[Petra in the fray]
Ugh! Petra smashed her shield into the face of a lunging zombie. The wet crunch was lost under the din of steel on bone. Beside her, Zoë and Quin fought with swords now—saving their mana for something worse. A rusted blade scraped across Petra's pauldron. She twisted, heard a sharp crack, and caught the flash of a skeleton's skull shattering under someone else's strike.
Even Watson—the Duke's heir—had ditched finesse for brute force, hacking through rotting torsos with the same grim rhythm as the veterans. The soldiers were getting bold, cutting the undead down like weeds.
Prince Timothy's breath steamed in the cold. His voice, for the hundredth time, carried above the clash:
"Petra—where are they?"
Tsk. Petra exhaled hard through her nose, biting back annoyance. She'd been steering them away from Luna's path, avoiding the risk of a messy reunion—and the truths that might bleed out with it.
Watson rammed his sword into a zombie's chest, the wound blooming with fire. He didn't look at the Prince when he spoke.
"Let's head for the center. Right under that… odd moon."
His gaze slid to Petra for a fraction of a second—enough to make her jaw clench. Damn it. Annoying.
Still, her lips curved into that smug, unreadable smile.
---
[At the Rift]
The battle was done. The air still trembled with the memory of magic and death. And there they were.
Three girls—no longer distant shadows.
The snow-haired one and the black-haired one moved with idle curiosity, stroking the shadow horses' manes, tugging at the knights' helmets, and batting at Brianna's staff as if it were a toy. The silver-grey-haired one sat cross-legged in the churned mud, weaving a crown of wildflowers for Regina.
I was standing with the black-haired girl. Her eyes were dark, but within them—tiny flickers of sickly, star-like light shifted and breathed. The System had been silent too long. Every muscle in the camp was taut. Even the knights seemed like children in the presence of someone they instinctively could not disobey.
The smell of corpses clung to everything. Yet a faint floral sweetness from the girls curled through it, wrong in its beauty.
"This will do just fine," the midnight-haired one murmured, never looking away from me.
"Better than what we had planned," the snow-haired one replied, her fingers busy with the crown.
Without warning, the girl beside me slid her hand into my chest.
My eyes flew wide. My summons appeared halfway, froze—then shattered into glassy motes.
Regina moved, her brow creased with fury, but the silver-haired girl caught her by the wrist. That frail hand locked her in place like iron.
The third girl stepped in. All three pressed… something… into me. Not hands, not flesh—something older, colder—slipping between my ribs and curling around my heart.
No pain. No blood. Only a deafening static where the System's voice had been.
The world blurred. Darkness poured in.
The last thing I saw was Regina straining against the grip that held her, and the flower crown tumbling from pale fingers to the mud.
---
[The Moon Breaks]
Far above, the moon bled—its light turning the battlefield into a wash of crimson.
In the distance, Petra vanished.
Zoë's sword faltered mid-swing. "Petra?" she called, voice shaking. "Where—"
The undead fell like their strings had been cut, weapons slipping from bone hands.
"Form up!" Captain Rhys barked, but even his voice had an edge of panic.
"Something's wrong." Zoë's gaze darted to the Prince.
Timothy's face hardened. "To the center! Now!"
They ran—soldiers, nobles, all of them splashing through mud and gore.
---
[At the Epicenter]
When they reached the Rift's heart, the stench was thicker than ever. But there were no corpses. No Luna. No Regina.
Only three girls stood in the clearing.
Snow-white. Ash-grey. Midnight black.
They spoke softly among themselves, their tones light, almost amused, as if the chaos around them was someone else's story.
The soldiers slowed, unease rippling through their ranks.
"What in all the hells…" Watson muttered.
Zoë took a step forward, her voice low but tight. "Who are they?"
The girls turned in unison. Their eyes moved over the Prince's party like a hand passing over shelves in a shop. No recognition. No threat. Just… appraisal.
Timothy swallowed. "Where is she?" he demanded. "Where's Luna?"
The midnight-haired one tilted her head. The corners of her lips twitched.
And then, without a sound, all three blurred—like candle flames snuffed by the same breath—and were gone.
Only the sunrise remained, spilling gold over the churned earth.