The room was quiet except for the faint rustle of the velvet curtains swaying in the midnight breeze. Serenya sat at the edge of her bed, the remnants of unease from her earlier visions still clinging to her like a second skin. The candle beside her sputtered, threatening to go out, shadows stretching and twisting across the chamber walls like living serpents.
And then, they gathered.
Not in the usual scattered, subtle manner that accompanied her half-conscious experiments with the Veil, but in deliberate formation. The darkness bled into one place, coalescing into the vague outline of a man. Serenya stiffened, her hand instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden beneath her pillow.
The figure stepped forward, the shadows parting like a veil, revealing a man with streaks of silver in his raven hair, a face carved with age and scars, and eyes the color of smoldering ash.
"I've waited a long time to stand before you, Shadowborn Princess," the man said, his voice deep, rasped by years of silence—or secrets.
Serenya's grip on her dagger tightened. "Who are you? Speak, or I'll end you where you stand."
The man's lips curved into a faint smile. He bowed, not mockingly but with the kind of reverence that was unsettling in its sincerity. "I am Eryndor. Once, I served your father, King Aldros, as his most trusted advisor. Until the High Priestess branded me traitor… and I vanished into the Veil."
The name struck Serenya like a blade between her ribs. She remembered, faintly, as a child, hearing whispers of a man named Eryndor—the king's shadow, the one who always seemed to appear at his side in tales her nursemaids whispered. But those stories ended in betrayal. The Temple's records painted him as a heretic who had dabbled in forbidden arts and nearly doomed the realm.
"You expect me to believe that?" Serenya's tone was sharp, but her heart pounded. "That you, a traitor, were loyal to my father?"
Eryndor stepped closer, his movements smooth but careful, like one approaching a skittish animal. "Your father trusted me because I knew the truth of your bloodline—of the shadows within it. Do you truly think it an accident that the darkness bends to your will? That it clings to you even as the Temple prays it away?"
Serenya's breath caught. The words echoed thoughts she had never dared give voice to.
"My father…" she began, her voice faltering. "What do you know of him?"
Eryndor's eyes softened, a flicker of sorrow crossing his hardened features. "He loved you. And he feared for you. The High Priestess wanted you bound in chains of light the moment she sensed your shadow inheritance. But he fought her. He hid the truth, even from you, to protect you. That choice cost him his throne—and his life."
Serenya shook her head, as if denial could banish the tremor running down her spine. "You lie. The High Priestess said my father's death was the Herald's doing—"
"The Herald struck the final blow," Eryndor cut in, his tone sharp. "But it was the Temple's betrayal that weakened your father, leaving him exposed. Ask yourself this, Princess: why does the High Priestess fear your shadows more than the Herald himself?"
The words burrowed into her. She thought of Kaelen's waning strength, the High Priestess's insistence that the solution lay in severing Serenya's connection to the Veil. And Lyra's quiet warning that sometimes the Temple's truths were but polished lies.
"You've come to manipulate me," Serenya said, forcing steel into her voice. "The Herald wants me as his queen, and you—what? His servant? His envoy?"
Eryndor laughed softly, but there was no malice in it. "Do you think the Herald would tolerate my defiance? No. I am hunted by his forces as surely as I am hunted by the Temple. I've survived because I embraced what both sides fear—the shadow itself. And now, I offer you the same choice. Train with me. Learn what you are, before the Herald takes you unprepared."
Serenya's dagger trembled in her hand. For a moment, she imagined plunging it into him—ending the uncertainty with cold steel. But another part of her, a darker whisper within, urged her to listen.
"Why should I trust you?" she demanded.
Eryndor's gaze bore into hers, unflinching. "Because if you don't, you will walk blind into the Herald's grasp. And when that happens, not even the Temple's light will save you—or Kaelen."
The mention of Kaelen sent a fresh jolt through her. She remembered his labored breaths, the cracks spreading across his Seal. The Temple had no answers. But this man—this exile—claimed he did.
Behind her, the shadows stirred, curling like smoke around her ankles, tugging toward him as if he were a lodestone.
"I don't need saving," Serenya whispered, though even she heard the uncertainty in her voice.
"No," Eryndor said softly. "You need awakening."
The words unlocked something buried deep. Serenya closed her eyes, and in the darkness, memory stirred.
She was five years old again, perched on her father's knee as he told her stories of kings and queens who had ruled Solareth. His voice was warm, soothing, but laced with sorrow she hadn't understood then.
"Serenya," he had whispered, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "There will come a day when the world tells you what you must be. A saint. A symbol. A weapon. But remember—light and shadow are both part of you. Do not let them take either away."
The memory faded, leaving her trembling. She opened her eyes, and Eryndor was watching her with quiet knowing, as though he had seen the memory too.
"You have a choice," Eryndor said, stepping back into the shadows that clung to him like a second skin. "Remain bound to the Temple's chains, and watch as the Herald claims victory. Or embrace the truth of your bloodline, and wield the only power that can oppose him."
Serenya's heart raced, her thoughts a storm. Could she risk trusting a man branded traitor? Could she risk not trusting him?
Behind him, the shadows writhed, opening like a gateway. "When you are ready," Eryndor said, his voice echoing as he stepped into the darkness, "seek me where the first shadow fell. The choice is yours, Princess."
The chamber fell silent once more, the shadows settling as if nothing had happened. Only the candle remained, flickering weakly in the corner, its light fragile against the weight of the dark.
Serenya lowered her dagger, her hand trembling. She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the hammering of her heart. Her father's voice, Eryndor's words, the pull of the shadows—all swirled inside her like a storm.
The Temple demanded her submission. The Herald demanded her hand.
But the shadows… they demanded nothing. They simply answered.
For the first time, Serenya wondered if perhaps her destiny wasn't to be a pawn in anyone's game, but to forge her own throne—built not of light or shadow, but of both.
Yet with that thought came fear. Because forging such a throne would mean standing against everyone—Herald, Temple, even her own people.
And Serenya was no longer certain she could resist the call of the dark.