Chapter 12: Chapter 11-Ashanti, When The Light Breaks In

She did not walk, however, her body did. The great city of Faeyren unfolded around her, but it might as well have been mist and phantoms. Streets she once studied with cautious eyes now stretched as endless corridors, colorless, quiet. Sounds of merchants, guards, and beggars were hollow things, like voices carried through thick water. They reached her ears, but never stirred her. Faeyren, the Crown of the East. The city of wonder. The city of secrets. Its markets no longer buzzed. Its banners no longer danced. Even the trees planted along the white brick paths seemed dull, as though they too had grown weary. The city still breathed — but to her, it no longer lived.

She passed a mural. Once, she might’ve stopped. Once, she might have paused to marvel at the paint-stroked legend of Beiron Grayare slaying the Dark Lord of Wrath beneath a sky of seven moons. Now her eyes saw nothing but shapes. And so she moved — barefoot, hooded, silent. The Hollow Vows had not given her time to heal. They had only needed her to obey. And so she had. Her wounds stitched by others’ hands. Her orders were etched in blood. Her next target awaited. And still, her body walked. And Shade... watched. Trapped. Buried behind bone and rune. Her own soul, a whisper gagged by centuries of memories not her own.

I’m still here.

I’m still here.

The world did not answer. She turned a corner, toward a district she recognized only by shape, not name. More ghosts. More gray. The crowds avoided her without knowing why. There was no blood on her. No shadow trailing her steps. Yet people looked once and then hurried on. Until it hit her. Soft. Subtle. Then, cruelly overwhelming. A scent. Thick meat and spices wrapped in flaky pastry. Smoked thyme. Cracked pepper. Rendered onion. Wild herbs no foreign cook could mimic. A scent born in another land. Greyclaw meat pie. The world stopped. Her breath caught, and her step faltered.

No.

Not now.

Not here.

Don’t hurt her!

The scent wormed into her lungs, wrapped around her ribs. Her body... turned. Turned on its own. Toward the scent. Toward the Inn. Toward the past. She wanted to scream. To run. To claw at the prison inside her own skin. And then—

“Shade?”

A voice. High. Clear. Young. The world cracked. Just a hairline fracture — but enough. A breath caught that was hers. A blink — hers. Another step forward, not taken by the puppet of her flesh, but by her. She stood there, in the open door of the Dragon Tear Inn. Leni stared up at her, still in her apron, face flushed from kitchen work.

“You’re back,” Leni whispered, tears already forming.

Shade sank to her knees. The bindings shattered. And for the first time in weeks — in years — she embraced someone because she chose to. Leni didn’t let go. She simply grabbed Shade’s hand — small fingers wrapping around bloodless ones — and tugged.

“Come on,” the girl whispered, “you need to sit down.”

Shade followed without protest. Her limbs felt like sand and string, too soft, too light, but hers. She followed the smell and the warmth through Faeyren’s quieter streets until they turned a final corner. The Dragon Tear Inn came into view, carved wood and hanging lanterns glowing with a welcoming amber light. The name swirled in her thoughts, memory trying to bloom, like a half-frozen flower. Leni kicked the door open with more strength than seemed possible for someone so small.

“Mama!”

Inside, it was all warmth. The scent of food, woodsmoke, people, and life.

Mara was wiping down a table, her sleeves rolled to the elbow. She looked up and froze.

“…Leni? Who—”

Then she saw the eyes. The shape. The exhaustion was written across every inch of the girl who stepped in.

“Gods above…” Mara muttered, crossing the room in three long strides. “Shade?”

Shade nodded once. Mara reached out as if to hug her, then stopped. There was something… raw about her. Brittle.

“Where in all the moons have you been?” Mara asked, voice tight. “You look like you’ve walked through hell barefoot.”

Shade blinked down. “I did.”

Mara exhaled slowly. “Figures.”

She clapped her hands and motioned. “Upstairs. Now. Leni, go heat the water — not too hot. And bring the little trunk from under my bed. You remember which one.”

“I know,” Leni chirped, already moving.

Shade didn’t resist. She followed up the stairs like a shadow still trying to figure out if it was allowed to be whole. Upstairs, Mara didn’t ask more questions. She didn’t have to. Instead, she sat Shade down on the edge of the bed — the same one Leni had once crept into on a stormy night — and stepped away only to return with a neatly folded bundle of dark gray, fine-trimmed clothes. Thick enough for travel. Elegant enough for someone who never wanted to be seen.

“It’s something I had made,” Mara said gently, laying it out. “The last time you were here, you didn’t say anything. But… I could tell.”

“Tell what?” Shade asked quietly.

“That you hated the stares.”

Shade looked away.

“So I had this made.” Mara smiled faintly. “Boots that actually fit your feet. A hood that drops just low enough to hide the ears. Gloves with thread that breathes — for your claws.”

