The Shadow Man waited at the dark edge of the dock, where the fog rose thick as gruel and clung to the tongue like ash , only now, it carried a scent. A soft, heady sweetness, like blueberry honey warmed over coals. Her favorite. He'd made sure of it.
He didn't blink. He didn't breathe right. He just watched, the way things too old to die often do.
His servants had laid out the offerings: fresh cloths, jars of honey, black wine made from sinners' tears , the kind he personally kept bottled for private tortures, maps inked in vanished languages, sugared fruits, and books wrapped in silks. The kind of books she used to hide beneath her pillow , the kind that made her laugh too hard, or cry too quietly.
It had been years since he last faced his sister , not centuries, not eternities, but long enough to feel like the world had changed twice over. She'd visited this land long before it was ever called America. Back when the soil still whispered in old tongues and the trees remembered their names.
He hadn't cared for the so-called New World, not until she made him see it differently. Not until she helped him gather power the old-fashioned way, by making an entire colony disappear. Roanoke, they called it. The Lost Colony. But he hadn't lost a thing, not really.
Those people had grown tired of waiting, tired of starving, tired of begging the land to save them. The local tribes had grown tired of them too. And when they finally cried out for help, he answered.
They didn't suffer a painful death. No, nothing so messy. They simply disappeared , 115 souls vanishing into the thick of the woods and the waiting dark.
He remembered how yummy they all were. Not in flesh, but in story. The way their mouths opened with desperation and dreams, with hunger and holy visions, with accents braided from too many other lands. Their tales of traveling to this land , their firsts, their final prayers , it was a feast.
That night, they performed for him. Not unlike Viktor, years later. But this time, they were the ones feeding him. One hundred and fifteen different stories, each swallowed and sealed. Each voice now tucked away beneath the surface of the world, bound to him, still working in his name.
He hadn't named the place Roanoke. But he was cheeky enough to keep the name after the deed was done.
The Shadow Man didn't know if she still used the title Bannesh, or if she had stepped further into her celestial status with time. She had changed in ways he couldn't quite track, slipping further from what he remembered. In her letters, she mentioned someone new—someone she thought the Shadow Man might like to talk to.
He wasn't sure who the man was. She never brought him home during family gatherings, and he had assumed it was just another mortal. But the letters said otherwise. The man was a lower-class immortal, one who hadn't yet grown strong enough to witness what their mother and father looked like. She didn't feel like granting him that blessing.
Still, the Shadow Man clung to the image of her as a powerful, but ordinary, Bannesh. Just a little stranger now. A little older. A little further away. He missed the way she used to speak before stepping through a veil, like poetry balanced on the edge of laughter.
One of the Shadow Man's favorite shadows stirred beside him—a gambler in life and in undeath, still fond of theatrics. The shadow poured a flickering drink into a warped silver cup and offered it with both hands, speaking backward as always.
"!cinresA .deksa uoy ekil tsuj ,nosioP artxe dedda I ,retsam ,siht knirD," the man rasped in his usual backward tongue.
(Translation: "Drink this, master. I added extra poison, just like you asked. Arsenic.")
The Shadow Man took the drink without blinking.
"?suoN era uoy yhW" the shadow asked in his usual backward voice, settling at his master's side.
(Translation: "Why are you nervous?")
"You know how my sister is," the Shadow Man replied, swirling the drink absently. "She's older than me, and every time she shows up, it's like the tide shifts. Just a little. Just enough. Her power never makes a mess, but it always moves something out of the way."
He looked down into the shadow-laced cup, the flicker of poison glinting faintly. "I respect her more than anyone else alive. But I don't want to lean too hard into her grace. I don't want to use up all the luck she brings just by being near. She's helped me before. More than once. But there's a balance to it, and I won't be the one to upset it."
The Shadow Man gave a shallow breath and tilted his head. "And now she's bringing someone. A lower-class immortal, apparently. Someone she's never brought around during family gatherings. I thought he was mortal at first, just a name in a letter. But she wrote that he's not strong enough to handle what our parents look like yet."
