Morning in the Shadow Court never came. There was only the same eternal twilight, the same soft violet glow filtering through the tall windows.
Lira woke with a start, her body tangled in black silk sheets. For a moment she forgot where she was — until the faint thrum of the shadow bond pulsed in her chest like a second heartbeat.
She sat up quickly, pushing her messy pink hair out of her face. The braided-rope dress from yesterday had been replaced with a simpler but still elegant nightgown while she slept. The thought of someone undressing her while unconscious made her skin crawl.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," she called warily.
A young fae woman with silver hair and nervous eyes slipped inside, carrying a tray. She bowed deeply.
"His Highness sent breakfast and new clothes, Lady Veil Walker."
Lira almost laughed at the title. Lady. She was a slum thief, not some court noble.
The servant laid out the food — delicate pastries, fresh fruits that glowed faintly, and a steaming cup of something that smelled like spiced night-bloom tea. Beside the tray was a new outfit: a fitted black and purple ensemble with silver embroidery, clearly designed for movement.
"Training begins in one hour," the servant added quietly. "The Prince will be waiting in the Shadow Arena."
Lira ate quickly, tasting nothing. Her mind kept replaying last night — the way Thorne had looked at her, the heat of the bond, the way his emotions had crashed into hers.
She dressed in the new clothes. The fabric was lightweight and flexible, perfect for fighting… or running. The braided ropes were still present, though subtler this time, wrapping around her waist and wrists like decorative reminders of her captivity.
When the servant led her out, Lira memorized every corridor, every turn. If she was going to escape, she needed to know the layout.
The Shadow Arena was a massive circular chamber carved deep into the mountain. Its floor was smooth obsidian, and the walls rose high, covered in glowing runes. Floating orbs of purple light hovered overhead, casting dramatic shadows.
Prince Thornewas already there.
He stood in the center wearing loose black training clothes that showed the lean, powerful muscles of his arms and chest. His long black hair was tied back, revealing the sharp lines of his face. He looked every inch the deadly heir.
"Glad you decided to join me," he said without turning around. "I was beginning to think you'd try to run on your first night."
"I considered it," Lira replied honestly, stepping onto the arena floor. "But I'm not stupid. I wouldn't get far with this… thing inside me."
She tapped her chest, where the bond hummed.
Thorne finally turned. His violet eyes swept over her new outfit, lingering a second too long on the way the fabric hugged her figure.
"Good," he said. "Then let's begin."
He raised one hand. Shadows surged from the floor, forming into solid, whip-like tendrils that lashed toward her.
Lira dodged instinctively, rolling across the floor. The move was graceful despite her lack of formal training — years of running from guards had taught her how to move.
"Not bad," Thorne commented. "But you rely too much on speed. In the trials, speed won't save you from magic."
He flicked his wrist again. This time two shadow tendrils came at her from different directions.
Lira tried to dodge, but one caught her ankle, yanking her off balance. She hit the ground hard.
Before she could get up, Thorne was suddenly there, crouching beside her. His gloved hand caught her wrist, helping her sit up.
The moment their skin touched — even through the glove — the bond flared.
A rush of sensations flooded Lira: Thorne's focused concentration, the controlled power he held back, and beneath it all… a dark, possessive warmth that made her breath catch.
She yanked her hand away. "Stop doing that."
"I'm not doing anything," Thorne said, voice low. "The bond is strengthening. Soon we won't need to touch for you to feel me."
Lira stood up, brushing dust from her clothes.
"I don't want to feel you."
"Liar."
The single word hung between them.
Thorne stepped closer, towering over her.
"Tell me, Lira… when you feel my emotions, what do you sense?"
She swallowed. "Arrogance. Coldness. And something… hungry."
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.
"That hunger isn't just for power," he murmured. "Not anymore."
Lira's heart slammed against her ribs. She took a step back, but Thorne followed, keeping the distance intimate.
"You're going to train with me every day until the trials," he continued. "You'll learn to wield shadow magic. You'll learn to use the bond instead of fighting it. And when the time comes…"
His hand rose, hovering near her cheek without touching.
"You'll stand beside me as I claim the throne."
Lira met his eyes, refusing to look away.
"And if I refuse?"
Thorne's expression didn't change, but she felt a flicker of something sharp through the bond — not anger, but challenge.
"Then your sister dies slowly while you watch from a cell."
The words were cruel, but his tone was almost gentle.
Lira's hands clenched into fists.
"Fine," she whispered. "I'll train. I'll help you win your damn trials. But the moment my sister is safe…"
She stepped forward until they were nearly chest to chest.
"I'm gone. Bond or no bond."
Thorne looked down at her, violet eyes burning.
"We'll see about that, little thief."
He raised his hand again, shadows swirling around his fingers.
"Now… try to block this one."
The training began in earnest.
And with every clash of shadow against shadow, every brush of their magic, the bond between them grew tighter — like silk slowly turning into chains.