The Weight Of Shadows
Lana's POV —
The first thing I felt was not chains, but cold stone beneath my palms. Smooth, polished, and carved with grooves that pulsed faintly against my skin like veins of light. My eyes fluttered open, and I sucked in a sharp breath.
This was not the dungeon.
Above me stretched an arched ceiling inlaid with runes, glowing faintly blue, shifting like constellations across the dome. The air was damp but alive, thrumming with an energy that seeped into my bones. Shadows clung to the corners, and yet the whole place radiated a strange sanctity, like a temple that hadn't been touched in centuries.
I sat up slowly, heart racing. The rejection scar on my wrist throbbed, and silver sparks danced at the edges of my vision.
A voice, rough and low, broke the silence.
"You're awake."
Dominic stood near a carved altar at the room's center, his golden eyes gleaming under the rune-light. He looked like he hadn't moved in hours, shoulders taut, jaw rigid.
"You brought me here?" My voice cracked with suspicion.
His gaze held mine for a long beat, unreadable. "This place found you. I only… carried you after you collapsed."
"This place?" I whispered. My eyes scanned the walls, where symbols shifted like living things, weaving patterns that made the hairs rise on my arms.
"An ancient sanctuary," he said. "Older than the dominion itself. Buried under the palace ruins. Even the council believes it lost."
I shivered. Not from cold; no, the air was strangely warm but from the way my pulse echoed with the hum of the runes. As if they were… recognizing me.
Before I could speak, another voice cut through the chamber.
"Of course they recognize her."
Cyril leaned against a stone pillar, his tattoos catching the dim light, his lips curved in that mocking smirk. "She belongs here."
Dominic spun, a growl vibrating low in his chest. "You shouldn't be here."
Cyril stepped forward, calm, predatory. "And yet, I am. Your wards are nothing against bloodlines older than your title." His eyes found mine, steel gray, gleaming with something like triumph. "Tell me, Lana. Don't you feel it? This place isn't a prison. It's calling you home."
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. "Why?"
His smirk deepened. "Because you are what the prophecy spoke of. The forsaken bride. The heir of ruin."
Dominic snarled, stepping between us. "Enough."
But Cyril didn't flinch. He tilted his head, watching me with something dark in his gaze, obsession, hunger, something more dangerous than either. "Did you dream again, Lana? Did you see the child?"
My breath hitched. Images clawed at the edges of my mind—flashes of a child with silver eyes, a burning throne, shadows swirling like cloaks around a wolf. I shook my head violently. "Stay out of my mind."
"I don't need to," Cyril murmured. "It bleeds from you."
Dominic grabbed him by the collar, slamming him into the pillar. The runes flickered, reacting to the surge of rage. "One more word, and I'll end you."
Cyril only laughed, low and taunting. "You can't end what she will choose."
Their voices blurred as the runes pulsed harder. My scar seared, my silver vision bleeding across the sanctuary. And then the whispers began again.
The forsaken bride shall birth the heir of ruin. One shall claim her heart. One shall claim her blood. Both shall fall.
The words didn't stay trapped in my mind this time; they rang aloud, echoing off the stone until the sanctuary itself trembled.
Both Dominic and Cyril froze, their faces etched with something rare: fear.
And me? I fell to my knees, clutching my head as the visions tore through me again; blood raining, a crown of bone gleaming, fire devouring a throne. And in the midst of it all, a child's cry piercing the storm.
When I finally gasped awake again, I wasn't in the sanctuary anymore.
The council chamber reeked of incense and iron. I blinked through the haze, realizing I was seated on a cold stone bench at the chamber's center. Runes shimmered faintly across the walls, not as alive as the sanctuary's but functional enough to suppress power.
Around me, the dominion's council had gathered: elders draped in furs, warriors with silver chains at their throats, eyes sharp and cruel.
"She's too dangerous," one snarled, voice echoing across the chamber. "Her blood carries the prophecy. Kill her now and end this."
Murmurs rippled. Another councilor leaned forward, voice oily. "No. Keep her hidden. Use her blood when the time comes. A weapon in our hands is better than letting her fall to enemies."
"Or crown her," another voice broke in, sharp, female, eyes gleaming with ambition. "The prophecy names her bride and heir. If she rules, the dominion rules through her."
My stomach twisted. They weren't debating my fate; they were carving it like meat on a table.
Dominic stood at the chamber's edge, towering, silent but bristling with Alpha authority. His golden eyes burned as they flicked from speaker to speaker, and finally to me.
"She is under my protection," he said, voice cutting through the noise like steel. "No one touches her."
"Your protection?" one elder barked. "You rejected her! You branded her curse before the entire dominion. And now you claim her as yours again?"
The words sliced deeper than I wanted to admit. My scar throbbed, and I hated the heat rising in my chest.
Cyril's voice, smooth and mocking, cut through the chamber. "He doesn't want to protect her. He wants to own her."
Heads snapped toward him where he lounged against the wall, arms folded, tattoos curling like serpents across his neck.
"She doesn't need your council's chains or his Alpha's leash," Cyril went on. His eyes found mine again, intense, searing. "What she needs is choice. And I will give it to her."
