PROLOGUE…
Horse hooves thundered through the night.
They echoed down the cobbled streets like a heartbeat of doom — loud, clear, and close, as though the riders galloped through one’s very walls. Windows shuddered; the air was thick with smoke and dread.
People huddled together inside their homes, clutching one and People huddled together inside their homes, clutching one another, whispering prayers to gods they no longer believed would answer. Lovers made trembling promises beneath flickering candlelight.
Parents hid their children beneath floorboards and in cellars, pressing kisses onto their foreheads, their tears falling like holy water.
Outside, the world burned.
*
Long ago, before the veil between light and shadow thinned, an epic war raged between kingdoms. A war so old that the earth itself remembers its cries. Men called it The War of Crowns, though it was not fought for honor — it was fought for power. Kingdom turned against kingdom, brothers against brothers, until rivers ran red and smoke veiled the sun.
At the center of that ruin stood Malachar. They said he had sold his soul to something that sleeps below the earth and wakes only for blood. Under a banner of black iron his forces moved like a storm; mercy was a forgotten word. Cities were taken before they could finish screaming. Those who resisted were strung up; those who fled were swallowed by night.
His march left nearly no one to stand against him. Nearly.
Elyndra still held, governed by King Ambrose.
He was a man of courage and heart, but courage alone does not win wars. Malachar’s armies drew closer each dawn, and Ambrose knew that when they came, no blade forged by mortal hands could stop them. So in his desperation, he sought power not of steel, but of the arcane — something ancient, buried in the roots of creation itself.
And so, he found her.
Seraphine.
People whispered that she had been born of moonlight, that her eyes were the clear blue of glacier ice and that her hair was the color of ravens’ wings. Some whispered she was not wholly human — that her bloodline traced back to the elemental gods themselves.
When Ambrose first saw her, he did not see a woman. He saw salvation — and damnation — standing in the same breath.
“Help me,” he said, voice trembling between command and plea. “Help me save my kingdom, and I will give you anything.”
Seraphine’s lips curved into a smile both tender and cruel.
“Anything, Your Majesty?”
“Anything.”
“Then remember your words, for oaths made in desperation are the most binding of all.”
Her voice was a melody — cold and sweet, like honey laced with poison.
For weeks they scoured the ancient archives, searching for the language of the ancients — the old tongue that once bent the elements to man’s will. Fire, water, earth, and air — the four pillars of creation, long forgotten, buried by fear and time. Ambrose’s men grew restless, whispers of doom circling through the castle like ravens. Outside the gates, the ground trembled with the marching of Malachar’s army.
And when the first fires lit the horizon, Seraphine finally found it. The spell.
It was written not in words, but in symbols that glowed like embers when touched by moonlight.
“It is time,” she said.
Ambrose stared at the script, unable to comprehend.
“You’re certain it will work?”
Seraphine stepped closer, her hand brushing his.
“Magic always works, my king. The question is only what it will cost.”
And then she began the incantation.
The sky darkened, the wind howled like a wounded beast. The ground split, and from its depths came fire that hissed and screamed. Soldiers clutched their ears; horses reared and fled. Ambrose stood firm, his sword drawn, though it glowed not with steel’s light but with flame born of her spell.
The battle began.
It was like nothing the world had ever seen. The heavens wept lightning; rivers boiled; the mountains groaned. Seraphine’s voice rose above it all, echoing through the chaos as her power surged.
“By fire and shadow, by blood and breath, I bind the soul of the usurper to the void!”
Malachar answered with a roar, summoning darkness that swallowed whole battalions in seconds. Yet Ambrose fought on — surrounded by eight of his greatest generals — men whose names would one day be carved into the obsidian stones of legend.
The clash of magic and steel split the night open.
And then… silence.
When the smoke finally settled, silence lay heavy. Ash carpeted the plains. The air stung like old iron. Only Ambrose and his eight still breathed; the rest were gone, the lives around them burned into shapes no longer human. Malachar himself had vanished — swallowed by the darkness he had once commanded.
A thin trumpet note broke the hush. The war was over.
