A Quiet Made of Teeth
Ardis — Shadow Mage
By the time Ardis reached the old stone bridge, the frost had begun to lift from the ground. Thin threads of melted water trickled down its worn edges, catching faint glimmers of light as they fell. The sun was rising properly now, warm enough to awaken the birds and thaw the surface of the stream below, but Ardis felt none of it.
Shadow magic never warmed.
It simply was—a constant presence beneath his skin, coiled like smoke behind glass, waiting for the smallest invitation to spill outward.
He kept his hands in his sleeves as he crossed the bridge, careful not to brush the railing. Shadows liked to cling where they weren't welcome. He knew better than most that it took only a touch—one absent-minded moment—for someone to see more than they should.
The Council had taught him that at twelve.
He did not think he would ever forget the cold iron of the disciplinary chamber beneath the Arcanum Citadel. Or the hours upon hours spent standing with his palms pressed to magic-dampening stone, learning the lesson that all Shadow Mages were forced to learn:
Your magic is not your ally.
It is not your voice.
It is your burden.
Ardis paused halfway across the bridge, exhaling slowly through his nose. The air no longer smelled like frost alone. The faint metallic tang was back—faint but present.
Smoke.
Border smoke.
Whatever had crossed the northern wards earlier was not gone. It was moving. Drifting. Pulling the world in some uneasy direction.
"You feel it too," he murmured under his breath.
The shadows curled gently around his boots in response.
He wished they wouldn't.
Their comfort was not supposed to comfort him.
He reached the clearing where he had set up camp two nights prior. The firepit was cold—he'd never lit it—and his bedroll was still neatly rolled beneath the leaning pine tree where he'd left it. No tracks disturbed the frost.
Good.
He didn't like when the world moved while he wasn't looking.
Ardis dropped his satchel beside the tree and knelt, beginning the slow, practiced process of sorting his supplies. Dried herbs. A water-skin. A small steel strike for emergencies. The useless scry-stone, which he set aside with a flicker of irritation he did not bother hiding from his shadows.
"They give us tools that never work, orders with no guidance, and send us out alone to clean up whatever isn't important enough for them," he muttered.
The shadows rippled once, a soft flick of motion that brushed his knee like a cat nudging for acknowledgment.
"Yes, yes, I know. Complaining is beneath me."
He paused. "Still feels good sometimes."
His fingers stilled on a small leather-bound book—a field journal, its edges worn. He turned it over in his hands, tracing the black rune embossed on the cover. A symbol of the Umbramancers. His order.
He didn't open it.
Some truths weren't ready to be written yet.
Instead, he stood and turned to face the deeper part of the forest. The light between the trees had changed. It had warmed—barely, but enough to make the shadows twitch with suspicion.
Shadow magic did not trust warmth.
Ardis drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders and stepped into the trees.
The northern woodland was unchanged at first glance—quiet, ordinary, rooted in the same ancient soil it had known for centuries. Birds rustled in the branches above. Frost melted in uneven droplets from the moss-covered bark. A pair of deer lifted their heads as Ardis passed but did not flee. Animals seldom feared him; they seemed to sense the difference between the shadow he controlled and the shadow that harmed.
But deeper in, the forest changed.
Subtly.
Unmistakably.
The air grew thicker. Not warmer, not colder, but heavier, as if some unseen pressure had begun to settle across the ground.
Ardis touched the nearest tree trunk. The bark was ice-cold.
Not frost.
Not winter.
A cold drawn from absence.
He breathed in—and nearly stumbled as the scent hit him.
Smoke.
Old smoke.
Burned magic.
The kind that came only from wounds in the world.
"Oh no," he whispered. "Not this again."
The last time he had felt anything like this, he had been sixteen. An entire village had vanished overnight—every building left standing, every object left undisturbed, every life simply gone. The Council never explained the cause. They simply burned the village, salted the ground, and sent Ardis away with two days of silence and a new scar along his forearm.
This was the same scent.
He kept walking.
The shadows moved with him, sliding ahead as though scouting, slipping between roots and rocks with restless grace. Ardis could almost sense their unease—an agitation that prickled at the edges of his mind.
"Tell me what you see," he murmured. Shadows did not speak, but they could show.
One elongated like a pointing finger.
North.
He followed.
He found the first sign at the base of a fallen log.
A perfect circle scorched into the earth—three feet wide, edges too clean to be made by flame alone.
Ardis crouched beside it, brushing a finger over the brittle grass. Ash smeared beneath his touch. Beneath the ash, frost. Beneath the frost—
A faint hum.
The same hum that had trembled through the wards earlier.
He stood abruptly, cloak swaying around him. His heartbeat quickened. The shadows around his feet tightened.
Something had crossed this way.
Something powerful.
Something wrong.
But more alarming was the faint warmth on the air.
Shadow magic did not make warmth.
Only one kind of magic did.
"Flame," Ardis whispered.
The shadows recoiled instinctively from the word.
He exhaled, steadying himself. Flamebound warriors rarely ventured this far into northern territory, and when they did, it was only in groups—and only under strict orders. They were the Council's prized soldiers, disciplined and formidable, with fierce magic that licked under their skin like a living thing.
They did not enter shadowed territories lightly.
So why had one come this far?
Or—Ardis's stomach tightened—was it not a warrior at all, but the thing that had crossed the border earlier? Something capable of leaving scorch marks and frost in the same breath?
He needed answers. And he knew where he might find them.
He turned toward the north ridge.
It took another hour of walking before the forest began to thin. The ridge rose in a sharp slope, its rocks slick with melted frost. Ardis climbed carefully, using his cloak to steady his grip when the path crumbled beneath him. The shadows helped, tightening around roots and stone to create footholds where none existed.
As he climbed, the warmth grew stronger.
Not comforting warmth—harsh warmth.
Magic warmth.
At the top of the ridge, he froze.
Below him, the valley lay open like a wound carved into the land. The circle of scorched earth was larger here—far larger—its edges cracked and splintered, surrounding trees split clean down the middle. Frost clung stubbornly to the perimeter, creating a strange, unnatural halo.
But at the center of the burn—
A second circle.
Smaller.
Sharper.
Precise.
Shadow had touched here.
Shadow and flame had touched here.
Ardis's breath caught.
That was not possible.
Not natural.
Not allowed.
He knelt, brushing his fingers toward the ground but stopping before touching it. The magic residual was strong enough to feel without contact.
Frost.
Ash.
Heat.
Cold.
A coil of magic that should never align.
"What are you?" he whispered.
The shadows around him tightened in alarm.
And then—
A flicker.
A pulse in the air.
Warm.
Alive.
Someone had been here.
Recently.
Someone with fire in their veins.
Ardis almost whispered the name of the order, but the words did not rise. Instead, he straightened slowly, eyes sweeping the scorched valley.
If the Flamebound were involved, the Council would come. And if the Council came…
Ardis would be expected to stay quiet. To stay out of sight. To return without asking questions.
But he had questions.
He always had questions.
And the forest answered none.
He tugged his cloak close. "Fine. I'll find you myself."
The shadows twined up his legs like living smoke, urging him forward.
Something was spiraling toward him.
Something dangerous.
And somewhere, not far from here, a Flamebound warrior was following the same trail.
The forest held its breath.
Ardis did not.
He stepped into the valley.
And the world shifted again.