The Temple bells tolled deep into the night, each solemn peal echoing against the marble spires of Solareth. Serenya sat by her chamber window, staring at the horizon where the stars fought for space against gathering clouds. She had not slept. Sleep, she knew, would bring only the echo of her father's voice, the weight of Malrik's smirk, and the dark promise whispered by Eryndor.
Shadowborn Princess.
Her dagger lay across her lap, its polished blade catching glimmers of starlight. It was Kaelen's, given to her on the day of her first royal ceremony. She traced its edge, thinking of him—his labored breaths, the shadow-taint clawing at his Seal. Every choice she made now seemed a betrayal to someone: to Kaelen, to her father's memory, to the people who still believed her crown was made of light and not darkness.
But the memory of the shadows answering her touch in her chamber… that had been real. Terrifying, yes, but real. And real power could not be ignored.
"Forgive me, Kaelen," she whispered, sliding the dagger into its sheath. "I must know."
Wrapping her cloak around her shoulders, she slipped from her chamber, each step muffled by the thick carpets of the royal wing. The corridors were dim, lit only by dying sconces. She passed guards who bowed, none questioning her presence. Princesses were not meant to steal into the night like thieves, but Serenya had learned that expectation was the first chain of a cage.
Eryndor had told her where to go. Not directly, but in whispers. The shadows seemed to bend her steps, guiding her through the sleeping city and out to the northern gate. The guards did not see her; or perhaps they pretended not to, shadows coiling like veils around her form.
Beyond the city walls lay the old ruins—the battlefield where, according to legend, the first Veil tear had been sealed centuries ago. The moon revealed fragments of shattered stone, toppled pillars carved with runes worn by time, and blackened soil where no grass dared grow.
He was already there.
Eryndor stood at the heart of the ruin, his cloak rippling though no wind blew. The shadows clung to him like loyal hounds, shaping and reshaping with every shift of his posture.
"You came," he said, voice low but edged with satisfaction.
"I came for answers," Serenya said. "Not chains."
"Good. Then you are ready."
He raised a hand, and the darkness responded. The ruins dimmed further, the stars blotted out until only a pool of shadow remained around them. Serenya's heart pounded—part fear, part exhilaration.
"Power," Eryndor began, "is not granted by gods or crowns. It is claimed. Shadows are not the absence of light, as your priests preach. They are memory. Echo. Every pain, every secret, every death leaves an imprint. The Veil is their keeper. We who bear the mark can call to them."
He stepped closer, his eyes gleaming faintly violet. "Call to them, Serenya. Feel what answers."
She hesitated. Her hands trembled as she lifted them. She closed her eyes, focusing on the ache in her chest, the grief still raw from her father's passing, Kaelen's suffering, the burden of her crown. Darkness pulsed at her fingertips.
At first, it was chaos—whispers, screams, fragments of voices layered atop each other. Her knees buckled, but she forced herself to stand, to breathe, to listen.
The shadows coiled, shaping into form. For a heartbeat, Kaelen stood before her—his eyes gentle, his smile faint.
"Kaelen—" she whispered, reaching forward.
The figure shattered, dissolving back into black mist. Serenya staggered, pain tightening her chest.
"You cling too tightly," Eryndor said, though his voice was not cruel. "Shadows answer truth, not longing. They mirror your will, not your wishes. Try again."
Anger flared in her veins, burning hotter than shame. She extended her hands once more, this time focusing on the truth she could not deny: I am not weak. I will not be a pawn. I will fight.
The shadows surged, answering with a roar that seemed to split the silence. A shape formed again, taller this time—her own reflection, cloaked in black fire, eyes blazing violet. It stood beside her like a twin born of night.
Eryndor's lips curved faintly. "Yes. That is your power."
But then the figure tilted its head, watching her not like a servant, but a rival. The air turned heavy, suffocating. Serenya broke the connection, gasping as the shadow-self collapsed into mist.
Eryndor's expression hardened. "You tasted it. You see why the Temple fears you. Shadows are will made flesh. If you master them, you will never kneel. But if they master you…"
"They consume me," she finished, voice hoarse.
He inclined his head. "That is the first lesson."
Sweat dampened her brow, her limbs trembling from the effort. Yet beneath the exhaustion was exhilaration. The shadows had answered her—truly answered her. She had felt their weight, their strength.
And it terrified her.
Eryndor stepped closer, his tone sharpening. "The Herald will come for you. He does not seek a bride. He seeks an equal—a queen forged of shadow and flame. That is why he destroys villages. He searches for you, or another like you, to complete what the Veil began."
Serenya's heart hammered. "Why me?"
"Because your father knew," Eryndor said. "He carried the same gift, though weaker. He bound it, buried it, and swore the priests to silence. But he could not destroy it. You are his heir—in light and in shadow."
Her breath caught. Her father, who had always spoken of honor, of duty… had lived with this same curse? No—this same power.
Eryndor saw the storm in her eyes. "Do not waste time grieving what you were not told. Use it. Or the Herald will."
By the time Serenya slipped back into the Temple, dawn's pale light touched the horizon. Her limbs ached, her mind raced, but she kept her head high as she returned to her chambers. Lyra waited at the door, her face pale.
"You were gone," Lyra whispered fiercely. "The High Priestess noticed. I told her you were in prayer, but she didn't believe me."
Serenya touched her hand briefly. "Thank you."
Lyra's eyes searched hers, fear mingled with loyalty. "Whatever you're doing, Serenya… please, be careful. The Temple punishes shadow-binding with fire."
Before Serenya could answer, a knock came at the door. A priestess bowed, her expression unreadable. "Her Holiness summons you, Princess. Immediately."
The chamber of the High Priestess was a sanctuary of blinding radiance. White marble walls gleamed as though freshly polished, golden braziers burning with sacred fire. High Priestess Elindra stood at the center, her silver staff gleaming.
"Princess Serenya," she said, voice smooth as silk yet sharp as glass. "You walk with shadows. Do not deny it—I see them upon you."
Serenya's heart clenched, but she forced her voice steady. "I walk where duty takes me."
Elindra's lips curved in something not unlike pity. "Duty to whom? The shadows whisper of power, but their gift is a chain, not a crown. Already Kaelen suffers. Already your presence cracks the Seal upon him. If you persist, his life will be the price."
Serenya's breath caught. Kaelen…
Elindra stepped closer. "There is still time. Submit to the Binding Ritual. Surrender the shadows, and you will be preserved as Solareth's jewel. The people will rally. The knight you love will live."
The choice hung heavy in the chamber. Chains of light, or chains of dark.
That night, Serenya returned to the ruins. Eryndor waited, his eyes glinting with knowing.
"They offer you chains of light," he said simply.
She met his gaze, steel in her voice. "And you offer chains of dark."
"Not chains," he corrected. "A blade. Dangerous, yes. But yours."
The shadows stirred at her feet, whispering her name.
Serenya's hand curled into a fist. She thought of Kaelen, pale and weak, of Lyra's trembling devotion, of her father's hidden truth. Of Malrik's smirk, the Herald's threat, the High Priestess's false compassion.
She drew a breath. "Then teach me. I will master the shadows before they master me."
Eryndor's smile was grim, almost reverent. "So begins your second lesson."
The shadows rose like a tide, and Serenya stepped forward, unafraid.