Seraphine stepped through the ruin as if untouched by fire. Her gown moved without sound. Ambrose, his crown dented and his face streaked with grief, faced her.
“I have kept my promise,” she said softly. “Now it is time you keep yours.”
Ambrose nodded.
“Name your reward.”
Her eyes gleamed, cold and bright.
“I ask for no riches, no throne. Only a place by your side, as your adviser… on special matters.”
He hesitated, something in her tone unsettling him, but he had made an oath. And oaths, once spoken under the shadow of magic, could not be broken.
“So be it,” he said.
And so it was.
The years that followed brought peace to the land. From the ruins of the old kingdoms, a new real was born… Obsidara. It gleamed like a black jewel upon the world’s crown, forged by fire, ruled by wisdom and fear. Its people rejoiced, believing the days of shadow were gone.
But behind closed doors, within the silent wars of her tower, Seraphine whispered to the darkness once more.
“Kings fall,” she murmured, tracing the air with her pale fingers. “But witches endure.”
And deep beneath Obsidara, where the dead still dream, something ancient stirred… waiting for the day her promise would be fulfilled. The years that followed brought peace to the land. From the ruins of the old kingdoms, a new realm was born — Obsidara. It gleamed like a black jewel upon the world’s crown, forged by fire, ruled by wisdom and fear. Its people rejoiced, believing the days of shadow were gone.
But behind closed doors, within the silent halls of her tower, Seraphine whispered to the darkness once more.
“Kings fall,” she murmured, tracing the air with her pale fingers. “But witches endure.”
And deep beneath Obsidara, where the dead still dream, something ancient stirred — waiting for the day her promise would be fulfilled.
***
A few years later…
*
Footsteps thudded through the forest — slow at first, then desperate.
Each step squelched against the soaked earth, crushing damp leaves that still hissed with the memory of rain. The night refused to rest. Trees leaned toward one another, whispering secrets in the language of branches. Somewhere between the sighing wind and the dripping moss came another sound — the rough pull of breath from lungs running out of air.
Seraphine was running.
Her cloak, once sleek and regal, clung to her like a shadow gone wrong. Its hem dragged through mud, frayed and heavy. Branches slashed at her cheeks and left thin red trails that stung in the cold air. Strands of black hair stuck to her temples, wet with sweat and rain alike. Every inhale felt like fire; every exhale like surrender. The power burning inside her pressed against her ribs, wild and restless, begging to be loosed.
The forest seemed endless. Its silence shifted, alive in ways that made her skin crawl. Something followed — unseen, but close enough that she could feel its anger ripple through the air.
Up ahead, a shape emerged from the fog: a cave, carved into the mountainside, its mouth gaping wide and black.
Relief flooded her chest. She stumbled toward it, clutching the satchel that swung violently at her side.
When she reached the cave, she paused only for a heartbeat, glancing over her shoulder. The night was empty — for now. With a sharp wave of her hand, she whispered a word that vibrated in the air.
“Luminara.”
The walls of the cave erupted in pale blue light, chasing away the shadows. The damp stones shimmered with ancient sigils carved long ago, marks that pulsed faintly in recognition of her blood. She dropped her bag to the ground, flicked her wrist, and the satchel unlatched itself, its contents spilling out in a swirl of motion — bones, candles, vials of crimson liquid, an obsidian dagger, and a small black book bound in leather older than the kingdom itself.
Seraphine fell to her knees, spreading the items in a perfect circle. Her lips trembled with words not meant for mortal tongues. She began to chant — low at first, then faster, her hands raised above her head.
“Vérah a’sael… vel’tura a’nai…”
Her voice echoed through the cave, rich and strange, the sound rippling through the air like waves on a dark sea. Candles flared to life one by one, their flames black instead of gold. The light bent, twisted, and the cave itself seemed to breathe with her — inhaling when she inhaled, exhaling when she did.
The air thickened. The light flickered violently. Her heart pounded in her chest. Still, she did not stop. She could not.
Then —
A sudden gust tore through the chamber. The circle she’d formed exploded outward as if struck by lightning. The candles went out; the bones shattered. Seraphine screamed as an invisible force slammed into her chest, flinging her against the stone wall. Her back hit the rock with a crack, and before she could move, the same unseen power pinned her there, crushing the air from her lungs.
