Chapter 80 Split Ends and Royal Shade
I reached the center of the Rift with all the grace of a drunk squirrel. My boots skidded on the obsidian glass, arms flailing like I was trying to summon a storm. Behind me, Thessa muttered something about “elegance being optional,” which was rich coming from someone who once tripped over her own ego.
Two flames hovered before me.
One warm and flickering, like a hearth fire on a winter night. The other cold and steady, like the last stare of someone who’s just realized you ate their leftovers.
I didn’t hesitate. I touched both.
And then everything went sideways.
Literally.
The world split like a bad haircut—two versions of me, standing side by side, blinking at each other like we’d just caught ourselves stealing from the same cookie jar.
One version had Milo beside her. The other didn’t.
I stared at them. They stared at me. We all stared at each other like we were waiting for someone to say, “Surprise! You’re on a reality show! And your biggest decision will be publicly viewed, so don’t screw it up.”
“Mo?” Milo’s voice came from the version with him. He looked at me—my version—with a mix of confusion and mild horror. “Why are there two of you?”
“Why are you still wearing that ridiculous scarf?” I shot back. “It’s summer. It's hot and totally not needed.”
“Fashion is eternal,” he sniffed.
“Delusion is contagious, and for fashion to be eternal, you would need fashion sense, something that you clearly lack if you continue to wear socks with flip flops,” I muttered.
“That was two times, I simply didn’t want to take my socks off because my feet were cold,” Milo replies with a sniff
Thessa stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “Well, this is awkward. Which one of you is the real Mo?”
“Obviously me,” both Mo’s said in unison.
Kael, ever the voice of reason (and sarcasm), rubbed his temples. “Great. Now we’ve got two Mos. Twice the sass, half the patience.”
Lira, who had been quietly sketching the flames in her notebook like this was just another Tuesday, looked up. “Do you think they’ll fight? I’d pay to see that.”
Ellira snorted. “Only if one of them insults the other’s eyeliner.”
“I don’t wear eyeliner,” I said.
“You should,” said the other Mo.
Talon, who had been suspiciously silent, finally spoke. “This is a magical anomaly. We need to consult the archives.”
Yuel, flipping through a book that looked older than sarcasm itself, added, “Or we could just throw one of them into the Rift and see what happens.”
“Excuse me?” both Mo’s said.
Zeke, who had been chewing on a piece of jerky like it was his life’s purpose, shrugged. “I vote we keep the one who doesn’t insult my cooking.”
“That’s neither of us,” I said.
“Fair.”
Milo stepped closer to his Mo. “I think we need to figure out what this means. Two futures? Two choices?”
“Two headaches,” Kael muttered.
Then, as if summoned by the sheer weight of our collective confusion, a scroll materialized in midair. It hovered for a moment, shimmering with royal wax and passive-aggressive energy.
Thessa caught it and read aloud:
To Whom It May Concern (and we do mean concern),
It has come to our attention that someone—likely one of your band of magically-incompetent misfits—has tampered with the Rift. Again.
We want to remind you that the last time this happened, three villages disappeared, a goat became mayor, and our royal garden now grows sentient turnips.
You fix it?
Or don’t. But if you don’t, we will be forced to send our cousin, Lord Varnish, to “assist.” He is very enthusiastic about everything.
Sincerely (but not warmly),
The Queen & King of Aeloria
We all stared at the scroll.
“Lord Varnish?” Lira whispered. “Isn’t he the one who tried to marry a cloud?”
“He succeeded,” Yuel said. “It rained on the wedding.”
“Okay,” I said, clapping my hands. “So, we have two Mo’s, a passive-aggressive royal threat, and a magical rift that’s apparently the fantasy equivalent of a broken vending machine. What’s the plan? We don’t know enough about what is going on. Clearly, the two options we have don’t seem right. I don’t want to lose Milo, but I don’t know what happens if we pick the wrong one. Is there a wrong one? What’s the plan here? What does that book say?”
“Run?” Zeke offered.
“Cry?” Milo added.
“Sacrifice Kael?” Thessa suggested.
Kael rolled his eyes. “I’m too pretty to die.”
Ellira stepped forward, her eyes locked on the flames. “We need to understand what these futures mean. One with Milo. One without. What happens if we choose wrong?”
“Or worse,” Talon said, “what if we don’t choose at all?”
“That could make things fair?” Lira says, “I mean, it's not like we have to choose everything we have done so far; it's about rewriting what we don’t like. So, what happens if we don’t choose?”
The flames pulsed, as if responding to his words.
Suddenly, the Rift shimmered again, and a third flame appeared.
This one was black.
It didn’t flicker. It didn’t glow.
It just… waited.
And then it spoke.
Not in words, but in thoughts. Cold, invasive, like someone whispering in your ear while licking your brain.
Choose. Or be chosen.
I stepped back. Both versions of me did.
The Rift began to crackle, the ground beneath us trembling.
“Uh,” Milo said, “is it supposed to do that?”
“No,” Yuel said. “Definitely not.”
The black flame surged forward, and the two Mo’s began to blur, their outlines flickering like a bad reception.
“Mo!” Thessa shouted. “You have to pick!”
“I don’t know which one is real! What happens if I choose wrong and Calyx comes through the rift?”
“Then fake it!” Kael yelled. “You’re good at that!”
I turn to glare at Kael. Sure, half the things we have encountered in Aeloria, we have just winged it, or as the saying goes, ‘fake it till you make it,’ but this situation seems like an actual result is needed.
I reached out, heart pounding, mind racing.
And then—
Everything went dark.