The war chamber stank of tension and stone dust.
Sylas stood at the head of the obsidian table, claws resting against its polished surface while his council assembled. Morning light filtered through the high windows, casting pale beams across maps carved into volcanic rock—territorial boundaries marked in Moon Tear dust that glowed faint blue even in daylight.
His Lux Knights flanked the room, silent sentinels who’d seen too many councils turn violent. Ryxin took his place at Sylas’s right, cyan eyes already scanning for threats. Good. His brother understood what this gathering really was—not a discussion, but a test of dominance wrapped in the pretense of strategy.
The Lux Priest entered last, his white fur stark against the dark stone. Age had slowed his gait but not his mind. He carried a data tablet that pulsed with the same blue light as the Moon Tear grid, and the grim set of his muzzle said everything Sylas needed to know.
The news wasn’t good.
“Begin.” Sylas’s voice cut through the murmurs, silencing them instantly.
The priest stepped forward, placing the tablet on the table where everyone could see. Holographic projections sprang up—the Moon Tears grid that powered their defenses, their technology, their very civilization. Red markers dotted the display like infected wounds.
“Three more nodes failed in the eastern quadrant overnight,” the priest said, his tone flat with the exhaustion of repeating bad news. “The Fallen breached the outer perimeter. We lost two patrols before Ryxin’s forces could contain them.”
Growls rumbled around the table. Sylas’s claws scraped against obsidian, the sound sharp enough to draw attention back to him.
“Casualties?”
“Six dead. Twelve wounded, three critically.” The priest’s ears flattened. “Yarx is overwhelmed. We need more healers or fewer battles.”
“We need a stable grid.” Vask’s voice carried from the far end of the table, smooth and dangerous. The male was older than Sylas by a decade, his dark gray fur shot through with white along his muzzle. Scars marked his shoulders—proof he’d earned his position through violence, not politics. “The Fallen wouldn’t be this bold if our defenses weren’t failing.”
Sylas studied him. Vask had been his father’s advisor before the old king died. Had watched Sylas tear apart three challengers during the Great Challenge to claim the throne. Had bowed his head in submission afterward and served loyally ever since.
Or so it appeared.
“The grid destabilizes because we lack sufficient Moon Tears of adequate purity,” the Lux Priest said, gesturing to the hologram. “The mines yield less each cycle. What we do extractis contaminated—too much raw power, not enough stability. It drives males to madness faster than we can replace them.”
The Fallen. Males who’d consumed too much Moon Tear dust or handled the crystals without proper shielding. Their minds eroded, sanity replaced by feral hunger and rage. They couldn’t be saved. Couldn’t be reasoned with. Only killed or driven deep into the eastern woods where they hunted each other until nothing remained.
Sylas had seen it happen to good males. Strong warriors reduced to beasts that didn’t recognize their own brothers.
It would happen to him eventually if he wasn’t careful. The power that made him Alpha King—the Moon Tears energy he channeled to maintain dominance—came with a cost. Every use brought him closer to the edge. Closer to becoming one of the mindless creatures they hunted.
He knew it. The council knew it. And his rivals waited for the first sign of slippage.
“There may be a solution.” Sylas kept his voice level, controlled. “The human escape vessel carried a Moon Tear core.”
Silence crashed through the chamber.
Ryxin’s ears swiveled toward him, surprise flickering across his features before training reasserted itself. The Lux Priest’s eyes widened. Around the table, his council exchanged glances—shock, calculation, greed.
“A core?” The priest’s voice sharpened with something between hope and disbelief. “Are you certain?”
“Yarx identified it during the initial salvage.” Sylas gestured toward the holographic grid. “Standard human navigation systems use Moon Tear technology—poorly, but they use it. This core registered higher purity than anything we’ve mined in two decades.”
Vask leaned forward, claws clicking against the table’s edge. “Where is it now?”
“Missing.” The word tasted bitter. “Buried in the wreckage somewhere. We haven’t excavated deep enough.”
“Then excavate faster.” Another council member—Torvak, commander of the western patrols—slammed his fist down. “If that core can stabilize even three nodes—”
“It can stabilize more than three.” The Lux Priest’s voice carried quiet certainty. “A core of that purity could reinforce the entire eastern quadrant. Stop the Fallen incursions. Buy us time to find alternative solutions.”
Time. The one resource Sylas never had enough of.
“I’ve ordered a full retrieval operation,” he said. “We’ll tear that wreck apart piece by piece if necessary.”