The path out of Luneville was quieter than it had any right to be.
Too quiet.
The forest that bordered the town usually hummed with night insects, owls, the whisper of leaves. Tonight, everything held its breath. No wings fluttered. No branches creaked. Even the wind seemed to curl away from the road, as though refusing to touch the ground where Lysandra walked.
Evander kept close to her side, his fingers brushing her arm now and then—not gripping, not guiding, but checking.
Checking that she was still real.
Still beside him.
Still breathing.
The Heir moved just ahead of them, his shadows stretched long and thin across the dirt path like silent scouts.
Marcel walked behind, slow but determined, a torch in hand. The flame sputtered weakly, as if it, too, wanted to flee.
After nearly an hour, Evander finally spoke.
"We should have waited for daylight."
"We couldn't," Lysandra said softly. "Whatever marked the earth didn't do it to scare us. It did it to call us."
Evander groaned. "Why does everyone want to call you lately? The Realm, the Order, the moon, now things that eat stars—what next, the local bakery?"
Despite everything, Lysandra smiled faintly.
The Heir didn't.
He glanced back, eyes sharp.
"Human humor won't help you tonight."
Evander scowled. "It helps me."
"Then keep it quiet," the Heir murmured. "We are being listened to."
Evander stiffened.
"What's listening?"
The Heir didn't answer.
Because Lysandra felt it too.
A whisper along her skin.
A cold brush across her shoulders.
A silence that wasn't empty, but watching.
Her wolf raised its head.
Not animal.
Not shadow.
Not spirit.
Other.
The river finally came into view through the trees, moonlight reflecting off its surface like a trembling sheet of silver.
Marcel pointed shakily.
"There. Look."
Lysandra stepped past the last line of trees.
And froze.
The circle was huge—at least thirty feet across—burned into the ground so deeply the soil had turned to blackened glass. The shape wasn't clean like a spell rune; it had jagged edges, uneven scorches, places where the earth had bubbled up as if it had screamed.
But the worst part was the center.
A single word.
Carved deep.
Still glowing faintly.
MOONBLOOD
Lysandra's heart dropped into her stomach.
Evander inhaled sharply.
"No. No, no, no—this looks like a trap. Or a warning. Or a psychotic love letter."
The Heir stepped into the circle without fear.
"Not a warning."
He knelt, touching the scorched soil.
"Tracks. Imprints. The ground buckled inward. Whatever did this landed here."
Evander choked. "Landed?"
The Heir stood.
"From the seam."
A shiver ran through Lysandra.
"You mean…"
"Yes," he said quietly. "A Starved was here."
Marcel swore softly and backed up.
Evander grabbed Lysandra's hand.
"So we leave. Immediately. Now. Tonight. Forever."
But Lysandra didn't move.
Because something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Her wolf crept to the front of her mind—not in panic, but in instinct.
Listen.
Hear.
The ground remembers.
Lysandra knelt where the circle's scorch marks met unburned soil. She pressed her palm flat.
The moment her fingers touched the earth—
—images crashed into her mind.
Not clear.
Not full.
But flashes.
A shadow stretching across the riverbank.
A ripple of starlight being eaten.
A shape with too many limbs and no fixed outline.
A whisper like wind pulled backward.
A feeling of hunger so immense it had no bottom.
Lysandra recoiled, ripping her hand away.
Evander caught her before she fell backward.
"What happened? Lysandra—what did you see?"
She shook her head, trying to breathe.
"It was here. It stood right here. It's… looking for me."
Evander tightened his hold.
"Why? Why you?"
"Because I woke something," Lysandra whispered, trembling. "Because I'm a seam."
The Heir approached her slowly.
"When did your awakening first split the sky?"
"When I touched the Heart," she whispered. "When I accepted all my bonds. When I—"
"When you defied the Realm," the Heir finished.
Lysandra swallowed.
Evander stepped between her and the Heir.
"None of this is her fault."
The Heir's voice softened.
"I did not say it was."