“Enough.”
The voice was low, but it rolled like thunder, deep and furious.
Footsteps followed — slow, deliberate.
From the shadows of the cave’s mouth stepped King Ambrose. His once-golden armor was dulled by battle and time, his crown crooked on his blood-smeared brow. His eyes — those kind, human eyes — now burned with fury. His hands were clenched so tight the veins in his wrists stood out like ropes.
“After everything I did for you,” he said, his voice trembling with rage. “I welcomed you into my home. I trusted you. I treated you as an equal. You dined at my table. My people called you Savior. And now…” He took a step closer, the air around him crackling with raw elemental power. “…you defile the very magic that saved us. Blood sacrifice, Seraphine? Treachery?”
Seraphine struggled against the invisible grip, her breath sharp and quick. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a smile—a cruel, knowing smile.
“You speak of trust,” she spat, blood tracing her chin. “But you never trusted me. You feared me. You used me like a weapon and called it alliance.”
Ambrose’s jaw tightened.
“I gave you everything you asked for!”
“No,” she hissed. “You gave me limits. You chained my power with your laws and your cowardice. You call yourself a ruler, Ambrose, but you rule nothing—not even your own fear.”
His rage ignited like wildfire.
“And you would have me rule with darkness? You’ve turned to the same filth Malachar worshiped!”
Her laughter filled the cave—wild, manic, echoing like a hundred voices at once.
“Malachar was a fool. He sought dominion. I seek divinity.”
Ambrose’s magic flared, his body haloed in golden light.
“Then may the gods judge you themselves.”
Seraphine raised her hand, conjuring a sphere of pulsating black energy.
“No gods,” she whispered, her voice trembling with venom. “Only me.”
The orb launched from her palm, screaming through the air.
Ambrose raised his palm, and the sphere collided with a shield of pure golden fire. For a moment, the two forces pressed against each other — dark against light, hate against will — before Ambrose snarled and shoved his arm forward, sending the energy back at her.
It struck.
The cave exploded in blinding light. When the smoke cleared, Seraphine was on the ground, her shoulder torn open, blood staining her gown. She coughed, laughing as the crimson dripped down her chin.
“You think you can destroy me?” she gasped, her voice breaking into laughter. “You think this ends with my death?”
Ambrose advanced, glowing sword in hand, every step echoing like a final verdict.
“You will harm my people no longer.”
Blood dripped from her lips as she smiled again—slowly, wickedly.
“Oh, Ambrose… poor, noble fool. You can kill me, but you cannot kill what I’ve begun.”
Her voice deepened, filled with something inhuman. The shadows behind her seemed to come alive, whispering in tongues that clawed at the air.
“Your kingdom will never know peace. Your line will never rest. The curse will follow your blood until the end of time.”
She lifted her hands, chanting faster, her words a storm of ancient rage.
“When the world forgets my name, when you think things won’t get any worse. I will return in another! My successor will rise from your ashes, Ambrose, and your Order—your precious, shining Order—will burn!”
Her body trembled as she screamed the final words, her hands raised high.
“By blood and shadow, by flame and fear, I curse the line of kings to rot from within! Let the living remember my name, and let the dead bow to my will!”
The cave roared with energy. The light flared so bright it scorched the stone.
Ambrose lunged forward.
“No!”
With a shout, he thrust his glowing sword through her chest. The blade pierced cleanly, its golden edge cutting through her as her eyes widened in shock. Her final breath left her lips as a soft, cruel smile.
“You’re too late,” she whispered. “It has begun.”
Her body fell limp.
Ambrose stood over her, panting. His heart thundered in his chest. For a moment, he simply stared — at the woman who had once saved his world and nearly damned it again. Then, with a cold, shaking hand, he raised his fingers.
“Never again.”
He snapped them.
Flames erupted from her body — blue and gold — consuming her utterly. In moments, there was nothing left but ash.
The king turned and left the cave, his shadow long against the stone.
*
Years passed.
