Elara's POV
The scream ripped through the castle halls, and I dropped into a fighting stance before Mari even reacted.
"What was that?" My hand flew to the knife hidden at my waist.
Mari just smiled. "Oh, that's probably Thomas. He does that when he wins at cards."
I stared at her. "Someone's... screaming from joy?"
"Thomas gets very excited." Mari picked up my trunk like it weighed nothing and headed down the corridor. "Come along, dear. Let me show you to your quarters."
This wasn't right. None of this was right.
I'd expected guards to drag me through dark hallways. Expected chains and bars and the smell of fear. The Council's reports said the Dark Lord kept his castle like a prison—cold, brutal, designed to break people's spirits.
Instead, Mari led me through corridors lit by softly glowing crystals. Tapestries hung on the walls showing forests and stars. Through open doorways, I glimpsed comfortable rooms where people—servants, I assumed—sat talking and laughing.
Laughing. In the Dark Lord's castle.
"Here we are." Mari pushed open a door, and I nearly dropped my carefully constructed cover story.
The room was beautiful. A large bed with thick blankets. A desk by the window. Bookshelves already filled with texts. A fireplace where flames danced cheerfully. It looked like a room for an honored guest, not a lowly scholar brought in to catalog books.
Not a room in a monster's castle.
"Is something wrong, dear?" Mari set my trunk at the foot of the bed. "If you need anything changed—"
"No." I forced my voice to stay calm. "It's perfect. I just... expected something different."
"What were you expecting?" Mari's eyes were too knowing, too sharp for someone who seemed so kind.
A trap. This had to be a trap. Make me comfortable, make me lower my guard, then strike.
"I don't know," I lied. "Something darker, I suppose. The stories about the Shadowlands—"
"Are mostly nonsense." Mari walked to the fireplace and adjusted the flames with a wave of her hand. Magic. She had magic. "Let me guess—they told you we're all miserable? That our king is a cruel tyrant who feeds on suffering?"
The way she said "our king" made my stomach twist. There was pride in her voice. Actual pride.
"Something like that," I admitted carefully.
Mari laughed. It was a warm sound, genuine. Nothing like the cold, controlled laughter I'd learned at the Council facility. "People fear what they don't understand. The Shadowlands aren't perfect, but we're not the nightmare the Radiant Capital claims we are."
She moved toward the door, then paused. "Dinner is at seven if you'd like to join the staff in the dining hall. Or I can bring something to your room if you prefer to rest."
"The library," I said quickly. "When can I start working?"
"Eager! I like that." Mari's smile widened. "The library is open all hours. His Majesty is often there late at night—he doesn't sleep much. But Isla, our head librarian, will meet you tomorrow morning at nine to show you the organizational system."
His Majesty. The Dark Lord. The man I was here to kill.
The man who spent his nights in the library instead of... what? Torturing prisoners? Planning attacks? Whatever monsters did with their time?
"Thank you, Mari." I managed what I hoped was a grateful smile.
"Welcome to Shadowkeep, Dr. Ashton." She left, closing the door gently behind her.
The moment I was alone, I dropped the smile. My hands were shaking again. I pressed them against my thighs, trying to steady myself, trying to think.
Something was very wrong here.
I moved to the window and looked out over the castle grounds. Below, I saw gardens—actual gardens with flowers and paths where people walked. I saw children playing some kind of game with a ball. I saw servants chatting as they carried baskets of laundry.
Where were the prisoners? The torture chambers? The evidence of the Dark Lord's cruelty?
Trust nothing you see, Mira's note had said. It's all manipulation.
Right. Of course. This was all an act. The Dark Lord was clever—everyone said so. He was making his castle seem normal, seem safe, so I'd let my guard down. Then he'd strike.
I couldn't fall for it.
I spent the next hour unpacking and setting up my room, my mind racing through plans. I'd explore the castle tonight after everyone slept. Find the real darkness hidden beneath this false warmth. Document it for my reports to Mira.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
"Dr. Ashton?" A young girl's voice. "Mari sent me with dinner."
I opened the door to find a girl about ten years old holding a tray of food. She had dark curls and bright eyes that studied me with open curiosity.
"Thank you." I took the tray, expecting her to leave.
She didn't. "Are you really a scholar? Do you know lots of languages?"
"I... yes." The question caught me off guard.
"That's so cool!" Her face lit up. "I'm learning to read better. Maybe you could help me sometime? His Majesty says reading is the most important skill anyone can have."
His Majesty. Again, that pride. That affection. Like she was talking about someone she actually cared about.
Like the Dark Lord was someone worth caring about.
"Maybe," I said, uncomfortable with her enthusiasm.
"I have to go—my mom needs help in the kitchen. But welcome to Shadowkeep! You're going to love it here. Everyone does." She skipped away down the hall, humming.
I closed the door and stared at the food tray. Roasted chicken, fresh bread, vegetables that actually looked appetizing. At the Council facility, we'd eaten tasteless nutrition paste designed to keep us functional.
This was a real meal. Made with care.
I sat on the bed, my mind spinning. None of this made sense. The comfortable room, the kind servants, the children playing freely, the genuine smiles.
The Council's reports had to be wrong. Or I was missing something. Or—
My eyes landed on the bookshelves, and my breath caught.
One of the books was pulled slightly forward from the others. Deliberately. Like someone had marked it for me to find.
I crossed the room and pulled it out. An old leather journal, worn with age. When I opened it, I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My handwriting.
But I'd never written in this journal. I'd never even seen it before.
The first entry was dated eighteen years ago.
My name is Elara Thorne. I'm eight years old. I'm writing this so I won't forget what really happened. They're trying to make me forget, but I won't let them.
My hands started trembling so badly I almost dropped the journal.
They keep showing me pictures of the Dark Lord and telling me he destroyed our village. But that's not true. I saw what really happened. I saw—
The rest of the page was torn out. Ripped away carefully, leaving only ragged edges.
Someone had left this here for me. Someone wanted me to know I'd written something eighteen years ago. Something important enough that they'd tried to erase it.
Something about the truth of what happened to my village.
I flipped through the journal frantically, but every page after the first had been torn out. All except the very last page, where one sentence remained in my child's handwriting:
The man in the white mask is lying.