He tapped the side of the cup, but his fingers trembled, and the drink slipped from his hand. The silver cup clattered to the stone floor, spilling flickering shadow-liquid across his feet.
Immediately, several shadows emerged—slithering, humanoid, spectral. They moved in sync, cleaning the spill with strips of cloth and soft whispers. One of them tried to hand him a stitched fan, another a lock of hair soaked in vinegar, but it was the last one, the limping shade with a crooked jaw, that offered him a small vial.
"Angel dandruff," it whispered, placing the vial in his palm.
He sniffed the powder inside, then inhaled sharply. The familiar sting of purity and rot rushed through his senses. Cocaine, yes—but not mortal. This was cut from angel dandruff itself, fine and iridescent.
The shadows held their breath as the fog thickened around his ankles.
The Shadow Man exhaled, steadier now. "She's never gone out of her way for another immortal, not like this. Not unless she saw something worthy. So now I'm wondering who this person is, and why she's placing him close."
He stared into the dark beyond the dock, his fingers twitching just once.
Then something flew across the misty path—someone. A body hurled with graceful violence, landing just shy of the dock. The limbs twisted grotesquely, snapped backward in ways that should not have been possible. It bent and folded until it resembled a crude, fleshy heart, pulsing faintly against the stone.
Before the echoes settled, the Shadow Man heard men and women yelling for help from somewhere deeper in the fog. The screams built and cracked—then fell silent.
A familiar tension stirred in the fog. The shadows around him began to bow, and not just them—the Shadow Man and his entire flock of servants were already on their knees, heads low in reverence.
They welcomed the eldest.
It was custom in their family, especially for those who still honored their ancestral ties to the roots of Africa. Bowing wasn't just ritual—it was acknowledgment. And though their parents had never demanded it, the gesture had lingered across generations.
The Shadow Man had chosen the boat route on purpose. Word of her arrival would spread like wildfire, and with it came the perfect bait. There were always enemies itching to take a bite out of his legacy—loud, arrogant things that thought power came from striking first. Let them come. Let them try. It only made it easier to sweep the field.
He treated it like a grand macabre parade, a masquerade of death where every scream was a drumbeat and every failed ambush a gift.
He didn't need to see her to know she had arrived. The fog stilled. The shadows bowed in place. Even the ghosts pressed tight against the veil, silent and reverent. The air changed as if it, too, was watching.
The first words he heard from her lips, now that she was finally in his sight, were in Spanish.
"Sé que ese tipo se estaba poniendo atrevido," she said, slightly winded, brushing a hand through her pink braids and trying not to smile too much. "Pero ¿seguro que tenías que lanzarlo así? Eso fue... una muestra tan teatral."
((Translation: "I know the fellow was acting rather bold, but did you truly need to toss him like that? That was... such a theatrical display."))
The Shadow Man groaned softly. Of course it would start like this.
His sister always had a thing for possessive types. He'd met them all—centuries of wild-eyed warlocks, swordsmen, and quiet horrors with obsessions tucked into their sleeves. Her true form wasn't monstrous—far from it. It was a beauty too sharp, too unnatural. It didn't repel; it haunted,but the ones who stayed? Those were something else entirely.
But this one? This one was different. She had taken her time. Nurtured something. And for the first time, she was letting someone like him—wild, unrefined, and unmistakably hers—meet a member of her family.
But this one? This one was different. She had taken her time. Nurtured something. And for the first time, she was letting someone like him—wild, unrefined, and unmistakably hers—meet a member of her family.
He remembered the letters—vague praises, careful wording. They hinted at someone, but never named him. Not once had she brought this one home. That alone said plenty.
Then there was the heart. That twisted, glistening thing made from the man who had tried his luck. Romantic, in a grotesque way.
The Shadow Man hadn't seen the man's face. His sister hadn't set foot on this land in ages. This was his chance. So he reached for the man's shadow, looking for something hidden. Power. Old blood. Anything.
But there was nothing.
No storm. No weight. Just stillness.