Peace returned, but it was fragile. The people rebuilt, laughed, and loved again, but whispers began to spread. Shadows moved where no light should falter. Crops failed for no reason. Cattle were found bloodless beneath the moon. Children woke screaming from dreams of a woman with blue eyes and burning hands.
Then came the deaths — strange, sudden, unexplainable. Strange beings were seen and people disappeared.
The kingdom’s priests could not understand it. The scholars searched every scripture, but none found an answer until one old seer came forward.
“It is her,” he said, his eyes milky with age. “The witch placed a curse upon your blood, my king. Upon us all. It cannot be broken. Only endured. The darkness sleeps now… but it will wake again.”
Ambrose’s heart sank. He summoned his eight generals — the men who had stood beside him in the final war — and together they forged an alliance stronger than iron and older than faith.
They named it The Obsidian Order — protectors of the realm, guardians against the shadows that lingered beyond the veil.
Ambrose himself was granted long life by the gods he once doubted, watching over his kingdom through centuries until at last, he too faded into legend. But the Order endured.
Generations rose and fell like tides. Children came into the world already marked by strangeness — one could bend fire, another commanded water, bending it to their will. Some spoke to the wind as though it were kin; others bent stone and soil as easily as clay.
They became the heirs of the Order, bound by ancient vows to guard the living from what the world preferred to forget — the old, sleeping horrors that still murmured beneath the earth.
Generations came and went. Children were born with strange gifts — some able to command fire, others to summon rain, to speak to wind, to shape the earth. They became the heirs of the Order, sworn to defend the living from the forgotten horrors that stirr
But the earth remembered.
And deep within the forgotten places of the world, something began to stir once more —
A breath.
A whisper.
A promise unbroken.
Darkness would rise again.
***
Present day…
*
The night was suffocatingly still. The alleyway stretched between two decaying brick buildings, narrow and slick with rainwater, littered with old newspapers that whispered across the ground whenever the wind passed. The streetlamps flickered weakly at the mouth of the alley, throwing faint halos of yellow light that dissolved into darkness just a few meters in.
And there—slowly, deliberately—an old woman made her way through it. Her back was bent from years of weight she could no longer remember bearing. Wisps of silver hair escaped from beneath a black shawl, and her face, pale as candle wax, was webbed with lines that told of a long, weary life. Her hands trembled as they gripped the handle of her walking stick, the metal tip tapping softly against the wet ground. Every sound echoed. The tap. The shuffle. The quiet wheeze of her breath.
The cold slid over her skin like the breath of the dead. She pulled her shawl tighter, her eyes darting nervously as a gust of wind whooshed through the alley, scattering the newspapers in a wild flurry. They danced and slapped against the walls, the sound loud in the silence.
She stopped. Her breath hitched. Something felt wrong. Slowly, painfully, she turned her head over her shoulder. The alley behind her was empty—dark and endless. And yet, she felt it. The prickling at the back of her neck. The sense that eyes—cold, unseen—were watching her.
Her chest tightened. She swallowed and turned back around—
—and almost screamed.
A man was standing there, leaning lazily against the brick wall just a few paces ahead, half cloaked in shadow. His eyes gleamed like embers beneath the dim light. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding in a way that made the air itself seem to hesitate around him.
A black leather jacket clung to his muscular frame, glinting faintly when the light caught it. His shirt was dark, tucked into equally black pants, and around his head was a band of worn cloth, holding back hair that was messy, and midnight-dark.
He didn’t move. He just watched her.
The old woman gasped, clutching her chest.
“Heavens!” she croaked in her fragile voice. “Where did you come from? You nearly gave me a heart attack, young man—though I’m not far from one already.”
The corner of his lips twitched.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, voice low and smooth. “But what are you doing out here all alone? You shouldn’t wander alleys like this. Bad things happen here at night.”
The woman’s laugh was dry, brittle.
“Bad things?” she rasped. “No one wants to bother with an old woman, son. There’s nothing to steal from me but my bones.”
He pushed himself off the wall, his boots splashing lightly against the puddled ground as he approached. His eyes didn’t leave hers.
