The Grand Athenaeum never truly closed. It couldn't—not when memories didn't sleep and dead men's dreams still needed cataloging. But at this hour, past midnight and creeping toward the thin hours of pre-dawn, only the skeleton crew remained: three night archivists, two security wardens, and Old Marleth who claimed to have been here since the building's foundation two centuries ago.
No one questioned Marleth's claim. In Umbrafell, impossible age was just another Tuesday.
Corvin burst through the servants' entrance on Blackwick Lane, his coat torn and rain-soaked, his shadow—his independent shadow—flickering nervously around his feet like a dog that had caught scent of something wrong.
The back corridors were dimly lit by memory-lamps: glass orbs containing captured emotions that gave off light based on their intensity. Joy burned bright yellow. Sorrow flickered blue. Fear—fear pulsed red, and too many of these lamps were turning red as Corvin passed.
The building knew something was wrong.
"Thornevale?" A voice from a side office. Jessamine Crowfell, one of the night archivists, emerged with a cup of coffee that smelled of chicory and burned dreams—the cheap stuff they brewed in the break room. She was older than Corvin by a decade, with silver threading through her black hair and ink stains permanently embedded under her fingernails. "What are you doing here? You're not scheduled until—"
She stopped. Stared at his shadow.
"Jess," Corvin said carefully. "I need you to not ask questions."
"Your shadow is moving wrong." Her voice had gone flat, professional. She'd seen strange things in her fifteen years here, but some strangeness still struck her silent. "That's... that's Advanced Dissociation. That's at least Third Tier Umbral manipulation. You're a cataloger, Corvin. You barely tested at Tier One."
"I know."
"Who hurt you?" Her eyes narrowed. "Who did this?"
"No one did this. It just... happened." He glanced behind him. The corridor was empty, but he could feel them—the Shadeborn, moving through the city like sharks through dark water. "I need to get to Section Omega-Black."
Jessamine's coffee cup slipped from her fingers. It shattered on the floor, and the sound seemed to echo forever in the quiet corridor.
"There's no such section," she said, but her voice carried the careful cadence of a rehearsed lie.
"Jess, please—"
"Even if there were," she continued, "it would require Regnant-level clearance. You'd need authorization from the Umbral Court itself. It would take weeks to process, and even then, they'd deny you because you're—" She stopped herself.
"Because I'm nobody," Corvin finished. "I know. But somebody seems to think I'm somebody, because they sent Shadeborn to my apartment thirty minutes ago, and they were very interested in taking me back to the Regnant."
Jessamine's face drained of color. "The Regnant doesn't send Shadeborn for nobody."
"That's what I've been trying to tell you."
She stared at him for a long moment, then made a decision. "Follow me. Quickly. And keep that shadow of yours close—if anyone sees it moving independently, they'll call the Wardens, and then we're both fucked."
They moved through the Athenaeum's maze of corridors, past reading rooms where scholars slept at their desks, past the memory vaults where thousands of preserved experiences sat in crystalline jars, past the restricted archives where the truly dangerous knowledge was kept.
Corvin had always loved this building. It smelled of old paper and older secrets, of ink and candlewax and the peculiar metallic scent that memories left behind when they were extracted and stored. He'd spent five years here, cataloging the mundane detritus of other people's lives—their first kisses, their wedding days, their children's births.
He'd never questioned why such ordinary memories needed to be preserved.
Now he wondered what else the Athenaeum was hiding.
They descended. Down staircases that grew progressively older, where the architecture shifted from Gothic Revival to something more ancient, more primal. The memory-lamps down here burned different colors—purples and greens that had no corresponding emotion, or emotions too complex for simple naming.
"How far down does this place go?" Corvin asked.
"The public levels? Five floors. The restricted archives? Twelve." Jessamine paused at a door that looked like all the others—plain wood, brass handle, nothing remarkable. "But there are older levels. Levels that existed before the Athenaeum was built. Before Umbrafell became Umbrafell."