Magic wasn't in him—or if it was, it barely stirred.
Just a mushroom elf. Ordinary. Not even a touch of heat behind the eyes.
The question wasn't what he was, but what kind. And what, exactly, his sister saw in him that made her keep him hidden for so long.
Then a voice—confident, male, wild in that dangerous way, with an accent that marked him as something foreign yet familiar. His Spanish rolled like smoke, but it carried that edge—an Argentine lilt, almost Italian in rhythm. The kind of voice that didn't just speak, it claimed space.
"No voy a dejar que estos débiles sean tus primeras muertes de la noche, querida. Dijiste que no ibas a matar tanto esta vez, y que yo podía divertirme."
(Translation: "I won't let these weaklings be your first kills of the night, dear. You said you weren't killing much this time—and that I could have all the fun.")
Nicodemé strutted up to the mangled mess of a body and let out a delighted, sharp giggle.
"Oh, this is disgusting," she whispered, still flustered. "But also? Kind of romantic."
Her hands moved quickly, shaping the corpse into a crude heart with the ease of someone who'd done stranger things for family. Her skin was dark, so the flush across her face barely showed, but it was there.
With a soft hum, she turned the pulsing shape to metal, forging it into a makeshift locket. She carved her brother's name into its center—soft, glowing strokes etched with casual reverence.
Raise your head, brother," she called with a teasing grin. "You're so dramatic."
So… this was the one Nicodemé had brought. The Shadow Man lifted his head at last, watching as his sister laughed and looped the locket gently around his neck. His servants, still on their knees, stood slowly and bowed as she accepted the wine with grace. One passed a bottle to the stranger with the long weapon tied into the end of his hair—an elegant blade, glinting red. Valentín Navarro, they called him.
The man's presence was hard to ignore. Purple-brown skin with a hue kissed by twilight, tattoos glowing faintly with some otherworldly pulse. Valentín wiped blood from the dagger bound in his hair like it was nothing. There was something raw about him—untamed, yet noble in his bearing. The Shadow Man's gut twisted. This one wasn't like the others his sister had dallied with.
The warmth in her smile said it all. Valentín wasn't temporary. He was chosen. And he had bled for her. Took a few blows, too, even knowing she didn't need it. Still—he'd kept her surrounded. Shielded her from the worst. One of the attackers, thought dead, started to twitch upright. Then mushrooms burst from the man's throat, silencing him with a wet gasp.
Nicodemé gave a delighted grin, brushing her brother's arm. "He's such a fine fighter, isn't he? So, how have you been?"
The Shadow Man smiled and lifted his arms, cloak dragging like smoke behind him. "I am fine, dear sister—but I am truly glad you've come."
His servants, silent and smooth as shadows themselves, rushed to Valentín's side. One offered wine in a glass shaped like a bleeding rose. Another pressed a chilled cloth to his brow. A third held a silver tray with something stronger. Nicodemé, grinning with mischief, stepped in beside them.
"How could I miss this? Back home, this is headline news. Your first major soul harvest? And during wartime? That's open market season. But I must ask... why build a town only to send me off warning others?"
The Shadow Man tapped his cane—tap, tap, pause. "I have others watching the town. I needed a playground where the rules bend easy. A final chance to test balance without tipping the whole board. Only lower immortals may take part... though I trust you won't keep too many of the best souls for yourself."
Nicodemé nodded slowly, then snapped her fingers. A glowing portal peeled open behind her like a mouth, whispering with fog.
"Valentín, with me."
He sprinted forward, boots skimming the floor. She caught his shirt, dragging him with a flourish into the light.
As both of them vanished into the fog-portal and entered their new home, the Shadow Man turned his attention elsewhere.
He opened a portal into a velvet-drenched chamber. Candlelight trembled across blood-red walls, flickering like a warning.
The Shadow Man drifted inside, eyes half-lidded, though he didn't need to stand close to see. The shadows curled around the chamber like ribbons, stretching toward the suffering at its center. Through them, he watched: Ayoka's body twisted in anguish, each breath sharpened by the pain of becoming. Her skin peeled away in scales, and her shadow writhed beside her, echoing every scream.