“You’d be surprised,” he said softly, “at the bad things that would want an old woman. But don’t worry—” He extended an arm to her, gloved hand open and inviting. “I’ll make sure you reach wherever you’re going.”
She hesitated. Something deep inside her screamed not to. But the night was cold, her heart was tired, and the man’s voice carried a strange, unplaceable charm. She sighed and coiled her trembling hand around his arm. His skin was warm—unnaturally so.
As they walked, she glanced up at him.
“What about you, young man? What are you doing in a place like this? Dangerous night for wandering.”
He chuckled—a sound that rumbled from his chest, rich and mocking. He stopped mid-step, looked down at her, and the smile that spread across his lips made the air seem to grow colder.
“Unlike you, ma’am,” he said softly, eyes gleaming like stormlight, “the most dangerous thing in the night… is me.”
Her face went pale.
“What—”
He let go of her hand. In one swift movement, a small knife flashed in his hand and sank into her stomach.
The woman’s scream tore through the alley, echoing against the walls. She stumbled backward, clutching her wound, her frail body trembling.
“Wh–what are you doing?” she gasped, her voice choked with pain. “You’re hurting me—”
He smiled then—an inhuman, chilling grin.
“That’s the idea,” he said softly, twisting the knife before pulling it free. “And I’m just getting started.”
He reached over his shoulder, and something shimmered into being—a sword, long and sleek, that hadn’t been there a moment before. The blade glowed faint blue, humming faintly, vibrating as though alive in his grip. His eyes flashed as he twirled it once.
“This,” he whispered, “is gonna hurt.”
He raised the sword and stepped forward—
—but before he could strike, the old woman began to laugh.
It started as a wheeze, then rose into a manic, unearthly cackle that made the man pause. Her back arched unnaturally, her mouth stretching wider than humanly possible, revealing rows of jagged, elongated teeth. Her eyes darkened, pupils swallowing all light, and black veins spread like cracked glass across her pale face. The shawl fell from her shoulders as her spine twisted, and her limbs elongated grotesquely.
She let out a screeching scream, a sound that rattled the walls and made the air shudder.
The man flinched slightly, then smirked.
“Ah,” he said. “There you are.”
The creature leapt—straight up the side of the building, claws digging into stone. It climbed rapidly, shrieking as it went, its voice like knives scraping metal.
The man stepped back, eyes following it upward, when suddenly—
It stopped. Midair.
Its limbs locked together, its body frozen, thrashing uselessly against some invisible force. It screamed, twisting its head—and that’s when the man saw him.
A second figure stood at the edge of the rooftop, coat fluttering in the wind. His eyes were dark as the void, glowing faintly with energy. His jaw was strong, his features sharp, and his hands were outstretched, fingers trembling with raw, vibrating power. Tendrils of shadow and light coiled around his arms, crackling with energy.
The trapped creature shrieked, sending out sonic waves that cracked the windows nearby. The man on the rooftop grunted, the blast forcing him to leap back. He released his grip—and the creature plummeted, slamming into the ground with a sickening thud.
It didn’t move for a moment—then it hissed, rising on all fours, twisted limbs cracking. The leather-clad man stood over it, sword glowing fiercely.
“Let’s finish this,” he murmured.
The creature lunged. He spun aside, the blade slicing through its arm. Black blood hissed as it hit the wet ground, smoking. It slashed at him, claws raking the air, but he blocked and countered, his sword vibrating with every impact. Sparks of blue light scattered each time steel met claw.
It caught him once—across the chest—and he staggered back, blood blooming on his shirt. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he slammed his palm forward, and a blast of fire erupted from his hand, catching the creature in the side. It screamed, the sound sharp enough to split ears, and swung wildly.
He ducked low, rolled beneath its next strike, and drove his sword straight into its abdomen. The creature convulsed, black smoke spilling from its wound. Its mouth opened in one final, bloodcurdling shriek—
—and he pulled his sword free, spinning once and slashing downward. The blade flared white-blue, slicing clean through its neck.
The creature’s body fell, twitching, before dissolving into ash that hissed and scattered across the rain-slick alley.
For a moment, there was silence. Only the rain and the faint hum of his sword remained.