Shade stared at it all like it was made of starlight.

“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” Mara added. “But I hoped.”

“…I can’t take this,” Shade murmured. “It’s too—”

“You will,” Mara interrupted softly. “Because it’s already yours.”

She dressed in silence. Every piece slid on like a new skin. No part of her — not her scars, not her runes, not even her memories — was left exposed. And somehow, instead of feeling like a mask, it felt… kind.

You’re not a ghost anymore, she thought. You’re allowed to have a shape.

When she emerged, fully clad from head to toe, Leni gasped in delight and clapped.

“You look like a traveler from a storybook!” the girl declared.

“Not quite,” Shade said, voice steady now. “But thank you.”

Mara offered her a soft smile. “You hungry?”

“…Yes.”

***

Downstairs, the hearthfire burned low but steady. A few lingering guests nursed mugs or nodded off against worn table edges. Mara had ushered Shade and Leni to a tucked-away corner table beside the window, far from curious ears. Leni had dashed into the kitchen without prompting, and now she returned with a steaming plate and bright eyes.

“Here it is!” she announced, placing the dish down like it was treasure. “One real, hot, fresh Greyclaw Meat Pie. Just for you!”

Shade blinked down at it. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until that moment. The scent struck her like it had earlier — warm, spiced, wild, and savory. Something ancient stirred in her. She picked up the utensil, hands still stiff with tension, and cut into the golden crust. Steam escaped. One bite. Then another. And for a single breath, everything fell away — the missions, the pain, the blood, the inescapable hand inside her mind. All that remained was flavor, warmth, and a piece of home she’d never known she missed.

“You’re smiling,” Leni said softly, leaning her elbows on the table.

Shade froze. Then she looked down and realized — Leni was right. It wasn’t a grin. Barely more than a lift at the corner of her mouth. But it was real.

“…I guess I am.”

After a few more bites, Shade reached into the folds of her new bag of holding and pulled out a small, silk-wrapped bundle. She placed it on the table in front of Leni.

“What’s this?” Leni asked, eyes sparkling.

“A belated birthday gift,” Shade said.

“You remembered?” The girl looked like she might cry again.

“I was late,” Shade replied. “But I got them from Gellric. For doing him a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

Shade’s eyes lifted just a hair. “A quiet one.”

Leni giggled and unwrapped the parcel. Inside were delicate sugar-crusted berry clusters, a rarity from the southeastern coast. Each one shimmered faintly under the lantern light.

“These are amazing!” Leni exclaimed. “I’ve only seen them at festivals!”

“They’re yours now,” Shade said. “All of them.”

Without warning, Leni darted forward and hugged her. Tightly, much too tightly. Something in Shade’s ribs ached — her side, her back — but she didn’t flinch. She just held the child gently, chin resting atop soft brown hair.

This is warmth, she thought. This is what they tried to carve out of me.

After a long moment, she knelt. So her eyes were level with Leni’s.

“I need to ask you something important,” Shade said.

Leni blinked, suddenly serious.

“The flask I gave you. Do you still have it?”

The girl nodded fast. “Of course! I’ve kept it hidden like you said. No one touches it. Not even Mama.”

Shade let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Good. I might need it… soon.”

Leni’s eyes searched hers, wide and knowing. “Is something bad going to happen?”

Shade hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yes. But not to you. Not if you stay inside.”

She turned her head slightly toward the front door. “Tonight, lock up early. Bolt the windows. Don’t open the door for anyone. Not even me.”

“But—” Leni started, then stopped. Her lip trembled, but she nodded.

Mara, standing at the end of the bar with arms crossed and eyes sharp, had clearly heard.

“We’ll do as you say,” she said softly. “Just… come back after. In one piece.”

Shade looked back at them. The table. The pie. The girl. Her anchor.

“…I’ll try.”

***

The door to the Dragon Tear Inn closed softly behind her. Outside, the sky bled into lavender and gold. The air held a stillness, like the city was drawing its breath in. Shade stood beneath the old lamp post, the scent of meat pie still clinging faintly to her coat. Then — a shift. The air bent, not like wind, but like memory. Her hand brushed the edge of a blade, but her instinct said no. Not danger. Something else. From the shadows near the dry fountain across the square, a figure emerged. The Apothecary. No footsteps. No scent. Just there — as though she'd stepped through time, not distance. She looked older than before. Or perhaps more faded, like something nearing the end of its cycle. Her robes drifted in the air like smoke, and her eyes gleamed with colors no spectrum claimed. Shade didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The Apothecary did.

“Two regrets burned. One regret yet to come.”

The wind rustled. A candle flickered out in a distant window.

“When the final tear falls upon the green from home,” she whispered, “the third vial will stop what should not be unmade.”

