Chapter 57 The Rift Attack
The decision wasn't announced. It spread through the castle like an ancient whisper, one of those that doesn't need a voice to exist.
That night, no one truly slept.
The corridors were lit by silver torches, and the symbol of the ancient wolf packs was drawn on the floor of the central hall. A circle of protection. A warning. A silent oath that nothing would get out of control—even though everyone knew it already was.
I remained in the center of the hall, dressed in the dark cloak of the Lunas on vigil. The fabric felt heavier than it should, as if it carried the history of all who had failed before me.
“You can still retreat,” Conrad says, approaching. His eyes aren't golden now. They're human. Vulnerable. “No one will condemn you for this.”
“I've already crossed the point of no return,” I reply calmly. “I just hadn't realized when.”
Kael observes from a distance, attentive to every detail of the circle. “The wise ones agreed.” He announces. “If the rift responds again, it will be here. Under control.”
“Control.” I repeat in a breath. “That’s what they’re afraid of.”
The ground vibrates slightly beneath my feet. It’s not an earthquake. It’s a call.
I bring my hand to the symbol beneath my skin, feeling it pulse in sync with something far beyond the castle. Beyond the Moon. Beyond time.
“They’re watching now.” I say. “The erasers know I’ve been recognized.”
Conrad holds my hand tightly. “Then let them learn.” He states. “You’re not alone.”
I raise my gaze to the circle, to the Moon visible through the glass dome, and accept the truth that has been following me since the rift:
The next choice wouldn’t be theirs.
It would be mine.
The air inside the hall changes.
It’s not something you see, but everyone feels it. The torches flicker, the flame leaning inward toward the circle as if something were pulling them. The symbol on the ground begins to glow in silvery and bluish tones, too ancient to have a name.
Kael is the first to react. “Hold your positions,” he orders. “No one crosses the circle.”
The pack leaders instinctively take a step back. Even the oldest feel the weight of that moment. It’s not ordinary fear. It’s recognition.
My heart races, but my body doesn’t tremble.
The symbol under my skin warms, not with pain, but with an answer. As if something has finally found what it was looking for.
“They’re getting closer,” I murmur. “Not physically… yet.”
Conrad moves in front of me, even knowing the circle wouldn’t allow it. A useless gesture. A gesture of love.
“Look at her,” one of the sages whispers, almost reverently. “The Moon accepts her.”
The ground opens up in thin lines of light, forming marks I've seen before—on maps, in forbidden records, in dreams that woke me sweating. It's not the Dead Moon's fissure.
It's the path to it.
My breath catches as a voice echoes inside my mind. It doesn't come from outside. It comes from everywhere at once.
—Chosen not for purity, but for rupture.
I close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, I know.
“They don't want war.” I say aloud. “They want a decision.”
Silence falls like a heavy veil.
Conrad squeezes my hand. “Then decide.” He says firmly. “And we will uphold.”
The light intensifies, and for the first time since the beginning of everything, I feel something unexpected pierce the bond between me and the Moon:
Doubt.
And where there is doubt… there is choice.
Doubt spreads like an invisible fissure.
The wise men exchange uneasy glances. One of them steps forward, the oldest, his voice heavy with centuries. “The Moon never doubted,” he says. “She commands. We obey.”
“And that’s why everything has come to this point,” I reply, without raising my voice. “Because no one ever questioned.”
Conrad squeezes my hand tighter. “She’s right,” he affirms. “If we continue blindly following orders, the erasers will continue choosing, judging, eliminating.”
Kael frowns. “Are you saying the Moon was wrong?”
“NO,” I reply immediately. “I’m saying the Moon is… changing.”
A murmur crosses the hall.
The symbol on the floor pulses again, slower now, as if listening. I feel the connection expand, reaching something beyond the rift, beyond broken time. I see fleeting images: leaders falling, memories being ripped away, worlds erased like dust.
“They chose someone,” I say, feeling the weight of the revelation. “And it wasn’t by chance.”
“Who?” Kael asks.
I take a deep breath before answering. “Someone who maintains the balance.” I pause. “Or who believes they maintain it.”
The silence becomes suffocating.
Then I understand. It’s not just about closing the rift. It never was.
It’s about confronting those who decided to play God in the name of the Moon.
And for the first time, I feel fear not of what lies beyond the rift…
But of what awaits us when the truth is spoken aloud.
The council hall slowly transforms as the symbol etched into the floor reacts to my presence. The previously erased lines light up, snaking through the stone like living roots. The air is heavy. Candles flicker. Some leaders instinctively recoil, as if the very ground could swallow them.
I take a step forward.
The map shifts. It's no longer just territory—it's movement. I see the Dead Moon's rift pulsing, expanding and contracting, like a diseased lung. Formless creatures cross its boundaries, observing, evaluating. Judging. A shiver runs down my spine as I understand: it was never just destruction. It was always selection.
I feel the bond deepen, forcing memories that aren't mine. An ancient court. Wolves, sages, and something beyond them. Decisions made in the name of balance, when fear still wore the name of prudence. The erasers were born there—not as monsters, but as tools.
The floor cracks.
A rumble echoes through the hall as part of the symbol sinks, revealing a dark void below. Guards advance, weapons raised. Conrad moves before everyone else, positioning himself between me and the abyss, his golden eyes, his body tense, ready to attack anything that emerges from there.
But nothing comes out.
The danger isn't coming. It's already among us.
One of the leaders falls to his knees, pressing his chest, his face contorted in panic. Marks appear beneath his skin, identical to those of the rift. The trial has begun without warning, without mercy. The council descends into chaos. Shouts. Conflicting orders. The entire castle seems to tremble.
I raise my hand, feeling the power respond—unstable, raw, but alive.
This is not an attack.
It's an ultimatum.
And, as the leader is dragged away, marked as next, I understand the truth no one wanted to accept: the rift will not be closed forcefully.
It will need to be confronted.
From within.