A low whistle broke the silence.
“Well,” a voice drawled, echoing faintly through the narrow alley, smooth and teasing. “That was epic to watch.”
Kael turned sharply, blade still glowing faintly in his hand. A shadow stepped out from the deeper dark — the same man who’d stood on the rooftop moments ago. The faint yellow glow from the streetlamp brushed against his face as he smiled, lips curling with that familiar, smug ease that could melt danger into something thrilling.
Lucian.
Kael’s eyes softened slightly, though his expression stayed guarded as he flicked his wrist, swinging the sword once — the blade humming in the damp air — then twice. The black blood that clung to it evaporated into mist, leaving only the pure blue gleam of power. With a practiced motion, he slid the weapon behind his back. In an instant, it faded from sight, vanishing into nothing.
Lucian’s grin widened as he sauntered toward him, his boots echoing softly on the wet ground.
“The way you swingthat sword,,” he said, voice low and laced with laughter. “Damn, I would psy anything to see that every second.”
Kael smirked faintly.
“You weren’t much help, though, for someone who loves a good show.”
Lucian gave a theatrical gasp, his hand to his chest.
“Excuse me?” He closed the remaining distance between them in two long strides, the faint smell of smoke and rain clinging to him. “I was plenty of help, thank you. Someone had to keep our screeching friend from leaping across rooftops and eating your handsome face.”
Kael rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, Lucian’s hands were on him — firm and warm — pulling him in.
“And besides,” Lucian murmured, his breath brushing Kael’s ear, “I really love it when we fight together.”
Kael laughed quietly, the tension in his shoulders melting as Lucian began to press quick, playful kisses across his cheek, his temple, his jaw — one after another, relentless and teasing until Kael groaned, half laughing.
“Lucian—”
Lucian chuckled, kissing him again between words.
“What? I can’t help it. You look way too good when you’re all fire and fury.”
“Lucian,” Kael said again, his voice breaking into laughter now.
Lucian pulled back just enough to see his face, his eyes gleaming with that unrestrained mischief that Kael could never quite resist.
“Say my name like that again,” he said softly, brushing a thumb along Kael’s jaw.
“Lucian,” Kael said, quieter this time, his smile faltering into something warmer, something raw.
Lucian’s grin softened into something almost reverent.
“You’re a badass, Kael,” Lucian whispered, his tone gentler now, almost proud.
Kael tilted his head, smiling.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Lucian.”
Lucian laughed under his breath.
“Not bad? I levitated the damn creature for you.”
Kael’s grin widened.
“Yeah. And that was enough for me.”
For a moment, neither of them moved — just the sound of the rain tapping against metal and the faint, distant thunder rolling through the city. Then Lucian tilted his head, voice low and teasing again.
“So…” he murmured. “Where’s my kiss?”
Kael arched a brow.
“Right here.”
And before Lucian could make another joke, Kael grabbed him by the front of his coat and pulled him in. Their lips met — rough at first, then slower, deeper, burning like the aftershock of a fight well won. Lucian’s hands tightened around Kael’s neck, pulling him closer as rain began to fall harder, streaking through the faint glow of the alley light.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard, laughter tangled with the sound of thunder.
Kael rested his forehead against Lucian’s, their breath mingling in the damp cold.
“Another successful hunt,” he murmured.
Lucian’s lips curved into a smile against his.
“And another excuse to celebrate.”
Kael chuckled.
“You always need an excuse?”
Lucian’s grin turned wolfish.
“When it comes to you? Never.”
Above them, the thunder rolled again, deep and distant — a reminder that something vast and ancient still stirred beyond the storm.
***
The silver-gray night bled slowly into the quiet majesty of the Obsidian Palace — a fortress of glass, onyx, and silver that towered over the city like a guardian from another age. Its pillars shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight, carved with ancient runes that pulsed like slow heartbeats.
A sleek black car rolled to a smooth stop at the entrance, its engine purring low before falling silent. The door opened, and Kael Ardent stepped out furst. His piercing green eyes gleamed beneath the palace lights, sharp and restless, like the fire that always burned within him.
