The deeper they walked into the northern woods, the colder the world became—not gradually, but suddenly, as though the night had decided to exhale ice all at once. The trees thinned, their branches stretching like skeletal fingers. Frost webbed over bark and stone, glittering under the moonlight like glass spun from breath.
Evander rubbed his hands together vigorously.
"I'm just going to say it—this is unnatural cold. It's not even winter."
The Heir brushed past him, shadows stirring.
"This cold is not seasonal. It is memory."
Evander blinked. "Memory? Of what? A freezer?"
Lysandra slowed, extending her fingers toward the icy air.
The frost reacted immediately, drifting toward her like smoke drawn to flame, reaching for her skin.
Her wolf whispered:
It remembers moon.
It remembers door.
It remembers you.
Lysandra pulled her hand back.
Evander noticed.
"Lysandra… what did you feel?"
She hesitated.
"It wasn't cold. It was… recognition."
The Heir stopped walking.
Recognition.
His eyes narrowed.
"We are close to the veil."
Evander looked around at the darkening forest.
"Already? We've only walked a few hours."
"Distance folds differently near fractures."
Evander threw his hands up.
"Fantastic. Time and space are doing origami. Great start."
But Lysandra barely heard them.
Something tugged her forward, gentle but persistent.
A thread.
A pulse.
A whisper.
Moonblood… north… deeper…
She followed it without thinking, boots sinking into frost-thick earth.
"Lysandra!" Evander hissed. "Slow down—don't rush into creepy whisper territory alone—"
But the Heir placed a hand on Evander's arm, stopping him.
"She hears something."
"She always hears something!" Evander snapped. "Moon goddess visions, wolf instincts, cosmic whispers—pick ONE, Lysandra!"
But he still followed her.
He always followed.
The trees soon opened into a clearing.
And that was where the world changed again.
A low fog covered the ground, pale and shimmering as if lit from beneath. The soil beneath the frost was cracked, pulsing faintly with violet light—like veins under skin.
Lysandra's breath caught.
"The earth is… glowing."
The Heir knelt, brushing his fingers near the cracks.
"Veil-light."
Evander crouched beside him.
"What does that mean in non-creepy-realm language?"
"It means," the Heir said, "we are standing above a seam that has not fully opened—but wants to."
Evander groaned.
"Of course it wants to. Why wouldn't the ground want to split open and swallow us whole?"
But Lysandra stepped forward.
The glow under the frost brightened wherever her feet touched.
Evander noticed instantly.
"Lys… the ground is reacting to you."
The Heir rose.
"As it should. She awakened the Heart. The world knows her now."
Lysandra didn't stop walking until she reached the center of the clearing—where a solitary stone jutted from the frost, black and cracked, as though struck by lightning.
She reached out.
"Don't—!" Evander grabbed her wrist.
Too late.
Her fingers brushed the stone.
And the world broke open.
Not physically—
not with noise or light—
but inside her mind.
A wave of cold swept through her skull.
A soundless roar.
A sudden rush of images.
A fractured creature floating in a void of stars.
A blinding beam of Hollow Light spearing through its body.
A shatter like a thousand crystal mirrors breaking.
Fragments spiraling across realms—
some falling into the Shadow Realm,
some into the mortal world,
some lost in the in-between.
A figure cloaked in white robes lowering a staff.
The symbol of the Order gleaming on their sleeve.
A circle burning beneath their feet.
A scream swallowed by light.
Then—
A whisper.
Moonblood… mend… mend us… before they eat us from within…
Lysandra gasped and fell backward.
Evander caught her before she hit the frost.
"Hey—HEY—Lysandra, look at me. What did you see?"
Her lips trembled.
"They broke it, Evander. The Order didn't summon the Starved—they shattered them. Tore them apart."
The Heir closed his eyes.
"I feared as much."
Lysandra continued, voice shaking:
"One fragment landed near the river.
