Chapter 64: Iris Of The South

I was already standing by the door, dressed in a simple, high-collared gown that felt more like armor than silk.

Lena was huddled in the corner, her eyes red-rimmed. I squeezed her hand one last time before stepping out into the hall.

The Great Hall was a cathedral of shadow and stone. At the far end, the Council of Elders sat on a raised dais, looking like a row of gargoyles in woolen robes. Malrik sat in the center, his face a mask of smug righteousness.

Kieran and Rowan stood on opposite sides of the floor, creating a literal tug-of-war with the air in the room. Kieran’s jaw was set, his hands clenched at his sides. Rowan looked pale, his golden eyes darting between me and the silver goblet resting on a pedestal in the center of the room.

"Iris of the South," Malrik’s voice boomed, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "You stand accused of using dark arts to sow discord between the Kings and defy the sacred laws of the North. You claim the gift of prophecy to shield your insolence."

"I claim the truth," I said, my voice sounding much steadier than I felt. I walked toward the pedestal. The silver chalice was beautiful, etched with ancient runes that seemed to pulse with a faint, cold light. "And the truth doesn't need dark arts."

"Then prove it," Malrik sneered. "The Chalice of Purity is infused with the essence of the First Moon. To a True Luna, it is water. To a witch, it is liquid fire. Drink, and let the Goddess judge."

Kieran stepped forward, his voice a low warning. "Malrik, if this is a trick—"

"It is tradition, Alpha!" Malrik snapped. "Unless you fear your 'mate' is not what she seems?"

Kieran stopped, his eyes meeting mine. The conflict in him was agonizing to watch. He wanted to roar, to smash the cup and carry me away, but he was bound by the very crown I was trying to keep on his head.

I reached for the chalice. The silver was freezing, biting into my skin with a temperature that shouldn't have been possible in a heated room.

This is the part where the magic happens, I thought. This is where the 'Author' decides if I’m still useful.

I lifted the cup. The liquid inside was clear, but it smelled like ozone and old metal. I looked at Malrik, then at the two men who were ready to tear the world apart for me, and I drank.

It didn't taste like water. It tasted like lightning.

A sharp, searing heat exploded in my chest. It wasn't the "liquid fire" Malrik had promised—it was something else. It was the feeling of the story itself trying to force its way down my throat. My vision flickered. For a split second, the Great Hall vanished. I saw the white void, the charcoal-grey suit of the Author, and the flickering lines of text that made up the walls of my reality.

“Drink your fill, Iris,” her voice whispered in my mind. “If you want to be the Luna, then be the Luna I wrote.”

I gasped, my knees hitting the stone floor. The chalice clattered away, spilling the remaining liquid.

"She burns!" Malrik shouted, rising from his seat. "The witch burns!"

"No!" Kieran was at my side in an instant, his hands hovering over me, afraid to touch. "Iris! Look at me!"

I forced my eyes open. I wasn't burning. My throat felt cold—colder than ice—and my hands were glowing with that same jagged, white light I’d seen in the suite. But I wasn't screaming.

I looked at the spilled liquid on the floor. Where it touched the stone, the grey rock was turning into white marble. The runes on the chalice were glowing so bright they were blinding.

"I am not a witch," I whispered, my voice carrying a resonance that made the Elders flinch. I stood up, the light from my hands fading, but the cold weight in my chest remaining. I looked Malrik dead in the eye. "And the Goddess didn't judge me. She warned me."

"Warned you?" Malrik stammered, his face turning ashen. "Of what?"

I turned toward the massive doors of the Great Hall. I could feel it now—the deviation in the script. The Author had moved the timeline, and the cost was finally arriving at our doorstep.

"The humans," I said, and as the words left my lips, the heavy oak doors burst open.

A guard stumbled in, his armor shredded, his face pale with shock. "Alpha! The Southern pass! The humans... they didn't wait for the moon! They’re through the first gate! They have the silver cannons!"

The room erupted into chaos. Rowan was already moving toward the doors, his Southern pride instantly replaced by a warrior’s instinct. Kieran grabbed his cloak, his eyes flashing a dark, terrifying red.

"Malrik! Mobilize the scouts!" Kieran roared. "Rowan, get your men to the east wall! If they have silver cannons, the stronghold won't hold!"

In the original Chapter Nine, the human rebellion was a series of skirmishes. This wasn't a skirmish. This was a massacre in the making.

Kieran turned back to me, his hands grabbing my shoulders. "Iris, get to the tunnels. Take Lena. Don't look back."

"Kieran, wait—"

"Go!" He kissed my forehead—a hard, desperate press of lips—and then he was gone, running toward the battle with a pack of wolves at his heels.

I stood in the center of the Hall, the empty chalice at my feet. The Author thought she could force me back into my role by raising the stakes. She thought that by bringing the war to my door, I’d stop trying to edit the story and start trying to survive it.

But I knew something she didn't. I knew where Mattias, the human leader, was going to strike first. And it wasn't the east wall.

"Lena!" I shouted, sprinting toward the servant's entrance. "Lena, get the keys to the armory! We're not going to the tunnels!"