Chapter 7
Sylas
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 extract is 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.”
“And the humans?” Vask’s question hung in the air like a blade. “The prisoners you’ve…kept?”
The emphasis on that last word made Sylas’s hackles rise. He forced them down through sheer will, maintaining the appearance of calm while his beast snarled warnings beneath his skin.
“Two are working off their debt. The males are in the pits.” He met Vask’s gaze without flinching. “The situation is handled.”
“Is it?” Vask stood slowly, his height impressive even among Yzefrxyl. “Word has spread through the fortress, my king. You’ve claimed one of the humans as your…pet.”
Murmurs rippled around the table. Some approving—Ryxin had set that precedent, after all. Others disapproving, their scents sharpening with judgment.
Sylas remained perfectly still. “I have.”
“While our people suffer from Fallen attacks and grid failures, while our Luna’s nest sits empty, you concern yourself with a human female.” Vask’s tone stayed respectful, but his words cut deep. “Some might question your priorities.”
“Some might find themselves in the pits questioning their loyalty.” Sylas let the threat simmer. “Do you have something to say, Vask? Or are you simply voicing concerns you’ve heard whispered in corners?”
The older male’s lips pulled back slightly.
Not quite a snarl. Not quite submission.
“I voice what many think but fear to speak. You need a Luna. A true mate to rule beside you, bear your heirs, strengthen your claim to the throne.” He gestured dismissively.
“Instead, you take a pet. A distraction. A symbol of—”
“Superiority.” Sylas’s voice dropped to a growl that vibrated through the stone beneath their feet. “My pet is a symbol of my superiority over the weak species that dared trespass on our sacred ground. A reminder that I can claim anything—anyone—that enters my territory.”
He pushed away from the table, circling toward Vask with deliberate menace. His Lux Knights tensed but didn’t move. Ryxin’s hand drifted toward the blade at his hip.
“The IPA thinks they can dictate terms to us. Grant immunity to incompetent humans who desecrate our Holy Land.” Sylas stopped directly in front of Vask, close enough that the other male had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact.
“By keeping her, I remind them that their treaties mean nothing here. That I answer to Lux alone, not their bureaucratic posturing.”
Vask held his ground. Brave. Stupid. “A political statement, then. Not a genuine claim.”
“Both.” Sylas’s muzzle pulled back, flashing teeth. “She carries the scent of Frosted Tears. Lux has marked her for me. Who am I to refuse the Great Snow Beast’s blessing?”
That stopped the murmurs cold.
The Lux Priest straightened, his white fur bristling with sudden attention. “Frosted Tears? You’re certain?”
“Unmistakable.” Sylas turned from Vask, addressing the room. “The scent that only blooms during the warm months when the Mother Moon graces us. The sign of Lux’s favor.” He let that settle, watching comprehension dawn across their faces. “Tell me again how keeping her is a distraction.”
The priest’s ears flattened in what might have been reverence. Or fear. “If Lux has marked her—”
“Then she’s mine by divine right as much as territorial law.” Sylas reclaimed his position at the table’s head. “Any who challenge that challenge Lux herself.”
Silence. Heavy and absolute.
Ryxin’s expression shifted to something between impressed and concerned. He understood the game Sylas played—turning a potential weakness into unassailable strength by invoking their goddess. Brilliant strategy. Also incredibly risky if Lux didn’t actually approve.
But Sylas felt the truth of it in his bones. That scent wasn’t random. Wasn’t coincidence. Elsa had crashed into the Holy Land carrying Lux’s blessing whether she knew it or not.
The goddess had sent him a gift. He’d be a fool to refuse it.
Vask settled back into his seat, jaw tight with frustration.
“Even if Lux approves, a human cannot be Luna. Cannot rule beside you or bear heirs that strengthen your bloodline.” His gaze swept the council.
“The next Blood Moon approaches. Challengers will come. They always do. What message does it send when our Alpha King pampers a pet instead of claiming a proper mate?”
“It sends the message that I do as I please.” Sylas’s voice carried absolute authority.
“That I bow to no pressure, no tradition, no expectation except Lux’s will and my own judgment.
” He leaned forward, claws scraping against obsidian.
“Any male strong enough to challenge me during the Blood Moon is welcome to try. As my father’s challengers tried. As the three before them tried.”
He smiled, cold and predatory. “We all know how that ended.”