The capital of the Moon Court did not burn.
It endured.
Obsidian towers pierced the night sky like frozen spears, their surfaces drinking starlight. Silver lanterns floated along narrow bridges strung between spires, casting dim halos that never quite pushed back the dark.
In the highest tower, Lyra Selwyn stood barefoot on cold black stone.
Her shadow did not match her.
The torches behind her burned low and steady.
Her shadow moved anyway.
It stretched too far along the wall, head tilting slightly as if listening to something she could not hear.
Lyra ignored it.
In the courtyard below, soldiers were returning from Rhyset Vale.
Not in formation.
Carried.
The first body hit the stone with a wet sound.
Then another.
And another.
Shadow binders moved among the wounded, attempting to stitch flesh with strands of living darkness. The magic worked best when pain was quiet.
There was little quiet tonight.
Lyra leaned forward slightly as a stretcher passed beneath her balcony.
The corpse on it was charred beyond recognition.
Not burned in patches.
Consumed.
Armor fused to bone. Fingers melted into the hilt of a weapon.
White flame.
Her jaw tightened.
So the rumors were true.
The Heir of the Sun Dominion had stepped onto the field himself.
Behind her, the chamber doors opened.
She did not turn.
"You felt it."
The voice belonged to Chancellor Vaelor — her father in blood, though never in name.
Lyra's shadow flattened against the wall at the sound of him.
"Yes," she replied.
"The black surge."
He approached slowly, robes whispering across stone. Silver veins glimmered faintly beneath the thin skin at his temples — signs of decades wielding Umbral essence.
"It originated beyond the battlefield," he said. "Not Dominion. Not ours."
Lyra's fingers curled slightly.
"Eclipse."
The word felt wrong in her mouth.
Vaelor did not confirm it.
But he did not deny it.
Below, another soldier screamed as a healer attempted to remove armor fused to his ribs. The metal tore flesh as it came free. Shadow threads stitched muscle in real time, but the smell—
Burned marrow.
Even this high above, Lyra could smell it.
"You sent them to die," she said evenly.
"It was a calculated engagement."
"They were boys."
"They were soldiers."
Lyra turned then, finally meeting his gaze.
His expression was unreadable.
Controlled.
Always controlled.
"White flame is unstable," Vaelor continued. "If the heir continues to escalate, he will destroy himself."
"Or us," Lyra replied.
A silence stretched between them.
The torches flickered.
Her shadow shifted again.
Vaelor's eyes moved briefly toward it.
"You're losing control."
"No," Lyra said.
Her shadow's hand pressed flat against the wall — fingers elongated, almost skeletal.
"Contain it," Vaelor ordered quietly. "We cannot afford weakness."
Lyra closed her eyes.
She inhaled.
Stillness.
Emotion is weight.Weight feeds shadow.Shadow must be balanced.
Her pulse slowed deliberately.
The shadow receded, shrinking back into proper shape at her heels.
When she opened her eyes, Vaelor was watching closely.
"There is more," he said.
Of course there was.
"The Dominion has agreed to parley."
Lyra's expression did not change.
"For surrender?"
"For stability."
That meant something else.
"Terms?"
Vaelor stepped closer.
"They propose a Binding."
The word hung in the chamber like a blade suspended by thread.
Lyra did not move.
"Their heir," Vaelor continued, "and a representative of our bloodline. A ritual to ensure neither side resumes open war."
"A marriage?" she asked flatly.
"No."
Worse.
"A life-bond."
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet.
Not because of fear.
Because of implication.
A life-bond meant shared essence.
Shared pain.
Shared vulnerability.
Shared death.
"Who?" she asked.
Vaelor held her gaze.
"You."
The courtyard below erupted into fresh screams.
Another stretcher dropped.
A healer failed.
Lyra's shadow twitched violently at her heels.
"You will bind me," she said slowly, "to the man who burned our soldiers alive."
"You will bind to the heir who can end this war."
"Or finish it."
Vaelor's voice sharpened slightly. "Control yourself."
Lyra's shadow lengthened again, crawling up the wall behind her like spilled ink.
"You speak of control," she said softly, "while you hand me to our enemy."
"This is not surrender. It is strategy."
"Strategy would be removing him."
Vaelor's eyes darkened.
"He cannot be removed."
"Everyone can be removed."
A sharp crack echoed from the courtyard below.
Lyra moved to the balcony again.
Two Dominion prisoners had been brought inside the gates under truce flag.
One attempted to run.
A shadow blade pierced his spine mid-stride.
The second was dragged forward.
Interrogation would not be gentle.
War had rules.
But rules bent in darkness.
Vaelor stepped beside her.
"Look," he said quietly.
She did.
He gestured to the burned corpses.
"To them. To ours. To what escalation looks like."
In the courtyard, a healer lost concentration.
Shadow threads snapped.
The wounded soldier beneath them convulsed as black veins spidered across his throat — Veil Loss.
His scream turned into a broken, animal sound before silence took him.
Lyra's stomach tightened.
This war was not sustainable.
Solar essence consumed from within.
Umbral essence eroded identity.
And now something else had entered the board.
The black surge.
Eclipse.
Vaelor's voice lowered.
"The heir felt it too."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
"Because his forces retreated immediately after."
Lyra stilled.
Not victory push.
Not annihilation.
Retreat.
That was not the behavior of a man drunk on conquest.
That was calculation.
Or fear.
Vaelor turned to her fully.
"The ritual will take place under neutral ground. Three weeks."
Her shadow coiled around her ankle.
"And if I refuse?"
"You will not."
A beat of silence.
Then more quietly:
"You are my strongest shadow, Lyra. The only one capable of surviving contact with Solar essence without disintegrating."
So that was it.
Not daughter.
Not family.
Asset.
Weapon.
Bridge.
Her gaze drifted once more to the burned corpses below.
White flame.
She imagined him standing in the valley — calm, controlled, lethal.
She imagined being tied to that power.
Feeling it.
Sharing it.
The thought made her shadow shudder.
Not from fear.
From curiosity.
Vaelor moved toward the door.
"You will prepare."
He paused before exiting.
"And Lyra… if you lose control during the ritual—"
"I won't."
The doors shut behind him.
Silence returned.
Below, the interrogated Dominion prisoner finally broke.
He screamed names between sobs.
The shadows around him tightened.
Lyra stepped back from the balcony.
Her reflection in the black glass window stared back at her.
Silver veins faint beneath her skin.
Eyes too steady.
Shadow slightly delayed in mimicry.
She pressed her hand to the glass.
"If he burns me," she murmured to the empty room,
"I will consume him first."
Her shadow smiled.
Far beyond the capital, in the Dominion war camp, Kael stood alone in his command tent — staring at the same black scar in the sky where Eclipse had briefly torn through.
Neither of them knew the ritual would not simply bind them.
It would awaken something older than both kingdoms.
Something that had been waiting for Sun and Moon to touch again.
And when they did—
Fire and shadow would no longer be enemies.
They would be unstable.