chapter 60
The shadow had no name to the world.
He moved unseen through the palace halls, obeyed no one save the prince. His gaze was empty, his silence colder than the steel he carried. No servant dared cross his path. No soldier held his stare.
Yet once—long ago—he had a name.
Asriel.
He had been a boy of eight summers when the world first showed its teeth. His mother, known to him only as beautiful and kind, had been branded a witch by the villagers who feared what they did not understand. There was no trial, no royal decree—only the cries of men drunk on righteousness and torches hungry for flesh.
He watched them drag her out. Heard her scream his name as they bound her to the post.
He tried to reach her.
They struck him down. Called him "the witch-spawn." Said he was cursed. He would have died there, beneath their boots, had a cloaked figure not stepped in.
A woman.
Her presence silenced the mob with a single word. Her command scattered them like frightened dogs.
She took Asriel in her arms and held him close, whispering, "Live, child. Live for more than vengeance."
Her name was Celine—Queen of Aethelgar, mother to a boy named Hosea. She did not care that he was a witch. She only saw a broken child.
From that day, Asriel owed her his life.
He swore to serve her. To protect her in shadow, always.
But fate did not honor oaths.
Years later, word reached him of her death.
Murdered. Forgotten.
His oath had failed.
So he made another—upon her grave, in silence: to protect her son.
He buried his magic deep. He hated what flowed in his blood. Witches feared men of power like him—called Zar'vahl en Norith, meaning the forbidden one, called them cursed. And humans hunted them down, even more viciously. His gifts brought only pain. So he chose steel over sorcery. Discipline over impulse.
He never told Hosea.
Not once.
He became a weapon for the prince, not a brother in blood.
Until tonight.
---
Kara, Esmeralda's favored maid, had moved like all the others at first—dutiful, sweet, harmless. But Asriel trusted no one who served the snake queen.
So he watched.
All day, nothing.
Until dusk.
Then she slipped through the lesser halls, her steps cautious, toward the old gate of Aethelgar. Two guards stood watch—young, inattentive. She offered them drinks, whispered words in their ears, smiled like a lover.
They laughed. Drank.
And slept.
A quiet trick. Witches' work, perhaps.
Kara knelt, retrieved the keys, and unlocked the gate.
Asriel's breath stilled.
From the forest's edge came a figure cloaked in black.
She stepped forward, slow, elegant, her face hidden.
Then, with one graceful movement, she lifted her hood.
His heart stopped.
The face beneath was untouched by time.
Pale, flawless skin. Eyes like glassy frost. Lips he knew from lullabies. The voice that once called him little star.
Morgana.
His mother.
The woman he watched burn.
No.
It could not be.
She should be ash.
Yet here she stood.
And—by the gods—she looked younger than he remembered.
Then her gaze shifted.
Sharp.
Direct.
She saw him.
He flinched back behind the pillar, unseen again, but not unread. Her smile followed him into the dark.
"Shall we?" Kara's voice came, reverent.
Morgana nodded.
They vanished into the palace shadows.
---
Asriel staggered back, pressed against the wall, breath shallow.
And then the memory came.
---
Children laughing in a noble courtyard. The scent of rosewater and sunlight.
A voice called, "Asriel!"
He turned, running, laughter bright.
His mother knelt, arms wide.
He crashed into her, giggling, and she kissed his forehead.
"My sweet Asriel. My little star."
---
He gasped. The memory tore like a blade across his chest.
He gritted his teeth. "No," he whispered. "She died. I watched her burn."
But doubt had already taken root.
He looked down at his shaking hands.
He had not trembled in years.
He had not felt in years.
But now—
Now he did.
His knees nearly buckled beneath the weight of what he saw. And in the pit of his soul, a truth stirred:
If Morgana lived…
Then everything he believed had already begun to unravel.
---
The chamber was quiet, the candlelight casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls. Alistair and Elias stood close, too close for anything to be unsaid. Elias reached up first, drawing Alistair into a kiss. It was slow at first, familiar—their kind of language. But it deepened quickly, hands grasping at cloth and skin, hearts rising in rhythm.
Just when the moment threatened to consume them whole, Alistair suddenly pulled away, breath sharp in his throat.
Elias blinked, startled. "What is it?" he asked, voice low, concern flickering in his gaze as he stepped forward again.
But Alistair caught his hand gently, firm yet tender. "Something has been troubling my mind," he said.
Elias tilted his head, brows furrowed. "What is it?"
There was a moment of silence. Alistair's eyes dropped to the ground for a heartbeat before rising to meet his.
"The young knight… Caven."
Elias stilled. His face shifted briefly—something unreadable—but returned to calm just as quickly.
"I'm not angry," Alistair added quickly. "And I don't blame you. I was not here. I was absent for too long, and it is only natural for you to… find someone. I just…"
Before the words could fumble further, Elias pressed a hand to Alistair's lips.
"It's all in the past," he said gently. "And it holds no place between us now."
Alistair's eyes searched his, vulnerable. "Does he know that?"
A smile tugged at the corners of Elias' lips. He stepped in, wrapping his arms around Alistair's neck.
"Are you jealous, Your Highness?" he asked, voice teasing.
"It's not that—" Alistair began, but faltered. "I just… I don't want any misunderstanding between us. I know I've no right to speak of such things, not when I'm bound to Jasmine and we…"
Elias kissed him again—this time deep, silencing the words with his mouth. And Alistair yielded.
They broke apart slowly, foreheads resting together, their breaths mingling in the silence.
"I wouldn't want to be anywhere but here," Elias whispered. "With you."
Alistair smiled, one hand slipping to the back of Elias' neck. "Nor I."
---
Caven moved carefully through the shadowed halls, boots soft against the cold stone. He knew this path well. It was the place Elias often disappeared to when he wanted silence… or when something was troubling him. And this morning—Elias' harsh words, the way he looked away as if ashamed—it had left a weight on Caven's chest.
He hadn't come for answers, not truly. He just wanted to see him. Make sure he was well.
He slowed as he neared the old iron door—ajar.
A flicker of warmth poured from within, the faint glow of torches dancing along the walls. He leaned gently against the archway, meaning to knock. To say his name.
But then he heard voices.
And he stopped.
"Something's been bothering me," came Alistair's voice, low and strained.
"What is it?" Elias asked, a soft confusion in his tone.
A pause, and then:
"The young knight… Caven."
Caven felt his breath hitch.
Within, Elias went silent for a heartbeat too long.
"I'm not angry," Alistair continued. "Or blaming you. I was absent. It's only natural you'd find someone. I just—"
A sound—flesh meeting flesh gently—then Elias' voice, calm and deliberate, cutting off Alistair's doubt.
"It's all in the past," Elias said.
Silence followed, thick and intimate, and then Alistair's voice again:
"Does he know that?"
Caven could almost see Elias' smirk as he replied, "Are you jealous?"
Their voices melted into laughter and soft words—then the sound of a kiss.
Caven turned away.
He stepped backward, one slow retreating motion at a time, until the torchlight no longer kissed his boots and only darkness embraced him. His face remained unreadable, but something quiet cracked behind his eyes.
He had come to offer comfort.
But instead, he had overheard the truth.
That whatever flicker had once been between him and Elias… had burned out long ago.
And now, it was ash.
Without a word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the cold silence of the corridor. The shadows swallowed him whole.