Evander opened his mouth to argue again—but Lysandra touched his wrist.
"There's more," she whispered.
They both turned.
Her wolf pressed harder.
Look.
Look deeper.
Look beyond burn.
Lysandra stepped into the circle, ignoring Evander's "Lys, PLEASE don't—".
At the exact center of the glowing word, she crouched.
The ground here wasn't just burned.
It was cracked.
And something shone inside the crack.
She touched it lightly—
A shard.
Silver.
Small as a fingernail.
Warm.
Evander knelt beside her.
"What is that? Glass?"
"No," the Heir breathed.
"Something far worse."
Lysandra lifted it to the moonlight.
It pulsed once.
Then dissolved into a whisper.
A voice so faint only she could hear it.
"You opened the door."
Lysandra dropped the shard.
Evander caught her shoulders.
"What did it say?"
She looked up, heart pounding.
"It spoke."
"WHAT spoke?"
"The Starved."
The Heir's shadows recoiled again.
"They don't speak," he said quietly.
"They devour."
Lysandra shook her head.
"No. This one did."
Evander's eyes widened.
"You talked to it?! It talked to you?! About WHAT?!"
Lysandra looked at the cracked earth.
"It knows my name."
Evander went pale.
"Lys… monsters don't know names."
"They do," the Heir corrected, voice dark.
"When the name is power."
A cold tremor slid through her.
"Why me?" she whispered. "Why does it want me?"
Her wolf answered before the Heir or Evander could.
Because we are open.
Because we are new.
Because we shine.
And hunger always finds the brightest flame.
The Heir nodded slowly, confirming her wolf's instinct.
"The Starved feed on magic," he said. "Especially rare magic. And yours is… unprecedented."
Evander grabbed her hand.
"Well then we hide her. We run. We—"
"No," the Heir interrupted.
Evander glared.
"WHY NOT?"
"Because," the Heir said, eyes fixed on the burned circle,
"It isn't chasing her."
Lysandra's breath caught.
Evander blinked.
"What do you mean it isn't chasing her? The ground literally says her name!"
"It marked her," the Heir said. "But it didn't follow her tracks. It didn't sniff along the road. It didn't hunt her scent."
"Then what IS it doing?"
The Heir turned toward Lysandra.
"It is waiting."
Lysandra opened her mouth to ask for what?
But she didn't need to.
The breeze shifted.
The trees went still.
The cold beneath the earth rose like a whisper under her feet.
And she knew.
Not because of fear.
Not because of instinct.
Because the Starved voice—the one that whispered through the shard—still echoed inside her bones.
"Moonblood.
Open the way."
Lysandra staggered backward.
Evander caught her.
The Heir swore softly—a rare, deadly sound.
"It wants me," Lysandra whispered.
"To open a seam for it."
Evander shook his head violently.
"No. No way. You're not doing that. You're not opening anything."
The Heir faced the river, eyes narrowed.
"It doesn't need the seam," he said.
"Not if you walk toward it."
Evander stared.
"You're saying if she tries to run… she'll tear the worlds open herself?"
Lysandra's wolf curled protectively around her heart.
We cannot flee.
We cannot hide.
We must choose.
Evander's voice broke.
"We're not letting it take you."
The Heir turned to Lysandra, shadows trembling.
"There is only one path now," he said softly.
"You must learn to control the seam before it controls you."
Lysandra looked at them—
her golden bond, trembling with fear;
her shadow bond, steeled with resolve.
Her heart hurt with how much she needed them both.
"How?" she whispered. "How do I control something I don't understand?"
The Heir took her hand.
Evander took the other.
And the three of them stood in the center of the burned circle.
"You won't do it alone," the Heir said.
"You'll do it with us," Evander added.
Her wolf lifted its head.
Together.
Always.
Three.
Lysandra inhaled, steadying herself.
"Then teach me," she whispered.
"Before the Starved finds another way through."
And somewhere in the woods beyond the river,
a branch cracked—
as something very large
moved closer.