She pressed her hand against the door. Nothing happened.
Then Corvin's shadow moved—flowed across the floor and up the wood, spreading across the door's surface like spilled ink. The door sighed. The lock clicked.
It opened onto a descending staircase that had no business existing in any sane geometry.
"I can't go with you," Jessamine said quietly. "Past this door, only those with Thornevale blood can walk. It's warded. Has been for three centuries."
"How do you know that?"
"Because your family built this Athenaeum, Corvin. The public story is that it was commissioned by the Regnant two hundred years ago, but the truth? House Thornevale raised these stones five hundred years before the Regnant took power. This was your family's fortress. Their sanctuary. Their tomb."
Corvin stared at her. "I'm an orphan. I grew up in the Greyveil poorhouse. I have no family—"
"You're the last survivor of a murdered bloodline," Jessamine said, and there was grief in her voice. "We've been watching you. Some of us who still remember the old ways. Waiting to see if you'd awaken. Hoping you wouldn't, because awakening means the Regnant's attention, and the Regnant's attention is death."
"Then why are you helping me?"
She smiled sadly. "Because some things are worth dying for. Your family understood that. They hid the Umbra Core somewhere even the Regnant couldn't find it. They died rather than reveal its location. And they made sure that someday, someone with their blood would come back for it."
"I don't want this," Corvin said. "I don't want to be important. I just want to catalog memories and live quietly and—"
"Too late." Jessamine pushed him gently toward the staircase. "The moment your shadow separated, you became a player in this game. The only choice now is whether you play well enough to survive."
A sound from above—shouts, breaking glass, the distinctive whisper-scream of Shadeborn.
"They're in the building," Jessamine said. "Go. Find what your family died protecting. And Corvin?" She met his eyes. "Don't trust anyone who tells you they want to help. Everyone in Umbrafell wants something. Even me."
"What do you want?"
"For the Regnant to pay for what he did to this city. To my family. To yours." She closed the door between them. "Now run."
Corvin descended.
The staircase spiraled down for what felt like hours, though his shadow's behavior suggested time was moving strangely here—sometimes racing ahead, sometimes lagging behind, as if the shadow existed in multiple moments simultaneously.
The walls changed as he descended. Stone became older. Carvings appeared—not decorative, but functional. Warding symbols. Protective runes. And between them, scenes of a history Corvin had never learned:
A great city beneath an eternal twilight sky. A palace of black glass where shadows danced independently. A family line of rulers who didn't command shadows—they were shadows, flesh and darkness intermingled.
House Thornevale.
His family.
Murdered.
The staircase ended at a door of pure darkness—not painted black, not made of dark material, but actual liquid shadow held in the shape of a door by some force Corvin couldn't comprehend.
His shadow pressed against it. The door rippled like water, then parted.
Beyond lay a chamber that stole Corvin's breath.
It was vast—cathedral-vast, with a ceiling that disappeared into darkness overhead. Columns of black stone rose like petrified giants, each carved with names. Thornevale names. Hundreds of them. Thousands. A bloodline stretching back to before the Primacy shattered.
And in the chamber's center, suspended in a cage of silver chains that pulsed with warding magic, hung a sphere of absolute darkness roughly the size of a human heart.
The Umbra Core.
It beat.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each pulse sent ripples of shadow across the chamber floor, and with each pulse, Corvin felt something inside him answer. A resonance. A recognition. Like hearing your name called in a dream.
"Hello, little prince," a voice said from the shadows.
A figure emerged—tall, wrapped in robes that seemed woven from midnight itself, face hidden behind a silver mask shaped like a sorrowing expression. But Corvin recognized the presence. The weight of authority.
The Umbral Regnant.
"You've saved me considerable trouble by coming here," the Regnant said. "I was prepared to tear the city apart looking for you. But I should have known—blood always returns to blood. The Core called, and you answered."
Corvin's shadow positioned itself between him and the Regnant, spreading wide like a shield.
"How long have you known?" Corvin asked, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. "That I was alive. That I was here."
