The creature's last whisper—"Come"—hung in the air long after its smoky form dissolved. The burned circle beside the river felt suddenly too small, too fragile, too mortal for what had just touched their world. The forest swayed in the night breeze, yet not a single leaf dared to fall.
Lysandra stood still, breathing slowly, trying to steady the trembling in her fingers.
Evander didn't let go of her.
Not even after the creature vanished.
Not even after it became clear the danger had passed—
for now.
He held her shoulders tightly, forehead nearly touching hers.
"Lysandra… please. Don't tell me you're thinking what I think you're thinking."
She swallowed. "I have to go north."
He squeezed her arms harder.
"No. No, you don't. You don't owe that thing anything."
The Heir stepped closer, shadows curling around his boots.
"She is not helping it," he murmured.
"She is seeking what broke it."
Evander snapped, "Same difference!"
But Lysandra looked past them—northward, beyond the dark river, beyond the faint outline of mountains rising like jagged black teeth against the sky.
Marcel's voice broke the silence.
"Lysandra… that place—what they call the Dead North—it's cursed. No one goes there. The earth sinks beneath you. The sky goes dark even at noon. It's not a place for humans."
Evander muttered, "Good. We're not going."
The Heir corrected softly,
"She is."
Evander spun on him. "HOW ABOUT YOU STOP ENCOURAGING HER INSANITY—"
"Evander."
Lysandra's voice stopped him cold.
Her silver eyes reflecting moonlight made him quiet instantly.
She stepped closer, taking his shaking hand in hers.
"I'm not doing this because it asked me to," she said gently.
He didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
"I'm doing this because the Order broke something ancient. Something powerful. And now its fragments are tearing the realms apart trying to heal itself."
Evander's jaw tightened.
"And you think you're supposed to fix it?"
Lysandra inhaled deeply.
"The seam is my fault. My awakening made the crack visible."
The Heir stepped forward.
"No. You did not break the creature.
But you are the only one the fragments can speak to."
Marcel whispered, "Why? Why you?"
Lysandra touched her chest.
"Because I shine."
Evander made a strangled sound.
"That thing called you shiny because it wants to EAT you—"
The Heir cut in.
"No. It sought her because she carries moonlight, shadow, and truth. She is the only being alive whose magic spans three forces. The only one capable of hearing a fractured cosmic entity without dying."
Evander stared at him.
"What are you even saying? She's just—she's—"
He couldn't finish.
Because even he didn't believe she was "just" anything anymore.
Lysandra squeezed his hand.
"I have to go. If I don't, the remaining fragments will find me. Or they'll die trying. And every time one dies near a seam…"
The Heir finished for her.
"…the realms tear further apart."
A quiet horror washed over Evander's face.
"So if you stay here, everything breaks."
"Yes."
He shut his eyes.
"And if you go north…"
She didn't lie.
She didn't soften it.
"I may not come back."
The forest groaned, branches creaking like old bones shifting.
Evander's breath shuddered.
"No," he whispered. "No, Lysandra. You don't get to say it like that. You don't get to walk into death alone."
The Heir stepped forward, voice steady.
"She won't be alone."
Evander glared at him.
"Oh great. So shadows are better company than me?"
The Heir held his gaze.
"I am not offering company.
I am bound to her. As you are.
If she dies, both realms rip themselves apart.
And I die with them."
Evander opened his mouth—then closed it again.
Because even in his jealousy, even in his protective fear, he knew the Heir was right.
Marcel took a step closer to Lysandra.
"You saved me from the Order. You saved this town more times than it knows."
His eyes glistened.
"If the north is where you have to go… then I believe you'll return."
Evander dragged a hand through his hair.
"So we're just— going north? Into cursed lands? Chasing a cosmic monster the Order broke because they're idiots with fancy robes?"
The Heir sighed.
"That is an accurate summary."
Evander threw his hands into the air.
"Perfect. Fantastic.
Let's all go die of frostbite or cosmic devouring.
Great plan."
But Lysandra saw the truth in his posture.
He was terrified.
But he wasn't letting her go alone.
Her heart pressed painfully against her ribs.
"We leave tonight," she said.
Evander and the Heir both turned to her.
"The longer we stay," she continued, "the more likely the Order tracks the fragment. If they corner another piece of it, they'll shatter it again."
The Heir nodded.
"And another fragment loose means another seam tearing."
Evander's shoulders slumped.
"So no sleep. No supplies. No thinking. We just… go."
Lysandra nodded once.
Before anyone could move, the earth under the burned circle trembled.
Marcel gasped, stumbling backward.
"Is it coming back?!"
Lysandra shook her head.
"No. It's… a memory."
The ash circle pulsed faintly, as if reacting to her words.
A faint shimmer rose from the ground—silver dust, like the remnants of the Lunaris, swirling upward. But it didn't form a figure. It didn't speak.
It formed a direction.
A visual map in shimmering light.
A jagged line, leading north across mountains.
A tear-shaped marking beyond them.
A dark pocket behind a ridge.
A place where moonlight didn't reach.
The Dead North.
The Heir studied the image carefully.
"That is not a place where mortal feet should walk."
Evander responded, "Good thing she's not mortal."
"Neither are you," the Heir said.
Evander pointed at him.
"Stop flirting."
"I was stating a fact."
"That's worse!"
The shimmering map faded slowly.
Lysandra placed her hand over the center of the circle and whispered softly,
"We're coming."
The ash pulsed once—
like a heartbeat—
then fell still.
They began packing immediately.
Evander tore his cloak to wrap Lysandra's hands, muttering, "This cold is going to kill us before the monsters do."
The Heir whispered to the shadows, summoning protective veils that would cloak their scent from the Order.
Marcel stood at the edge of the clearing, breath fogging in the air.
"Will you come back through here?" he asked.
Lysandra paused.
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
She walked to him and touched his arm.
"I'll return," she whispered.
It wasn't a promise.
It was a hope.
He nodded.
"Then I'll wait."
Evander called out, "Lysandra—we're ready!"
The Heir stood beside him, shadows swirling as cold wind rolled down from the distant peaks.
Lysandra took one last look at the river.
At the forest.
At the moon hanging low above Luneville.
She felt the pull.
The call.
The hunger.
The fear.
The truth.
Her wolf pressed against her heart.
North.
To the fracture.
To the broken.
To the beginning.
Lysandra turned her back on the only home she'd ever known.
"Let's go," she whispered.
And the three of them stepped into the woods—
toward the Dead North,
toward the fractured creature calling her name,
toward the place where the Order had broken something they should never have touched.
Toward the place where the true seam waited.