Lucian followed a moment later, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto the dashboard. He adjusted the collar of his black trench coat, his silver-gray eyes scanning the palace gates that loomed ahead.
“Not bad for a night’s work,” he muttered, his tone amused but tired.
Kael snorted softly as they began walking toward the grand entrance.
“Three shapeshifters in one night, and three victims,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “We’re getting better at containing them.”
Lucian grinned, brushing his fingers against Kael’s arm as they walked side by side.
“Or they’re getting more careless. Either way, I’m not complaining.”
The massive obsidian doors began to open before they reached them, light spilling from within — warm gold against the cold night.
A tall man was already walking toward them, his gait commanding yet graceful. His presence alone made the air shift, as though the world acknowledged who he was.
King Alaric Ardent, ruler of Obsidara. His hair, streaked with silver and black, was combed neatly back from a face carved with quiet strength and wisdom. His broad shoulders bore the weight of years of duty, and his eyes — a striking steel blue — mirrored both power and exhaustion. Even without the crown, he looked every bit the king.
“Kael. Lucian,” he greeted, his voice resonant, deep as a bell. “You’re both safe. Good.”
Kael bowed slightly, one hand over his chest.
“It was a successful night, Father,” he reported. “Three shapeshifters neutralized. Three victims, unfortunately — we couldn’t get to them in time.”
Lucian, ever the composed adviser, bowed his head respectfully.
“Your Majesty,” he said in his steady, measured tone. “The attacks are becoming more frequent. The shadowbound are gathering faster than we’ve seen in years. We’ve had multiple sightings tonight alone.”
The king’s expression darkened. He drew a long breath, glancing past them toward the city lights beyond the palace walls.
“That’s what worries me most,” he said quietly. “I’ve received word from the elite enforcers in the sub-kingdoms. The gates to the Netherveil — they’re opening again. More of them. Entire villages are reporting disappearances.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened. He raked a hand through his damp hair.
“Do you want us to investigate?”
King Alaric shook his head slowly.
“No. You’re both needed here more than ever. If the gates are multiplying, then something — or someone — is fueling them. We’ll need to consult the Keepers. They may sense what the rest of us can’t.”
Then his gaze shifted, sharp and deliberate, to Lucian.
“Speaking of which,” he said. “Lucian, I need you to come with me. You’re my adviser on kingdom matters, and I’ll require your insight.”
Lucian straightened immediately, bowing slightly.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
As he turned to follow the king, his eyes flicked toward Kael. For a moment, the severity in his face softened. Kael caught his gaze, smiled faintly, and nodded once — a silent promise that he’d be there when Lucian returned.
Lucian’s lips curved just enough for Kael to see before he disappeared down the corridor beside the king.
The vast hall grew quieter. The sound of their footsteps faded, leaving Kael alone beneath the towering arches and chandeliers.
Prince Kael Ardent. The heir to Obsidara’s throne. The miracle child born after years of failed hopes and endless prayers. The only royal in generations to be born with the rare power of all four elements — fire, water, earth, and air — a gift that hadn’t been seen since the very first King Ambrose himself. He was the Order’s youngest leader, a commander, a savior, and to most, a symbol of strength.
And yet, tonight, even he felt the faint shadow of something colder stirring beneath his skin.
He slid his hands into his pockets and began walking through the grand marble corridor, his boots echoing softly. The scent of rain followed him still. As he neared the central stairway, he heard footsteps — soft, graceful — and then a familiar, sweet chuckle.
“Well,” a gentle voice called, warm with amusement, “how’s my little hunter doing? Did you finally tire the night out, or is she still giving you trouble?”
Kael turned, laughter already breaking from his lips.
“Mother!”
Queen Serena Ardent glided down the staircase, her silk nightgown flowing around her like moonlight. Her long hair, pale gold streaked with white, shimmered under the chandelier’s glow. Her beauty was timeless — soft, noble, and untouched by age — but her eyes held the same fierce intelligence as her husband’s.
Kael crossed the hall quickly and swept her into a hug.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he said, smiling into her shoulder.
She held him tighter, her delicate fingers brushing the back of his neck.