Dominic growled, stepping forward, but the chamber erupted; councilors shouting, arguing, debating whether to kill me, crown me, or cage me.
And through it all, the visions pressed harder. A child's cry. Fire. Shadows. Blood.
My head pounded. The scar burned hotter. My lungs felt too small.
And then it happened.
Silver fire exploded from my skin, racing up the walls, searing across the runes. Gasps erupted as the flames didn't just burn; they showed.
Visions poured from me into the chamber, raw and unfiltered. Councilors screamed as they saw what I saw: the throne burning, wolves clawing each other apart, blood raining down, a child with silver eyes crowned in ruin.
They clutched their heads, their bodies writhing, their screams echoing mine.
When it ended, silence fell. The chamber reeked of terror. Eyes—every eye—turned to me.
And for the first time, I saw not just suspicion or hatred. I saw fear.
"Monster," someone whispered.
"Prophecy," another hissed.
But Dominic's gaze burned into mine, his jaw tight, his voice low. "Lana…"
And Cyril's smirk curved, slow, satisfied. "Now they see."
The council chamber doors slammed open. A guard stumbled in, bloodied, pale. "There's a traitor. The assassin, he wasn't alone. Someone inside the palace…"
He collapsed, dead before he hit the stone floor with a sickening thud, his blood spreading in a dark pool that crawled toward the council's feet. For a breath, no one moved. No one spoke. The runes overhead flickered like dying stars, straining to contain the lingering sparks of my outburst.
Then the shouting began.
"Seal the gates!" one councilor barked, clutching the iron rings of his robe as though they could shield him.
"No, search the inner chambers first; traitors don't come from outside!" another countered, her eyes darting toward Dominic, then me.
The words struck like arrows. Inside the palace. The assassin hadn't acted alone.
Dominic stood rigid, his golden eyes scanning every corner of the chamber, every shifting face of the council. His Alpha presence rolled through the air like thunder, but beneath it I caught the faintest thread of something else—doubt.
And Cyril, he didn't even look surprised. He crouched by the dead guard, dragging two fingers through the blood before rubbing it between his hands like an alchemist testing powder. His smirk never wavered. "Inside jobs always leave the sweetest trails," he murmured. "And this one stinks of council rot."
"Silence," one elder snapped, though her voice trembled.
Cyril rose to his full height, the blood on his fingers catching the rune-light like ink. "What's the matter? Afraid the traitor wears the same chains you do? Afraid the prophecy you've been whispering about finally has teeth?"
The council erupted again, voices overlapping in panic and anger, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. The whispers clawed at my skull, pressing harder now, emboldened by my display.
The forsaken bride shall birth the heir of ruin. One shall claim her heart. One shall claim her blood. Both shall fall.
The words wouldn't leave me. They coiled tighter with every breath.
Dominic's voice cut through the chaos, hard and commanding. "Enough."
The chamber stilled, though uneasily. Even the crackle of torches seemed to dim. He looked to the body on the floor, then back to the council. "There's a traitor in this room. We find them before the night ends."
Murmurs of agreement, though edged with fear, rippled through the council.
But then one councilor's gaze landed on me, sharp as a blade. "Or perhaps the traitor is already obvious."
The weight of every eye turned to me.
My throat tightened. "I didn't—"
"Your power exploded without warning," the councilor snapped. "The guard speaks of traitors, and he dies the next breath. Convenient, isn't it?"
My chest hollowed. "You think I—"
"She doesn't control it," Dominic growled, his voice low, threatening. "If she wanted him dead, you'd all be corpses by now."
The councilor faltered, but only slightly. "And yet her very existence endangers us. The prophecy names her as ruin. Should we wait until that ruin consumes us?"
Cyril's laughter rolled across the chamber, sharp and cutting. "Oh, I do hope you wait. Watching you squirm in fear is far too delicious to end so soon." His gray eyes flicked to me, hungry. "Don't worry, little heir. They'll keep arguing about whether to kill you while I make sure no one gets to you first."
I wanted to scream at him, to tell him I wasn't his to guard or to break. But the truth was worse: the council's fear wasn't misplaced. I could still feel the power simmering under my skin, restless, eager. If it surged again, I didn't know if I could stop it.
Dominic must have seen the tremor in my hands because he stepped closer, his voice pitched low for me alone. "Breathe, Lana. Hold it in."
I wanted to snap back at him, but the sound of my own ragged breath was the only tether keeping me from shattering again.
Then the chamber doors opened once more, and a guard limped in, armor scorched, half his face blackened with soot. He collapsed to his knees before the council.
"The west wing," he gasped. "It burns."
Gasps spread.
The council scrambled to their feet, panic snapping through them like wildfire. Dominic stiffened, fury flashing in his golden eyes.
Cyril's smirk widened. "Ah, the traitor shows their hand."
But I felt it first the pull in my chest, like a string tying me to the flames. My silver vision flared, and I saw it: a shadow moving through the west wing, cloaked in fire, feeding it with every step.
Not just an enemy. Someone familiar.
My lips parted. "No…"
The vision flickered sharper, closer, and I saw the face. My blood went cold.
It wasn't a nameless traitor. It was one of Dominic's own.
Someone I'd trusted once.
The chamber blurred around me as the vision dragged me deeper.