"Always." The Regnant moved closer, and with each step, more shadows emerged from the corners—not Shadeborn, but something older. More refined. Pure Umbral essence given temporary form. "I killed your family three hundred years ago, boy. Every last Thornevale—or so I thought. But one child was smuggled away by a loyal servant. Hidden. Their bloodline preserved through careful breeding and careful forgetting, until you emerged. The last possible key to the Core."
"You can't use it," Corvin said. "The Cores are bound to their bloodlines. That's why you've kept me alive. You need me to unlock it."
"Very good. You're smarter than your ancestors." The Regnant stopped ten feet away. "Here's what happens next. You will touch the Core. You will bond with it, as your blood demands. And then you will transfer that bond to me. If you refuse, I will hurt you in ways that make death look merciful. If you cooperate, I might let you live. You could even serve in my court. A tamed Thornevale has a certain poetic appeal."
Corvin looked at the Core. Even from here, he could feel it—not just power, but memory. Three hundred years of stored experiences. Every Thornevale who had bonded with it had left something of themselves behind. Including, presumably, the truth about who he really was.
"What happens if I bond with it and refuse to transfer it to you?"
"Then I kill you and wait for the next Thornevale to be born. I'm immortal, boy. I can afford to be patient."
"How did you become immortal?" Corvin asked. "The Cores grant power, but not that. Not eternal life."
The Regnant laughed—a sound like wind through a cemetery. "Oh, little prince. You still think there are only ten Cores. That's precious."
Before Corvin could ask what that meant, his shadow lunged.
Not at the Regnant—at the Core.
It stretched impossibly, flowing across the chamber floor and up the silver chains, wrapping around the sphere of darkness and pulling. The chains resisted, magic flaring bright enough to burn, but the shadow didn't stop. It pulled.
"No!" The Regnant's shout actually held surprise. "You can't—the wards—"
The chains shattered.
The Umbra Core fell.
Corvin's shadow caught it, cradling the impossible weight, and brought it back across the chamber to press it against Corvin's chest.
The moment the Core touched him, Corvin's world exploded into memory.
He saw himself—but not himself. A man with his face wearing coronation robes. This is Lord Matthias Thornevale, and he is creating the Athenaeum as a hiding place. A tomb. A trap for anyone who would steal his family's legacy.
Flash.
A woman with his eyes, fighting Shadeborn in a burning palace. This is Lady Seraphine Thornevale, and she is buying time for her child to escape. She dies well. She dies proud.
Flash.
A child—maybe three years old—being carried through sewers by a servant wearing a mask to hide their tears. The child is him. The servant is someone he should remember but doesn't. The servant whispers: "Forget. Forget it all until the Core calls you home. Live. Just live."
Flash.
Himself, twenty years from now, wearing a crown of shadow and standing over the Regnant's corpse. But his eyes are empty. Whatever victory he won, it cost him something essential.
Flash.
The woman from his mirror, younger, laughing, kissing him in a garden of night-blooming flowers. "I'll find you," she promises. "In every life. In every realm. I'll always find you."
Flash.
The Heart of Night shattering. The birth of the ten realms. And a whisper that bypassed time itself: "The one who gathers all ten Cores will have the power to remake the Primacy. Or destroy it forever."
Corvin returned to himself.
The Core had merged with him—not into his chest, but into his shadow. His independent shadow now pulsed with that same heartbeat rhythm, darker than before, more solid, more real.
And he remembered.
Not everything. The servant's spell had been thorough. But enough. Enough to know who he was. What he'd lost. What the Regnant had taken from him.
"Oh," the Regnant said quietly. "That's unfortunate."
Corvin's shadow rose up behind him like a cobra, twenty feet tall, and when it spoke, the voice was his and not-his, his and every Thornevale who had ever lived:
"You murdered my family. You stole my city. You made me forget my own name." The shadow's eyes opened—silver, like the woman's in the mirror. "Three hundred years you've ruled through fear and theft. Tonight, that ends."