“And miss the moment my son comes home safe? Never.” Pulling back slightly, she looked up at him, her voice softening. “It’s not like I have another son to replace you if I lose you.”
Kael chuckled lightly, though something in her words ached in his chest.
“Mother, I can take care of myself,” he said gently. “You know that. I’m not exactly fragile.”
Her expression softened, but her eyes were serious.
“I know. You’re powerful — more powerful than most ever will be. But that doesn’t stop a mother’s heart from worrying, Kael. Not when there’s still a prophecy hanging over your birth.”
He stiffened slightly, then smiled to break the tension, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“You worry too much,” he murmured. “The prophecy’s old. I’m fine. And I promise I’ll stay that way.”
She sighed, brushing his cheek lovingly.
“You always say that.”
“And I always mean it,” Kael replied with a grin. “Now, go get some rest. I’ll take a shower, then come down, and we’ll have something to eat — properly. Just you and me.”
Her lips curved into a warm smile, eyes glimmering with affection.
“All right,” she said softly. “But don’t keep me waiting too long, my prince.”
Kael chuckled and nodded.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He turned and began walking toward the west wing, his steps fading into the quiet of the palace. Serena stood there for a long moment, watching his retreating figure with a fond but worried gaze, her hand resting against her heart.
Lightning flashed briefly beyond the palace windows, illuminating her face — and for the briefest second, the ancient obsidian sigil carved into the great hall’s wall flickered faintly, like something waking from a long, deep sleep.
The queen’s smile faltered.
Something old was stirring.
And this time, it was closer than any of them realized.
***
The moonlight poured through the vast arched window of Kael’s chambers, casting silver streaks across the polished tile floor. The air was thick with the lingering warmth of spent fire and the faint trace of sandalwood that still burned in the fireplace.
Lucian lay beside him, face half-buried in a pilow, his breathing slow and deep. His arm was draped over the edge of the bed, the faintest smudge of soot on his wrist from the night’s battle. The steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling was the only sound in the enormous room. He slept peacefully, utterly untroubled.
But Kael was not at peace.
He lay on his back, chest bare, his skin slick with sweat as though he had run for miles. His fingers clenched at the sheets, knuckles pale, veins standing out against his forearms. His head moved from side to side, trapped in a dream that seemed to have sunk claws into him. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts.
A tremor rippled through him. His brow furrowed, his lips parted as though to speak—but only a strangled whisper escaped.
Then it came.
A voice.
It echoed through his mind—cold, ancient, and inhuman.
“Kael…”
The sound wasn’t merely heard—it vibrated in his bones, a shiver of darkness that slid down his spine like a serpent. His body arched as if struck by lightning. His breath hitched. The world around him warped for a heartbeat—walls flickering, air thickening with unseen shadow.
Then…
Kael jerked upright, gasping. The sound tore from his throat like someone breaking the surface of deep water after drowning. His eyes snapped open, pupils wide, wild, reflecting the moonlight like molten amber. For a moment he didn’t know where he was—his gaze darted across the chamber, his chest heaving, heart pounding so violently that he could hear it in his ears.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
He lifted a trembling hand to his face, wiping the sweat that trickled down his temple. His breathing was ragged, his throat dry. Every shadow in the room seemed alive, watching, listening.
Finally, his gaze fell on Lucian.
The sight steadied him—Lucian lying there, peaceful, the corners of his mouth faintly curved in the ghost of a smile even in sleep. The warmth of him, the realness of him, was an anchor against the terror clawing at Kael’s chest.
Kael exhaled slowly, forcing air into his lungs. He pressed a palm against his sternum, feeling his heart hammering beneath his skin.
“What… was that?” he whispered under his breath, his voice barely audible.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, low and ominous, echoing through the spires of the obsidian palace. A cold gust slipped through the window, making the flames in the fire flicker violently.
Kael turned his eyes toward the darkness beyond the glass—toward the city that lay sleeping under the storm—and a chill crept down his spine.
He couldn’t shake the sound of that voice.
It hadn’t been part of a dream.
It had called to him.
And something deep inside him whispered that whatever it was… it had finally found him
To be continued…
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