The world dissolved into a vortex of shadow and screaming wind.
Elara clung to Kaelen, her fingers digging into the hard plates of his armor. The shadow-steed beneath them was not a creature of flesh and bone, but a living piece of the night, its gait a smooth, terrifying glide that swallowed distance. The Withered Wood blurred into a smear of grey, then vanished. They passed through a veil—a sensation like cold water and static washing over her skin—and then the air changed.
It was richer, heavier, saturated with magic. It tasted of ozone, night-blooming flowers, and ancient, cold stone.
The Shadowfell unfolded before them, and Elara's breath caught in her throat.
They rode not on a road, but on a bridge of solidified moonlight that arced over a fathomless chasm. In the distance, rising from a forest of colossal, obsidian-black trees that glittered with bioluminescent sap, was the Shadow Keep. It was not a castle as humans built. It was a mountain of dark, glossy stone carved into impossible spires that pierced a twilight sky where permanent, slow-swirling constellations glowed with faint silver light. Windows shone like captured stars, and waterfalls of liquid shadow cascaded down its sides, dissolving into mist before they hit the ground.
It was breathtaking. It was the most beautiful prison she could imagine.
No one spoke as they passed through the towering, rune-etched gates. The courtyard was a silent tableau of exquisite terror. Ranks of Fae guards stood motionless, their armor akin to Kaelen's, their faces beautiful and utterly alien. Courtiers in silks the color of deep sea, blood, and twilight watched from balconies and archways. Their gazes were not curious, but assessing, sharp as broken glass. She felt their eyes on her simple dress, on her wind-tangled hair, on the human frailty she knew she radiated.
The hunger inside her, subdued by the shock of travel, began to stir. So much power here. It hummed in the air, pulsed from the stones, shimmered in the very beings around her. It was a banquet laid out before a starving woman, and the monster within her wanted to feed.
Kaelen dismounted with a fluid grace that spoke of millennia of practice. He did not offer a hand to help her down. She slid from the shadow-steed's back, her legs trembling slightly, and forced herself to stand straight.
"This way," he said, his voice devoid of the mocking heat from the village. It was flat, commanding. The King in his domain.
He led her through labyrinthine corridors. The interior was a study in sublime austerity. Walls of smooth black stone were hung with tapestries depicting cosmic battles and silent forests. The floors were veined marble, so polished she could see the blurred reflection of her own wary face. The only sounds were the soft click of Kaelen's boots, the whisper of her own footsteps, and the distant, melancholic strain of some unseen instrument.
They did not ascend to grand halls or throne rooms. Instead, he led her deep into the heart of the keep, to a wing that felt dormant. He stopped before a pair of doors carved from a single slab of wood so dark it was almost purple.
"Your chambers," he stated, pushing the doors open.
The room was vast, cold, and stunningly empty. It held the essentials: a canopied bed draped in grey silk, a writing desk, a seating area by a cold fireplace. A wall was made entirely of arched windows looking out over the eerie, beautiful forest. It was a room fit for a guest of high honor, or a prized bird. There were no personal touches, no warmth.
"You will remain here until you are summoned for the binding ceremony at the next moon phase," Kaelen said, lingering in the doorway. His storm-silver eyes scanned the room, then returned to her, pinning her in place. "My servants will attend to you. They will also… observe. Do not mistake their courtesy for allegiance."
Elara found her voice, though it was rough. "And what am I to do until this ceremony? Admire the view?"
A ghost of that dangerous smile touched his lips. "You are to survive, little witch. That is your only task. Survive the court's curiosity. Survive the silence. Survive me." He took a step into the room, and the space suddenly felt too small. "The blight on your village is a symptom of a deeper sickness. I believe it was sent. And until I rule out your people—or you—as the source, this is where you will be."
So that was it. She wasn't just a political knot; she was the prime suspect in his investigation. The realization was a cold spike of fear, cutting through her numbness.
He was close enough now that she could see the impossible depths of his silver eyes, could feel the subtle, potent energy that radiated from him. The hunger inside her gave a violent, eager lurch. Her fingertips tingled. It would be so easy, a traitorous part of her whispered. To just… reach out. To let the void within her taste the ocean of power that was the Shadow King.
She clenched her hands into fists, nails biting into her palms. The pain was an anchor.
"I am not your enemy," she said, holding his gaze.
"Prove it," he replied, simple and final. His gaze dropped to her clenched fists for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turned and left.
The doors shut with a soft, definitive thud. A moment later, she heard the distinct sound of a lock engaging. Not with a key, but with a shimmer of magic.
She was alone.
The grand silence of the room pressed in on her. Elara walked to the window, placing her hands on the cool crystal. The view was a masterpiece of alien beauty, and it made her soul ache for the simple, sunlit misery of her herb garden.
A movement below caught her eye. In a courtyard three stories down, two Fae nobles—a man with hair like spun copper and a woman with skin of polished birch—were speaking. Their body language was tense. As she watched, the man made a sharp gesture, and a sphere of contained lightning crackled to life in his palm, illuminating his furious face before he snuffed it out.
Power. Displayed so casually.
The hunger in Elara's core yawned wider, a black pit of want. She pulled back from the window as if burned, turning her back on the tempting display.
Survive, he had said.
That meant more than just avoiding courtly daggers. It meant fighting the most dangerous part of herself. It meant locking the Siphon away so deep that not even the most perceptive Fae king would sense it.
She looked around the gorgeous, empty cage. Her new world was one of stone, shadow, and impossible magic. And her only weapon was a secret that wanted to devour it all.
A soft knock echoed. Not on the main door, but on a smaller, side entrance she hadn't noticed. Before she could answer, it opened. A Fae woman entered, her posture so perfectly subservient it felt like an insult. She had eyes the color of moss and hair braided with thin silver chains.
"My lady," the woman murmured, not meeting Elara's eyes. "I am Lysandra. I am to be your handmaiden. The King has sent garments for you to choose from for the evening meal."
Behind her, two other servants entered, carrying armfuls of fabrics that seemed to be woven from twilight and spider silk.
The observation had begun.
Elara straightened her shoulders, forcing the fear and the hunger down into a dark corner of her mind. She summoned a mask of calm, the same one she used when gathering poisonous herbs.
"Show me," she said, her voice thankfully steady.
The game was on. The first move was to dress the part of the reluctant, human queen. The next move, she knew, would be far more dangerous.