The voice dripped into the darkness like warm honey poured over ice.
Soft.
Gentle.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
"Little moon… come home."
Lysandra's blood went cold.
Evander spun around, grabbing her wrist as if afraid she might vanish.
"That's NOT real," he whispered harshly. "Lysandra, do you hear me? It's not real."
The Heir didn't speak immediately.
He stood perfectly still, violet eyes narrowing at the darkness as though he were studying a puzzle.
"Who is that?" he asked quietly.
Lysandra shook her head, breath shallow.
"I don't know."
But that was a lie.
Her heart knew.
Her wolf knew.
The voice slid through the air again—closer this time, curling around her ears like a whisper spoken behind her while she slept.
"I have waited so long…"
Evander stepped in front of her, fury lighting his face.
"Stop using her memories! She doesn't even know that voice—she doesn't—she can't—"
Lysandra's wolf growled sharply inside her.
We know.
We remember.
Before memory…
before name…
before birth…
The Heir's shadows tightened around his feet.
"This is impossible," he murmured.
Evander threw him a panicked look. "Impossible how?"
The Heir didn't answer.
Instead, he turned slowly—too slowly—to face Lysandra.
"Describe the voice."
Lysandra swallowed hard.
"It feels…"
her lips trembled,
"…like something I've heard in a dream. Not a memory. Something older."
Evander's grip on her hand turned painful, but she didn't pull away.
"You're scaring me," he whispered.
Another whisper drifted toward them—
not from ahead,
not from behind,
but from everywhere at once.
"Little moon…
my child…"
Evander froze.
"What—WHAT did it just say?"
Lysandra stepped back instinctively.
"No… no, that's not—"
Her wolf paced inside her chest, restless, uneasy, but not afraid.
It knows us.
It knew us first.
Older than this body…
Older than this life…
The Heir finally moved.
"Lysandra," he said sharply, stepping between her and the darkness, "you must not answer."
"I'm not answering," she whispered, voice trembling.
"But it's calling me—why is it calling me?"
"Because it wants to break you," he replied.
"Because it thinks it knows you," Evander muttered, panic creeping up his voice. "Lysandra, don't listen—just look at me—LOOK at me."
She did.
But the voice came again.
"Daughter of moonlight…
of silver fire…
come home to me."
The Heir stiffened, shadows flaring.
Evander's grip faltered.
Lysandra felt something heavy press against her chest—
not fear
not pain
something deeper.
Recognition.
Not from her.
From her wolf.
Her wolf rose in a slow, powerful wave, lifting her breath, sharpening her senses.
We know this one.
We know this darkness.
We remember the first howl.
The first night.
The first mother.
Lysandra collapsed to her knees as a sudden surge of pain shot through her head.
Evander fell beside her instantly.
"Lysandra! Talk to me—what is happening—?!"
The Heir knelt too, but didn't touch her.
His eyes flickered with worry he tried to hide.
"She's remembering," he murmured.
Evander shook her shoulders.
"Remembering WHAT?!"
Lysandra didn't hear them.
The Realm spun around her—
shadows spiraling into shapes,
whispers melting into images,
the darkness cracking open like a curtain.
She saw—
Silver light.
A massive wolf lying beneath a sky of stars.
Eyes like moons.
Fur like starlight.
Breath like wind that shaped the world.
A voice like the first lullaby ever sung.
"My little moon…"
Lysandra gasped, clutching her head.
Evander grabbed her face with shaking hands.
"Lysandra, PLEASE—come back—come back to me—"
But she couldn't.
Not yet.
Because her wolf pushed forward, filling every corner of her being with one truth:
The voice belongs to the First Mother.
The ancient wolf.
The one who birthed all moonblood.
The one who blessed the first pack.
The one who chose us.
The darkness swirled, shifting into a shape—
massive, towering, indistinct—
but Lysandra could feel the presence.
Ancient.
Primordial.
Older than the Shadow Realm itself.
The Heir hissed under his breath.
"No. This is not possible."
Evander's voice broke.
"What do you mean not possible?! What is happening to her?!"
The Heir stood slowly, eyes blazing.
"The Realm is mimicking something it should not even know exists."
Evander blinked. "Meaning?"
The Heir's jaw clenched.
"Meaning it is pretending to be the First Wolf."
Evander paled. "The what?"
Lysandra felt the ground hum beneath her palms.
The shadows parted—
And something stepped forward.
Not a wolf.
Not a creature.
Not a person.
A silhouette shaped from pure silver light and deep, ancient shadow—
neither alive nor dead,
neither illusion nor truth.
Evander scrambled to his feet, dragging Lysandra up with him.
"Shadow—SHADOW—what is that?"
"A memory," the Heir whispered.
"A lie wearing the face of a goddess."
The silver-shadow form lowered its head.
Light flickered around it, spilling into the darkness like liquid moonlight.
It spoke again—
not with malice,
not with hunger,
but with undeniable authority.
"Moon-child…
I have been waiting for you."
Lysandra felt her breath break.
Her wolf pressed forward—
not growling,
not resisting,
but kneeling.
Evander panicked. "Lysandra, STOP—don't bow—DON'T—"
She wasn't bowing.
Her wolf was.
And that terrified her even more.
The Heir lunged forward, grabbing her shoulder.
"Lysandra! Fight it!"
She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks.
"I can't… it's not fear… it's—"
Her voice cracked.
"…recognition."
The Heir froze.
Evander looked lost, helpless, shaking.
"Lysandra, PLEASE—look at me—listen to me—don't go to it—don't—"
But the silver-shadow lowered itself to the ground
until its forehead almost touched hers.
Her wolf trembled.
Mother.
Lysandra sobbed.
The Heir reacted instantly, shadows lashing out like blades.
"ENOUGH!"
The Realm trembled.
The silver-shadow flickered violently.
And then—
It spoke again, louder.
"Moonblood child…
your throne waits."
The ground cracked beneath them.
A violent pulse shot through the darkness.
Evander yelled her name.
The Heir threw out his arm, shadows whipping like a shield.
And Lysandra—
felt herself dragged forward
by something deeper than destiny.
The silver-shadow vanished.
Silence fell.
Her wolf lifted its head.
We are not prey.
We are not lost.
We are called.
The Heir whispered,
"…the Realm isn't testing you anymore."
Evander grabbed her arm. "Then what is it doing?!"
The Heir's jaw clenched.
"It's awakening you."
Lysandra shivered.
Because deep inside her—
beneath her heartbeat,
beneath her fear,
a new power stirred.
And it whispered back.