Chapter 215 VOICES OF THE OLD WORLD
Damien’s POV
The first time someone says it in my presence, I almost have them removed from the chamber.
It sounds like the kind of thing that thrives when fear spreads faster than reason. We have seen it before, during wars, during famine, during any period when the world refuses to behave the way people expect. Those who cannot explain what is happening begin to invent answers that feel large enough to contain their fear.
Prophets.
Seers.
Voices of things no one can prove.
I built this structure on control, on what can be seen, measured, enforced. That has always been enough.
Until now.
“The Moon still exists.”
The words hang in the air longer than they should, spoken by a woman who does not belong among the council, who was brought in only because three different territories insisted that her visions had aligned with events before they occurred.
She stands in the center of the chamber, unafraid in a way that draws attention. Most people brought before me in moments like this carry some form of hesitation, even when they believe what they are saying. They understand the weight of speaking in a place like this.
She does not.
“It was not destroyed,” she continues, her voice steady. “It was displaced.”
A low murmur spreads through the chamber, restrained but present. I allow it for a moment before lifting a hand slightly, silencing it without needing to raise my voice.
“Explain,” I say.
She meets my gaze directly.
“It was removed,” she says. “Taken out of its place in the system. The connection remains, but the source has shifted beyond reach.”
The phrasing is precise.
Too precise to dismiss immediately.
“On what basis do you make this claim?” I ask.
She tilts her head slightly, as though the question itself misses the point.
“I have seen it,” she replies.
“That is not an answer,” one of the council members says sharply.
She does not look at him.
“It is the only one that matters,” she says.
The tension sharpens.
I study her in silence for a moment, measuring the steadiness of her presence, the lack of hesitation in her words. This is not someone grasping for attention. This is someone who believes completely in what she is saying.
That does not make it true.
But it makes it worth examining.
“What exactly have you seen?” I ask.
Her expression shifts slightly, not into uncertainty, but into something more focused, as though she is choosing her words carefully.
“I see the system as it was,” she says. “And as it is now.”
Her gaze drifts briefly, not unfocused, but directed inward, toward something only she can access.
“There is a space where something should exist,” she continues. “A presence that once anchored everything. It is gone from that position.”
A quiet stillness settles over the room.
“Gone how?” I press.
She looks back at me.
“Moved,” she says. “Not erased. Not destroyed. Displaced.”
The word lands differently this time.
The fragments.
The way they respond to Selene.
The instability that feels incomplete rather than broken.
“If what you are saying is true,” I say slowly, “then the system is not ending.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
“No,” she replies. “It is waiting.”
The answer settles heavily.
It is a pause.
“And Selene?” I ask.
The name shifts the room in a way that cannot be ignored. Every conversation leads back to her now, whether spoken aloud or left unacknowledged.
The prophet’s expression changes again.
“She is part of it,” she says. “She did not destroy the system.”
The words echo something Kael said before he left.
A quiet, unwelcome confirmation.
“What did she do then?” I ask.
The question carries more weight than I intend.
“She interrupted it,” the prophet says.
The chamber reacts immediately this time, voices rising in restrained disbelief, the idea spreading faster than it can be contained.
“Impossible,” someone says.
“That makes no sense,” another adds.
“If the system was interrupted, then why is it still functioning at all?”
The questions pile over each other, each one attempting to break the statement apart, to force it into something that can be dismissed.
I do not interrupt them immediately.
Because I am asking the same questions.
If Selene interrupted the system, then what remains is something incomplete.
“Enough,” I say.
The room falls silent again.
I turn my attention back to the prophet.
“Continue,” I say.
She nods slightly, as though she expected no less.
“The Moon’s absence has created a gap,” she says. “The connection between it and the wolves remains, but it leads nowhere.”
The phrasing sharpens something in my mind.
A connection that leads nowhere.
That is exactly how the bond feels.
Silent.
Present.
Unreachable.
“What happens if it returns?” I ask.
Her expression tightens slightly.
“That depends,” she says.
“On what?” I press.
Her gaze holds mine.
“On what condition it returns in,” she says.
The answer carries implication.
Too many possibilities.
None of them controlled.
“And if it does not return?” I ask.
She exhales slowly.
“Then the system will continue to degrade,” she says. “Until there is nothing left to hold it together.”
That outcome is already in motion.
We are living it.
The difference now is that it may not be permanent.
Which makes it more dangerous.
Because it introduces the possibility of change.
And change without control is something I do not tolerate.
“Others are saying the same thing,” one of the council members says quietly. “Different regions. Different seers. The visions align.”
That draws my attention.
“How many?” I ask.
“Enough that it cannot be coincidence,” he replies.
The weight of that settles into the room.
This is not a single voice.
This is a pattern.
And patterns matter.
I look back at the prophet.
“If the Moon has been displaced,” I say, “where is it?”
She does not answer immediately.
Her gaze shifts again, that inward focus returning as though she is reaching for something just beyond her grasp.
When she speaks, her voice is quieter.
But it carries more weight.
“It is beyond the boundary of this world,” she says.
The statement lands without explanation.
“That is not a location,” I say.
“It is the only one that exists for it now,” she replies.
Frustration builds, controlled but present.
I step closer to her.
“If it exists,” I say, my voice steady, “then it can be reached.”
Her eyes meet mine again.
“For you?” she asks.
The question carries something beneath it.
Something that feels like doubt.
Or warning.
“For anyone,” I reply.
She studies me for a moment longer.
Then she says the one thing that shifts everything again.
“The bridge remains,” she says.
The words settle into the space with a quiet intensity.
“A bridge requires two points,” I say. “If one side is gone—”
“The other still exists,” she interrupts gently.
Her gaze sharpens.
“And it is holding.”
The implication forms immediately.
Selene.
I feel it before I fully process it.
The connection.
The fragments reacting to her.
The silence that has lasted too long.
“You are saying she is the bridge,” I say.
“I am saying she is part of it,” the prophet replies.
The room shifts again, the weight of that idea settling into every space it can occupy.
If Selene is the bridge, then everything we are dealing with ties back to her in ways that go beyond what we have already seen.
I hold her gaze, pushing past everything else to reach the core of what she is trying to say.
“And the other side?” I ask.
Her expression stills completely.
When she speaks, her voice carries that weight.
“The bridge remains,” she says again.
A brief pause follows.
Then she finishes.
“But the other side is gone.”