The crack of the snapped branch echoed through the night like a bone breaking.
Evander pulled Lysandra behind him instantly.
The Heir stepped forward, shadows rising like blades ready to strike.
Marcel stumbled backward, clutching the half-burnt torch like a lifeline.
The forest went still.
Not ordinary stillness—
not fear,
not windless quiet,
but the kind of frozen silence that happens when every living thing holds its breath at once.
Except—
Whatever was approaching did not breathe.
Lysandra felt it before she saw it—a cold brush against her ribs, like fingers made of smoke pressing gently against her heart.
Her wolf stiffened.
It watches.
It tastes.
Not alive.
Not dead.
Hunger wearing a shape.
Evander whispered, "Where is it?"
"In the dark," the Heir murmured.
"Where it feels at home."
A second branch cracked—closer this time.
Evander swallowed hard. "Okay. New rule. If anything moves, I scream."
"Do not scream," the Heir snapped quietly.
"What if it jumps?"
"Then you scream after."
Lysandra's wolf snarled inside her.
Enough waiting.
Face it.
Do not fear shadows that fear you.
But she wasn't ready to move.
Not yet.
From the tree line, something slid into sight.
Not walked.
Slid.
The creature was tall—at least seven feet—but its body didn't make sense. Its limbs were long, too long, bending at wrong angles, and its skin shimmered like wet obsidian. Its head was a tangle of tendrils that flowed like smoke. No eyes. No mouth.
A hollow silhouette.
Marcel gasped, stumbling backward.
"That— that isn't of this world."
The Heir's shadows braced against the forest floor. His voice was steel.
"A Starved fragment."
Evander blinked. "Fragment? Fragment?! That thing looks like it eats nightmares for breakfast!"
"It is not whole," the Heir said.
"If it were whole, it would have already eaten the river. And the trees. And us."
Evander stared in disbelief. "THAT is your version of comfort?!"
But Lysandra barely heard them.
Because the creature tilted its head as if sniffing her magic.
It lifted one trembling limb and pointed—a gesture so slow, so deliberate, she felt it in the marrow of her bones.
Moonblood.
The word slammed into her mind like a whisper of ice against bone.
Lysandra staggered.
Evander caught her waist.
"Lysandra—hey—stay with me."
But the creature kept drifting forward, one slick limb dragging over the scorched circle.
Even the ash recoiled.
It leaned closer. Its faceless head quivered as if trying to form features that didn't belong on anything sane.
Lysandra's wolf pushed against her chest.
It reaches.
Do not let it touch the seam.
Evander's hand tightened.
"Lys, we should run."
"No," the Heir said sharply. "If she runs, it will tear a seam open."
Evander swore violently. "Then what do we do?"
The Heir lowered his stance.
"We stand."
The creature stopped at the circle's edge.
It pressed its limbs into the burned earth, and the ground hissed like water on hot iron. Its body flickered, glitching between shapes.
A hollow voice crept into Lysandra's mind, not spoken, not heard—
felt.
You opened the way.
Open again.
We hunger.
Evander shouted, "NO! She's not opening anything!"
But the creature ignored him.
It faced Lysandra—
and she felt her magic stir in response.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
The Heir stepped in front of her.
"No farther."
The creature tilted its head, studying him.
His shadows shot upward, forming a barrier between them.
The creature extended a limb and touched the shadows.
The barrier shrieked.
Shadows evaporated. Darkness curled back violently. The Heir staggered, clutching his shoulder as if burned.
"Heir!" Lysandra reached for him.
"I'm fine," he gritted out—though his voice trembled.
Evander faced the creature with nothing but a piece of broken branch in his hand.
"Back off," he growled. "Or I swear— I swear I'll—"
"You will do nothing," the Heir hissed.
The creature lifted another limb.
Lysandra stepped forward before either of them could stop her.
Evander grabbed her hand desperately.
"Lysandra—NO!"
But she shook her head.
"If I run, it opens.