"You're one boy with one Core," the Regnant said. "I've had three centuries to master Umbral magic. I've consumed shadows that would drive you mad. You can't possibly—"
Corvin raised his hand, and the chamber's shadows answered. Every shadow in the room—including the Regnant's own—turned against their master.
The fight that followed would later be recorded in the Athenaeum's most restricted vaults. It would be taught to students of Umbral magic as an example of what was possible when bloodline and Core aligned perfectly.
But in the moment, Corvin didn't think about technique or strategy. He simply moved, and his shadow moved with him, and together they were every Thornevale who had ever lived, all their skill and knowledge flowing through him like muscle memory.
The Regnant was powerful. Ancient. Skilled beyond mortal comprehension.
But Corvin had something the Regnant didn't: he had nothing left to lose.
The battle shook the Athenaeum to its foundations. Somewhere above, books fell from shelves. Memory-lamps shattered. Wardens and scholars fled into the rainy night, convinced the building was coming down.
It didn't.
But when silence finally fell in the underground chamber, the Umbral Regnant lay broken against a stone column, his silver mask cracked, his robes torn, his shadows scattered like frightened children.
"Impossible," he whispered. "One Core... just one..."
"You were wrong," Corvin said, standing over him. His shadow loomed behind him, still twenty feet tall, still radiating power that made the air shimmer. "You said the Cores grant power but not immortality. But you're wrong. The Cores grant memory. And memory is power. Every Thornevale who bonded with Umbra left something of themselves behind. I'm not fighting you alone. I'm fighting you with three hundred years of my family's strength."
"Then kill me," the Regnant said. "End it. Take my place as ruler of Umbrafell. Isn't that what you want?"
Corvin paused. It was what he wanted. Revenge. Justice. His family's throne restored.
But then he remembered the vision—himself twenty years from now, victorious but empty.
"No," he said quietly. "I'm not staying in Umbrafell."
"Then what—"
"I'm going to find the other nine Cores." Corvin turned away. "And I'm going to stop whoever's trying to gather them. Because I saw what happens if all ten reunite. I saw the choice that will have to be made. Restore the Primacy, or let the realms stand. And I'm not ready to make that choice yet."
"You're a fool," the Regnant said. "The other realms will kill you. You're powerful here, in your family's domain, with Umbra's memory behind you. But in Murkmire? In Aethergrave? You're just one boy with shadows that won't protect him from starfall or swamp-ghosts."
"Then I'll make allies." Corvin started toward the staircase. His shadow shrank back to normal size, settling at his feet like it belonged there. "And I'll learn. Because that's what Thornevales do—we adapt. We survive. That's how I'm still here when you killed everyone else."
He climbed the stairs.
Behind him, the Regnant called out: "The woman in your visions—do you know who she is?"
Corvin paused.
"She's from Vesperhold," the Regnant said. "A fate-weaver named Ashreth Vesperna. And in every possible future, the two of you meet. In every timeline, she falls in love with you. And in every single one, you get her killed."
"You're lying."
"Am I? Touch the Core's memory again. Look deeper. See what I've seen."
Corvin wanted to ignore him. Wanted to climb these stairs and never look back.
But he'd always been cursed with scholarly curiosity.
He closed his eyes. Touched the shadow-Core that now lived in his chest. And looked.
Flash.
Ashreth Vesperna, dying in his arms, threads of fate unraveling around her. "I told you I'd find you," she whispers. "I always do. Even at the end."
Flash.
A different timeline. She dies differently. But still dies. Still in his arms. Still smiling like it was worth it.
Flash flash flash—
A dozen futures. A hundred. And in every single one where they meet, she dies because of him.
Corvin opened his eyes. His hands were shaking.
"So you see," the Regnant said softly, "some fates are inevitable. Some threads can't be rewoven, no matter how much power you have. If you're smart, you'll stay away from her. Let someone else gather the Cores. Live quietly. Survive."
"No," Corvin said.