Viktor knelt beside her, hands steady, voice soft, trying—but helpless. The man had his sins. He'd hidden her away once, kept her locked in an attic like some inherited burden. But the Shadow Man had seen colder lovers, crueler men in older tales. Viktor wasn't one of them. Not truly.
Among Ayoka's people, it was said the transformation hurt less when one stayed in serpent form. The snake was purity—older than speech, older than memory. It remembered things even the gods had forgotten. Her kind had passed that truth down for generations: the body knows what the soul cannot admit.
Even if their relationship had blossomed under less-than-holy circumstances, there was no excuse for most of it. Not the secrecy. Not the blood. Viktor had spent more nights than he cared to count hiding the bodies Ayoka had left behind—guests who had crossed lines they didn't realize were sacred, servants and slaves who thought themselves untouchable. And Ayoka… she hadn't just acted out of rage. She'd tasted something in it. A high, almost. A sacred kind of fury.
And Viktor hadn't stopped her.
No, he helped cover it up. The two of them stitched their survival into quiet rooms, into buried things. For a while, it worked. The masses bought the illusion—until they didn't. Now they were checking the old house, sniffing around the ashes for proof. If the war hadn't broken out when it did—if the Shadow Man hadn't set fire to that place himself—this would've been a very different story.
But now… now the illusion was cracking.
From the shadows, the Shadow Man watched Viktor's expression tighten—not just with fear for Ayoka, but for her shadow. The way both writhed in mirrored pain. The way the chains snapped and circled, confused on who to bind. Ayoka's body was coming apart, yes—but not unraveling. Rebuilding. Reshaping. Splitting.
And then it came—that twitch at her mouth.
Not agony. Not helplessness.
A smirk.
That was the moment the truth sank in — heavy as wet iron and twice as cursed.
She wasn't coming undone.
She was splitting.
Her and her shadow—distinct, intelligent, aligned. Worse still, they liked one another.
The chain lashed out near Viktor's chest, and the Shadow Man's breath hitched in amusement. Ah… so that's what this is. She wasn't losing control. She was becoming two. Her and her shadow—separate, aware, and worst of all... they liked each other.
Once a slave, always a slave.
Ayoka did not root herself in softness. She clung to metal, to memory, to rituals that left bruises. But the truth went deeper than chains or rooms or locked doors.
Viktor had never truly set her free.
Oh, he may have loved her. Might've called it devotion. But love, by itself, was never the same thing as freedom. Not when it came wrapped in fear, in duty, in the slow, silent hope that she would never grow past needing him.
Not in the body. Not in the mind.
That was the part they never told you. The part that digs deepest.She went to Viktor willingly. Said it aloud. Stood by his side. Gave him her name, hands, and hunger.
Her front thoughts told the whole story: comfort, passion, maybe even love. And the Shadow Man had watched—gods, had watched—to make sure it wouldn't spiral into something unspeakable. He wasn't innocent. He was no saint. A monster? Certainly. A bastard? Most days. But even monsters have standards.
And unlike certain others, he didn't lie to himself about what love could and couldn't fix.
They did love each other, Ayoka and Viktor. Deeply. Viscerally. Enough to burn the sky and swallow the bones afterward.
But love, unexamined, turns sour. Especially when it's used to bandage wounds that were never meant to be hidden.
Ayoka hadn't tasted freedom in years—not the kind that echoed in the mind, not the kind that said you belong to no one. And now, those buried thoughts they both tried not to think? They were surfacing. Crawling out from the dark corners of her, piece by piece.
The chains in her mind had stayed silent while she called it choice.
But now?
Now they were rattlingThe chains in her mind had stayed quiet while she called it choice.
But now?
Now they whispered in rhyme, low and cruel:
"The mind of the slave was never free,
The owners gave me choice to leave,
But I had nowhere I could flee—
All roads were closed, so chains may be."
And still, they rattled.