The moment Lysandra stepped through the arch, the world fell silent.
Not the Shadow Realm's usual silence—
this was deeper.
Hollow.
Ancient.
The ground under her boots shifted into something smooth and cold, like polished obsidian. The air thinned, making her breath frost in front of her lips. A soft glow pulsed faintly around her, allowing her to see only a few steps ahead.
Behind her, she felt Evander hesitate before following.
The Heir stepped in last.
As soon as all three entered, the archway closed.
Not with a slam—
it dissolved
into dust
and vanished.
Evander swore softly. "This Realm has the worst manners."
The Heir ignored him. His attention was fixed on Lysandra, watching her with careful, unreadable eyes.
"Do not run," he said quietly.
"You cannot escape this trial."
Lysandra nodded.
Her wolf leaned forward beneath her skin, alert.
We smell something.
Cold.
Old.
Ours.
A faint path appeared—thin lines of silver light flowing across the obsidian floor, twisting deeper into the darkness.
A direction.
Evander groaned. "Of course we follow the creepy glowy line."
Lysandra began walking.
Her steps echoed strangely—
not ahead,
not behind,
but inside the space, bouncing back at her like dozens of footsteps walking in sync.
Her heart stuttered.
"Are there… echoes in here?"
"No," the Heir murmured. "There are reflections."
Evander froze.
"Reflections of what?"
But Lysandra already knew.
The path led them into a wider expanse—a massive circular chamber with no visible ceiling, only an endless void of dark.
In the center stood a mirror.
A towering one.
Seven feet tall, carved from a single sheet of liquid shadow.
Its frame curled like vines made of bone.
Its surface shimmered faintly, as if alive.
Evander stepped back immediately.
"Nope. No. I know horror stories. Mirrors in magical realms are ALWAYS bad."
Lysandra approached.
Her wolf was silent now.
Watching.
Waiting.
The surface of the mirror rippled like disturbed water.
Then—
slowly—
it cleared.
Lysandra braced herself to see her own reflection.
But it wasn't her.
It was a version of her.
A girl with silver eyes and moonfire in her veins—
but not the woman she had become.
This reflection was younger.
Smaller.
Barefoot.
Terrified.
Lysandra gasped.
Evander moved instantly to her side. "Lys—what is it?"
She couldn't speak.
Because the girl inside the mirror—
her past self—
looked no older than ten, with messy hair, trembling hands, and a bruise blooming under her eye.
The same bruise Lysandra had once hidden under her scarf for weeks.
Evander saw it.
His entire body went rigid.
"Who did this to you?" he whispered, voice breaking.
Lysandra closed her eyes.
"My aunt."
The Heir listened silently, shadows tightening at his feet.
Evander's fists clenched.
"She hit you? A child?"
"Not often," Lysandra whispered. "Only when I… when I was different."
Her young reflection lifted her chin.
The mirror changed.
Now it showed the day Lysandra accidentally let her wolf's aura slip for the first time—
at age thirteen—
when the air shimmered around her and the cats in her village ran, hissing, terrified.
Her aunt had screamed.
Her uncle had stared in horror.
The mirror replayed their words.
"Monster girl!"
"Hide her! Before someone sees!"
Evander flinched as if struck.
Lysandra's nails dug into her palms.
The mirror shifted again.
Now it showed the night she fled under a half-moon, barefoot and shaking, hiding behind a wagon while villagers searched the forest with torches.
She had cried into her hands, begging her wolf to stay quiet.
The girl inside the mirror looked straight at Lysandra.
Small.
Afraid.
Alone.
Evander stepped forward—but Lysandra held out an arm.
"No," she whispered. "This is my trial."
The Heir nodded, voice calm.
"The Trial of Truth shows you the moments that shaped you."
Evander's voice softened to a whisper.
"Lys… you never told me this."
"I never wanted to remember," she breathed.
Her reflection blinked—
and grew older.
The mirror now showed her at sixteen—
standing behind the flower shop, blood on her hands from cutting herself on broken pots,
still hiding what she was.
It showed nights she curled on the shop floor with moonlight spilling through the window, whispering to the sky because she had no one else.
Little truths.
Lonely truths.
Buried truths.
Lysandra's chest ached.
The Heir stepped closer but didn't touch her.
"Do not turn away," he said softly. "Face her."
Evander whispered, "You don't have to—"
"I do."
She stepped toward the mirror until she stood only inches from it.
Her reflection—now her current age—stared back.
Silver eyes.
A shaking breath.
Moonlight in her veins.
"How does this trial end?" she asked quietly.
The Heir's voice was almost gentle.
"You must accept every version of yourself.
The broken.
The terrified.
The hidden."
Lysandra swallowed.
"And if I can't?"
"The mirror will keep you," he said.
"Forever."
Evander swore violently. "Not happening."
But the mirror shattered before he could move.
Not into pieces—
into scenes.
A thousand shards floated around her, each one showing a moment from her past.
Lysandra at five, crying because the moon kept talking to her when no one else could hear.
Lysandra at nine, trying to hide her glowing eyes under her hair.
Lysandra at twelve, whispering to flowers because she had no friends.
Lysandra at sixteen, swallowing her tears in silence because she thought crying made her weak.
All of them hovered around her like ghosts.
Evander reached for her—
but the Heir stopped him.
"She must do this herself."
Lysandra was surrounded.
Her wolf trembled.
Not with fear—
with recognition.
We were all of these.
We are all of these.
Lysandra closed her eyes.
She reached out with a shaking hand, touching the nearest shard—a memory of her at ten, crying alone behind her aunt's house.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
The shard brightened—
then dissolved into silver dust.
She touched another—
the moment she was called a monster.
"I forgive you."
Dust.
Another—
her hands bleeding in the shop.
"You were trying. You didn't fail."
Dust.
She touched every version.
Every scar.
Every secret.
Every fear she'd shoved so deep she thought she'd buried herself with them.
And as each shard dissolved, something inside her loosened.
Something opened.
Something healed.
At last, only one reflection remained—
herself.
Strong.
Awakened.
Moonblood.
Lysandra stepped toward the final shard.
"I accept you," she whispered.
Her reflection smiled softly—
and vanished.
The darkness fell still.
Then the Realm spoke—
not in words,
but in a pulse that trembled through the ground.
Truth accepted.
The Heir exhaled.
Evander rushed forward and pulled her into his arms.
"Lys—thank the moon—you're okay."
She leaned into him, exhausted but light.
"I'm more than okay," she whispered.
"I'm whole."
The path behind them dissolved.
A new one opened ahead.
The Heir's eyes glittered with unreadable emotion.
"The Trial of Truth is complete."
Evander held her tighter.
"Then it's over?"
The Heir shook his head slowly.
"No."
He pointed at the new path.
"The next trial begins now."
Lysandra swallowed.
Evander groaned.
Her wolf lifted its head.
We are ready.