If I hide, it chases.
If I fear, it feeds."
Her wolf rose, calm and clear.
Face it.
Claim the seam.
Or it will claim you.
Lysandra stepped into the center of the ash circle.
The creature followed.
Its limbs dragged, causing the earth beneath it to smoke.
It stopped inches away.
The Heir hissed, "Lysandra, step back."
Evander moved to grab her other arm.
But Lysandra raised her hand.
Silver light spiraled from her palm.
The creature quivered, drawn toward the glow like a starving animal.
Her voice barely cracked in the air.
"Are you whole?"
The creature shuddered.
Its body twitched violently—like hundreds of limbs wanted to form at once but couldn't.
Hungry…
fragment…
follows scent…
finds moon…
Lysandra's throat tightened.
"Why me?"
The cold whisper pressed into her chest.
You shine.
Bright.
Open.
Door.
Evander snarled.
"Stop calling her a door, you cosmic mosquito!"
The creature blinked—
a glitch ripple across its body.
Lysandra steadied herself.
"What happens if I open the seam?"
The Heir growled, "Don't even think it—"
But the answer slammed into her mind.
We come.
We feed.
We become whole.
We become many.
Lysandra's stomach turned.
Evander whispered, "Lys… don't you dare."
The Heir's shadows gathered again, trembling with warning.
"Lysandra," he said quietly, "listen to me. You cannot give it what it wants."
But something else in the whisper tugged at her.
A second message.
Quieter.
Weaker.
Almost drowned in hunger.
Follow us.
Find us.
We are trapped.
We are—
Its voice distorted, breaking like glass underwater.
…not whole…
…not by choice…
Lysandra's breath hitched.
Not by choice?
Her wolf leaned forward.
Fragment.
Broken.
Something shattered it.
Forced it loose.
This thing is not complete predator.
It is wounded.
Lysandra's magic surged.
"Who broke you?" she whispered.
The creature trembled.
Its limbs twisted—
—and for the first time, fear flickered across its shapeless body.
Not hunger.
Fear.
The whisper hit her like a cold wind.
The Hollow Light.
Lysandra froze.
Evander's grip tightened.
"The Order? They broke THIS?"
The Heir's eyes widened.
"That should be impossible."
The broken creature quivered.
They took our light.
Tore us.
Left us starving.
Lysandra's heart pounded.
Her wolf growled softly.
Victim.
Hunter.
Both.
Evander whispered, "So the Order… unleashed something worse."
The Heir's voice dropped into darkness.
"They tried to purify what they did not understand. They fractured a cosmic being and now its pieces roam, trying to become whole by devouring anything with power."
The creature leaned closer to Lysandra.
You shine.
Open.
Help.
Evander snapped, "NO! She is NOT opening anything for you!"
Lysandra didn't move.
Instead—
She raised her palm again.
Silver light pulsed stronger, her wolf at the surface, her magic enveloping her like moonfire.
"Tell me where the rest of you is," she whispered.
The creature froze.
Its trembling stopped.
For a moment, its shape stilled into something almost solid.
A direction formed in her mind.
Cold.
Distant.
Far beyond the river.
Beyond the mountains.
Beyond the edge of her world.
North.
In the dead place.
Behind the veil.
Where the Order tore us.
The creature flickered violently—
Then collapsed into smoke and vanished.
Silence crashed down.
Evander wrapped both arms around her.
"You scared the hell out of me. Don't ever—EVER—walk toward a cosmic horror again!"
The Heir stepped closer, voice heavy with realization.
"It didn't come to eat you."
Lysandra exhaled shakily.
"No."
"It came for help," the Heir said.
Evander stared at her.
"You're going after it."
Lysandra nodded once.
"Yes."
Her wolf whispered with fierce certainty:
We must.
We find the broken.
We find the whole.
We seal what the Order shattered.
And somewhere far north,
in a place the living never walked,
something answered her resolve
with a whisper like a broken star.
"Come."