Another fell into the mountains.
Another… somewhere deeper.
And one—one piece is trapped behind the veil, screaming to be whole."
Evander swallowed hard.
"And if they're not whole… they keep… what? Eating magic?"
"No," she whispered.
The Heir opened his eyes slowly.
"They starve."
Evander blinked.
"So they're starving monsters—great, that makes everything better."
"No."
Lysandra's voice cracked.
"They're starving… because the Order carved out their light. The piece that kept them whole. The Hunger wasn't natural. It was made."
Silence.
Heavy.
Cold.
Wrong.
Evander whispered,
"So we're not dealing with pure predators. We're dealing with victims twisted into predators."
Lysandra nodded, tears pricking her eyes.
"And they're hunting me because they think…"
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
"Because they believe I can put them back together."
Evander shouted, "HOW? How could you do that?!"
But the Heir stepped closer.
"Because she is a seam."
The frost under their feet cracked sharply, like something beneath the ground shifted.
Evander snapped,
"Stop calling her that like it's normal!"
"It is not normal," the Heir admitted quietly.
"It is unprecedented. And necessary."
Evander turned to Lysandra.
"You're not doing this. You're not mending cosmic monsters. We go home. We close the seams. We—"
"We can't close something if we don't understand how it broke," she whispered.
And then—
A new sound rose around them.
A soft, dragging noise.
Like cloth sliding over stone.
The fog at the edge of the clearing darkened—
not with shadow,
but with something thicker.
Something that bent the air around it.
Lysandra froze.
Evander whispered,
"…please tell me that's just fog."
The Heir's shadows rose violently.
"No. That is not fog."
Something moved inside the mist—
not slithering like the fragment by the river,
not floating like the Lunaris,
but dragging itself.
A shape.
Large.
Massive.
Barely formed.
Too many limbs.
Not enough solidity.
Evander's breath caught.
"Oh Gods—another one?!"
"No."
The Heir's voice was soft, horrified.
"Not a fragment."
Lysandra's stomach dropped.
"Then what—"
The figure stepped closer—
—and the frost cracked under its weight.
A giant, crooked silhouette emerged, shimmering with silver lines running across its fractured body.
It was missing entire sections of itself—like chunks carved out.
Empty gaps.
Hollow ribs.
A face half-formed.
Not whole.
Not broken enough to fade.
Not stable enough to exist.
The creature lifted its head.
And whispered.
"Moonblood…"
Lysandra staggered.
Her heart felt like it buckled.
This wasn't a fragment.
This was a larger piece.
A core piece.
The Heir grabbed her wrist.
"Lysandra—don't move."
But the creature leaned toward her.
"Find… the center…
find… the heart…
we… starve…
we… fall…"
Evander stepped in front of her, shaking, voice cracking.
"Back off! She's not your healer—she's not—"
But the creature ignored him.
Its hollow eyes fixed on Lysandra.
Silver light flickered inside its cracked chest.
Something fluttered there—
like a dying star
trying desperately to burn.
The creature whispered again, voice fading.
"Hurry…"
And then—
It collapsed.
Not into smoke.
Not into dust.
But into darkness.
The frost beneath it cracked open, forming a thin seam that pulsed once and then sealed itself again.
Evander exhaled shakily.
"I hate this forest."
The Heir stepped forward, voice tight.
"That was not a threat."
Lysandra nodded, heart pounding.
"That was a warning."
She looked north—
past the trees,
past the frost,
past the mountains.
Her wolf whispered:
The heart calls.
The core waits.
Time runs thin.
Evander touched her shoulder.
"You're going, aren't you."
Lysandra didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
A breath.
"And so are you."
Evander groaned.
"Knew you'd say that."
The Heir's shadows swirled, ready.
Lysandra took one step forward.
Then another.
Toward the mountains.
Toward the veil.
Toward the broken heart of a starved god.
And the world behind her
held its breath.