can't fight like him…
or sense things like you…
or survive this place as easily.
I know I'm the weak one here."
The Heir muttered, "At least he's self-aware—"
"But I won't leave you," Evander said fiercely.
"Not for a second.
Not even if this Realm tears me apart."
Lysandra's wolf stopped pacing.
Evander squeezed her fingers.
"I am yours. That's my truth."
The wolf-shadow hissed—
a sharp, furious crackle.
"Weak.
Useless.
Breakable."
Evander's eyes shimmered—hurt but defiant.
Lysandra stepped forward.
The Heir's hand shot out to stop her—
But she shook her head.
"No. Let me."
Her wolf rose.
Silver light pulsed across her irises.
The Realm stilled, as if waiting.
Lysandra stared into the shadow-wolf's twisted form and whispered:
"You are not him.
You will never be him.
And you do not get to use his voice."
The wolf-shadow froze.
A low, dangerous growl rumbled through her chest—
not from fear,
but dominance.
"I know his strength," she said.
"I know his heart.
And I know he is mine."
Evander exhaled, breath shaking.
The Heir's shadows trembled, reacting to her power.
The wolf-shadow snarled, the Realm vibrating with its fury.
Then it lunged.
Evander screamed her name—
The Heir snapped his arm out—
But Lysandra moved first.
Her wolf surged through her veins, lifting her heartbeat into her throat, sharpening her senses until she felt every particle of shadow bending toward her.
She stepped forward.
Hard.
Silver light exploded from her palms—
not an attack,
not a shield,
but pure dominance.
"STOP."
Her voice was layered—
Lysandra and her wolf speaking as one.
The Realm trembled.
The shadows froze.
The wolf-shadow halted in mid-lunge, body rigid, shaking violently.
Lysandra walked right up to it.
Close enough to feel its cold breath.
Close enough to see its shape flickering between wolf and smoke.
"You will not test me with fear," she whispered.
"You will not test me with him."
The shadow-wolf's chest heaved.
Her wolf rose fully inside her—
tall, proud, ancient.
BOW.
The shadow-wolf shuddered—
—and slowly, reluctantly lowered its head.
It bowed.
Evander gasped.
The Heir's eyes widened—just barely.
Lysandra stood tall, breath steady, heart fierce.
The Realm exhaled around her—
a deep, echoing sigh.
Then the shadow-wolf dissolved—
dust into darkness—
and the ground beneath them steadied.
Lysandra turned.
Evander's eyes were shining.
The Heir stepped closer, voice low, almost reverent.
"You didn't fight your shadow…
You commanded it."
Lysandra's wolf howled inside—
victorious, proud, unshaken.
The Heir lifted his face toward the swirling darkness above.
"It seems," he murmured,
"the Realm has accepted its Moonblood."
But Evander wasn't smiling.
He was staring into the darkness behind her with widening eyes.
"Lysandra," he whispered shakily,
"your first trial isn't over."
The shadows behind her shifted.
And a new voice slid out—
not Evander's,
not her mother's,
not her father's.
A voice she had only heard once in her dreams.
"Little moon…
come home."
And Lysandra froze.
The Realm
had chosen
its next illusion.