The veil stretched thin under their joined hands, trembling like a fabric pulled too tight. Silver, gold, and violet threads bled into it, rewriting the boundary between realms. The barrier shivered once—twice—then split down the middle with a soft hiss, like breath leaving a wounded creature.
Lysandra staggered as the world lurched.
Not just the world—worlds.
A rush of wind swept around them, tugging their hair and clothes upward, as though gravity hadn't decided which direction to belong to. The Shadow Realm pushed from behind her; the mortal world pulled from the front.
Two realms, fighting for her.
Evander gripped her tighter. "Easy—easy—keep your feet."
The Heir reached out instinctively, catching her elbow with steady fingers. His shadows swirled around her ankles, anchoring her so the pull didn't tear her in half.
"Step forward," he said.
She didn't know if he meant onto the mortal side or simply into the seam itself, but her feet moved of their own accord.
A half step.
Light cracked in the seam.
A second step.
Shadows crawled along the floor.
And then—
The world changed.
She stood on cobblestones.
Cold air hit her lungs first, thick with the smell of smoke and wet earth. Torches burned in iron brackets along the street. The flicker of orange light blurred against night fog. People were gathered—too many, too close.
Lysandra blinked, dizzy with disorientation.
The square.
The very heart of Luneville.
Evander swore under his breath. "We made it."
The Heir said nothing, but his shadows pressed down, ready to snap into darkness at the slightest threat.
No one noticed them yet—the seam had placed them behind the fountain, half cloaked in mist. But a voice carried over the crowd:
"Bring the accused forward!"
Lysandra flinched. The robed woman from the vision lifted her book higher, chanting words the seam had muted before—but not now.
"—by the Order of Hollow Light, all touched by corruption must answer for the mark!"
A murmur rippled across the square. Fear. Excitement. Hungry uncertainty.
Lysandra's heart cracked.
Marcel stood at the center of the platform, hands tied, head bowed.
His knees shook.
His coat—the one she'd mended—was torn at the shoulder. Mud streaked his cheeks. He looked older than she'd ever seen him.
Evander hissed, "They're about to sentence him."
The Heir narrowed his eyes. "No. They are about to use him. As bait."
"For what?" Evander demanded.
"For her," the Heir said.
The sideways eye symbol gleamed on every torch.
Lysandra's breath hitched. "We have to stop this."
"Then do it," her wolf growled inside her. "Go."
But she didn't charge.
She stepped into the crowd—slowly, carefully—each footstep deliberate.
Evander followed close, ready to shield her at a heartbeat's notice. The Heir walked just behind, his shadows brushing her back like a cloak.
People whispered as she passed.
"Who—?"
"Is that—?"
"Her eyes—look at her eyes—!"
Silver glinted with every blink.
She didn't hide it.
Not now.
Not anymore.
When she reached the edge of the platform, the masked commander noticed her first. The eye on his helm gleamed white.
"You," he said, voice booming across the crowd. "Moon-touched girl."
The crowd tensed.
Shadows pooled behind her like rippling ink.
Evander stepped forward, but she caught his wrist. Not this time. She wouldn't hide behind him.
"I'm here," she said. "Let Marcel go."
The masked commander tilted his head. "Step onto the platform."
Evander growled, "Don't you—"
But she was already stepping up, eyes never leaving the commander.
"No," she said. "You want me. I'm here. Release him."
The commander glanced at the bound man. "He sheltered you once. He hid your nature from us. That is a crime."
Lysandra's voice shook with fury. "He hid nothing. He protected a girl who had no one."
The crowd murmured.
The Heir's shadows hissed behind her—unhappy with being surrounded by so much mortal fear—but he stayed still.
For her.
Evander hovered on the steps, fists trembling.
The commander raised his book. "You stand accused of corruption. Of harboring moon-born magic. Of consorting with shadows."
The Heir's voice darkened. "Consorting?"
The masked man ignored him.
"And of forging unnatural bonds."
Lysandra's heart clenched.
Evander tensed, as if the words physically struck him. "Unnatural—? We saved her life—she saved—"
"Evander," Lysandra whispered.
He quieted.
But anger burned in his eyes.
The commander lifted his book higher. "Confess, Moonblood."
Her wolf bristled at the name.
Lysandra straightened.
"I confess nothing," she said.
The crowd gasped.
"You want a monster?" she asked, voice rising. "You want the creature you drew on your walls? You want the story you've been whispering for months? Then look at me."
And she let her magic breathe.
Silver light filled her eyes, gleaming like liquid moonfire. Her wolf stretched beneath her skin, curling through her aura. The shadows behind her rose—not violently, but unmistakably. A faint gold warmth flickered around her wrists, Evander's bond flaring in response.
People stepped back.
Some screamed.
But most stared—
not in horror—
in awe.
The masked commander watched her carefully. "So you admit—"
"I admit," Lysandra cut in, "that I am exactly who the moon made me."
He stiffened.
"And I admit," she continued, "that if you touch Marcel again, I will show you exactly how much power you misunderstand."
A ripple of fear ran through the torches.
Evander took a step onto the platform.
The Heir stepped onto the other side.
Two bonds.
Two shadows.
Two kinds of magic circling her like twin storms.
The commander looked from one to the other.
"Then you force my hand."
He slammed the book shut.
The torches' flames turned blue.
The symbol of the Order flared on their armor.
Lysandra felt the Realm tug inside her chest—a warning.
Evander sensed it too. "Lys—get back—"
But the Heir hissed,
"No. Stay still. They're calling something."
Something heavy pressed down in the air, shifting the wind. The torches sputtered. The whisper of something old slithered through the square.
A shadowy vibration.
A pulling.
A summoning.
Lysandra's breath caught.
The Heir's voice dropped.
"They're opening a rift."
Evander swore. "Here? In the town?! For what?"
"For guidance," the Heir said darkly.
"Or for judgment."
The seam above the platform split like a tear in the sky.
A pale, smoke-like form drifted through—long, formless, vaguely humanoid, its edges dissolving into mist. It pulsed with cold light.
A spirit.
No—
A Sentinel of Hollow Light.
The crowd fell to its knees.
The commander bowed deeply. "We summon judgment upon the Moon-touched one."
Lysandra's wolf snarled, but the Sentinel lowered its faceless head toward her.
UNBOUND ONE, it whispered into her bones.
THE MOONMARK DOES NOT BELONG HERE.
Lysandra gritted her teeth as pressure crushed her lungs.
Evander rushed forward—knees nearly buckling—but his gold aura wrapped around her like a shield.
The Heir stepped up, shadows rising tall behind him.
"Enough," he said, voice echoing with Realm-borne authority. "She is mine."
Everything froze.
The Sentinel recoiled at the shadow in his voice.
Then it tilted toward Evander—sensing gold warmth—and hissed.
Then back to Lysandra—silver blazing—and trembled.
"You cannot judge what you cannot understand," she said, lifting her chin.
Her wolf rose behind her, teeth bared.
"You cannot condemn what you cannot see."
The Sentinel pulsed violently.
The sky shuddered.
And then—
It screamed.
The square erupted into chaos.
The torches blew out.
The wind went wild.
The rift snapped wider—
—and the Sentinel lunged straight at her.
Evander shoved her back.
The Heir's shadows exploded outward.
And Lysandra's moonlight burst like a blade.
The rift snapped shut—
But the scream lingered.
Something ancient had been summoned.
And something ancient
had answered.