And ever the obedient shadow-scholar, I’ll stand at his side, delivering data like scripture.
When they ask for recommendations, I’ll say exactly what is expected: further testing, stronger containment, reinforced manacles.
But another version of the answer forms behind my teeth:You cannot contain what was here before you named the light.
My walls are lined with books, shelves heavy with sanctioned histories.But behind them lies the one I’m not supposed to have—banned volumes salvaged from my time in the Hollow, charred at the edges but still breathing ink.
The war outlawed shadow-work in every sense, both the literal and the prophesied.Anyone found consuming these materials, or praying to the gods of night was destroyed.Holding them now would be enough to end me.They tell us what we need to know about the shadows.
I close my eyes, leaning my head against the windowpane as my thoughts turn to Seren.Beneath the chandelier, shadows rising like a tide, light bending around her instead of consuming her.It didn’t look like corruption.It looked like stability.
A knock pulls me from the dark.“Scholar Kael,” a guard's voice drones.“High Commander Riven summons you.”
Of course he does.The report was only an invitation.
I grip the scroll tight and take one last look out the window.The city glows, its sky tinged with ambient light that hides more than it reveals.That is the secret of Auria: it teaches you to fear the dark, then blinds you with its absence.
“Coming.”
The mark on my wrist warms in reply—a pulse that has only grown more persistent from the moment I laid eyes on her.
* * *
Riven’s chambersalways smell of wine and burning sugar—a sweetness enough to rot the air.As I enter, he stands by the window with drapes half-drawn, watching the evening collect over his city.The light from the crystal chandelier paints the white marble pink; everything looks softer than it is.Including him.
“Kael,” he drawls, his back still turned.“I trust you’ve filed the reports?”
I hold out the sealed parchments.“One for you.One for the Triarch.”
He pivots slowly—a predator unhurried by its prey.The lamplight gilds the curve of his jaw, but his eyes are flat, the gaze of a man built entirely of polished surfaces.He takes the scrolls, his finger tracing the seal of the one destined for him.“Your handwriting is sloppy.I hope you haven’t rushed this.”
“I’m tired.”
He smiles, faint and reptilian.“I’m not surprised, after that catastrophe.”
“It wasn’t a catastrophe,” I bite back.“It was a reaction.”
His brow furrows, the corners of his mouth turning downward.“Reaction.An interesting word for destruction of a relic passed down since the age of Solan.”
Silence follows, as heavy as the crystal that holds his wine.
“Containment runes failed.Yoursubjectnearly collapsed the room!I would call that a catastrophe.”Riven steps closer, lifting the decanter to pour a heavy serving of wine.The fruity, fermented scent fills the space between us.
“I hope you’re not getting too attached.I know you have a tendency to empathise with these…creatures.”
I go still, his words cutting like a blade.“In order to understand them, one must think like them,” I say, keeping my voice nonchalant.
He edges around his desk, crowding my space.“She screamed your name.Do you remember that?”
My pulse spikes.I can’t stop the slight twitch of my eye.“She screamed because you were hurting her.”
He waves a dismissive hand.“Semantics.”
“I don’t study semantics,” I say, tightly.“I study behaviour.She reacted to provocation—exactly what you were after.”
“The manacles were built perfectly!No one has ever broken them—not like anyone even had the chance.”He laughs under his breath, a sound without humour.“Perfect until they met her.That’s what intrigues me the most.”
Riven moves back behind his desk, unsealing the parchment with a flick of his thumb.He scans the page.“You describe her shadows asprotective.An interesting choice.Most would have said violent.”
