In the predawn banquet hall, candlelight stretched guests' shadows into twisted cages. Alyssa watched the silver fork dance between Layne's fingers—it should have scorched his skin, yet he merely carved the stag's heart with precision, each stroke avoiding the hidden exorcism runes on the plate.
"Try this, darling." He slid a blackberry-glazed morsel toward her, the sauce shimmering violet in the candlelight.
Alyssa didn't move. Her gaze fixed on the mirror behind him—where Layne's reflection should have been, there was only a void, as if reality had been scissored apart.
"Not hungry?" His smile held, but his fingers worried the silver embroidery at his cuff, the threads darkening.
She seized his wrist. His skin was corpse-cold, his pulse vanishing beneath her touch for three exact seconds before restarting.
"Father," she turned to the Shadowclaw alpha, "the silver test—"
"Enough!" A goblet cracked the stone table. "The Silverfang alliance stands." Yet his eyes darted to Layne's plate—where the runes now bled.
Layne laughed, pressing Alyssa's palm to his chest.
"Feel that?" His heartbeat stuttered like a broken pendulum. "Your truth?"
Moonflare screamed through her veins as a raven, its wings turning flames ice-blue. In the eerie light, Layne's shadow fractured—one kneeling in blood, one clutching a silver spike, the last driving a dagger into her father's spine.
"Illusions!" Her father roared, but froze seeing Layne's self-healing earlobe.
The doors burst open. A snow-caked figure stumbled in—Layne, gripping yesterday's hair ribbon.
Two Laynes locked eyes across the table as every candle died.