"No?"
"Because in one of those visions, there was a thread that didn't break. One future where she lived. It was faint. Nearly impossible to see. But it was there." He met the Regnant's eyes through the cracked mask. "Which means fate isn't inevitable. It's just very, very stubborn."
He climbed the rest of the stairs.
Behind him, the Umbral Regnant laughed—a sound of genuine surprise. "You really are a Thornevale. Arrogant enough to think you can change destiny itself. Good luck, little prince. You're going to need it."
Corvin emerged into the Athenaeum as dawn began to break—a gray, watery dawn that barely qualified as light in Umbrafell. Jessamine was waiting, and she wasn't alone.
Four others stood with her. He recognized them vaguely from the Athenaeum staff, but now they stood differently. Carried themselves differently. Like soldiers remembering old training.
"Lord Thornevale," Jessamine said, and knelt.
The others followed.
"Don't," Corvin said. "I'm not a lord. I'm just—"
"You defeated the Regnant," one of the others said—a young man about Corvin's age with burn scars on his hands. "Word spread the moment the wards shattered. Every shadow in Umbrafell felt it. The old power waking up. Taking back what was stolen."
"I didn't defeat him," Corvin said. "I just... convinced him to leave me alone."
"For now," Jessamine said. "But he'll come for you again. And next time, he'll bring more than Shadeborn. He'll bring the entire Umbral Court."
"Then I won't be here." Corvin looked at them—these loyal remnants of his family's servants, who'd waited three centuries for a Thornevale to return. "I need to leave Umbrafell. I need to find the other Cores before someone else does. Someone worse than the Regnant."
"You'll need companions," Jessamine said. "The other realms are dangerous. You can't face them alone."
"I know." Corvin thought of the visions. The woman who loved him in every lifetime. The allies who would join him. The enemies who would try to stop him. "I need to get to Gloamspire. There's someone there I'm supposed to meet."
"The Lume-speaker," Jessamine said. "Lyrienne Gloamwright. We've heard of her. She can speak to the light-spirits. Make them listen. Make them care."
"How do you know about her?"
Jessamine smiled. "Because she's been asking about you for six months. Sending letters to the Athenaeum, trying to track down 'the shadow-touched archivist who dreams of ten broken hearts.' We thought she was mad. Turns out she's a prophet."
"Or a fate-weaver showed her my face," Corvin muttered. "Which is less impressive and more unsettling."
"Either way, you need to go. Now. Before the Regnant recovers enough to lock down the city." Jessamine pressed something into his hand—a small journal, leather-bound, with his family's crest pressed into the cover. "Your ancestor's travel diary. The last Lord Thornevale who tried to find all ten Cores. He failed, but his notes might help you avoid his mistakes."
"What happened to him?"
"Murkmire," Jessamine said grimly. "The swamp took him. The dead don't release their secrets easily."
Corvin tucked the journal inside his coat. "Thank you. All of you. For waiting. For remembering."
"It's what we do," the scarred young man said. "We're Thornevale shadows. We serve the bloodline. Always have. Always will."
"Then serve by staying here," Corvin said. "Rebuild what the Regnant destroyed. Protect the people he terrorized. Be the light in this city's darkness."
"And what will you be?"
Corvin looked at his shadow—his independent, powerful, memory-filled shadow.
"I'll be the idiot who thinks he can change fate," he said. "Someone has to be."
He left through the front entrance this time. Walked through the empty dawn streets of Umbrafell with his head high and his shadow dancing around his feet like an excited dog.
Behind him, the Grand Athenaeum began to hum with activity. Loyal Thornevales emerging from hiding. Old magic waking up. A city remembering what it had been before fear ruled it.
And somewhere deep beneath the building, in a chamber that would remain sealed for another century, the Umbral Regnant sat in darkness and planned his revenge.
But that was a problem for another day.
Today, Corvin Thornevale had a destiny to outrun and a fate-weaver to meet.
Today, the gathering of the Ten Stygian Cores began.