Shade’s mouth opened — but her voice felt foreign in her throat. Then the crone tilted her head, eyes glowing faintly.

“The one with hair white as mourning frost — her truth will soon find you.”

A pause. Shade’s heart pounded. The mention of the white-haired woman—

The one face that survived every carving. Every purge. Her hand curled instinctively over her chest.

“No one knows that,” she said hoarsely. “No one was allowed—”

Her voice shook.

“Who are you?”

The Apothecary’s lips curled into something bittersweet.

“A shadow cast by the flame that once was.”

“The last ripple of a cycle… that begged to end.”

Shade took a step forward. Her pulse surged.

“You knew her?” she asked. “The woman in white—who is she?”

The Apothecary met her eyes, and for one heartbeat, she was not old. She was eternal.

“She is not your past,” the woman murmured.

“She is your mercy.”

Shade swallowed. A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I—”

But she didn’t finish. Because the woman was already unraveling — drifting like fog in the wind. Her final words fluttered like ash in Shade’s ears:

“This time… you do not have to become the end.”

And then she was gone. Shade stood frozen, beneath the bleeding sky. The last warmth of the day faded from the stones around her. The wind carried nothing now but the quiet. She raised her hand to her face and touched the tear there. A tear she hadn’t felt since the first carving. And this time, she didn’t wipe it away.

***

Faeyren still moved. Streetlamps flickered to life one by one. Vendors called out the last of their wares. Carriages rumbled across cobbled stone. The smell of roasted chestnuts and braised meats wafted faintly from alley cookfires, and high above the winding streets, bells chimed the hour with proud, sonorous notes. But Shade didn’t hear joy in the sound. Not tonight. She walked as shadow — hood low, body swathed in black — steps soft as snowfall. She moved with a grace not her own. With purpose she hadn’t chosen. With a goal not yet met. The city’s warmth couldn’t reach her, not truly. Faeyren was alive, but the world around her had dimmed. The colors seemed faded. The laughter muted. The sky above — not yet dark — was already bruising at the edges.

This is the last mission, she told herself again.

Then I’m gone.

The words didn’t bring peace. But they gave her direction. It wasn’t an order. Not this time. It was a promise. One she had made to herself in silence — to leave before she endangered Leni, before they discovered what was cracking inside her. She would vanish. Disappear. Slip between the cracks of the world like smoke before the fire came. But even that promise was built on another. The first promise.

The only memory she was ever allowed to keep.

The white-haired woman.

Eyes like forest light. A voice without words. A presence that lingered across every dream that hadn’t been shattered by the dark room. She believed the Hollow Vows had let her keep that memory as a mercy. A single kindness among the ruin. A tether to something. But now, after all the pain, after all the carving and silence and screams— She wasn’t sure that memory had ever belonged to them.

That one memory... they couldn’t touch it.

She didn’t know why. Only that it felt older than she was. Deeper than thought. She couldn’t remember the woman’s name. But she remembered her warmth.

***

The city still slept. Faeyren’s sky was ink-drenched, the last stars fading behind the shimmer of its ancient wardline. Lanterns swung from high arches, casting long, uncertain shadows across the bridge leading to the Grand Sanctum — the political heart of the continent. Shade moved without sound. Not hidden. Not quite seen. The dama woven into her cloak whispered against the damp air, shifting her outline just enough to make the eye turn elsewhere. She wore the darkness like armor. Ahead, the Sanctum rose in layered tiers of blackstone and gold-veined marble, its towers etched with runes older than the nine kingdoms combined. Massive archways flanked the entrance, beneath which stood towering statues of Beiron and his son — the slayer and the legacy. And just beyond the arches: the damastyl pillars. It shimmered even in the pre-dawn gloom, a deep-cut likeness of Beiron striking down a horned beast with a blade of divine geometry. The metal was wrong to the senses — not gold, not steel, not anything born of a mortal forge. It hummed faintly. Shade slowed.

The base of the statue was polished to a mirror sheen, used ritually during high convocations. She caught her reflection — only it wasn’t her. Not entirely.

White hair. Faint runes glowing at the throat. A robe edged in celestial silver. Not Shade. Not the assassin. One of the echoes. The Shieldmaiden.

The reflection’s lips moved.

No sound. But Shade understood.

“Do not forget the blade you are.”

Then it was gone. The humming faded. The damastyl dulled, and her reflection snapped back to normal — dirty cloak, tired eyes, blood-black runes faint beneath her collar. Fur and hair are so dark that they seem to draw light in. A breath caught in her chest, not fear… recognition. She pressed forward. The Sanctum’s side entrance was unguarded by design. This path was meant only for wardens and servants, concealed beneath a carved wing of the main tower. A glyph etched into the door flickered as her hand passed near. She whispered an illusion chant — Vinctum est umbra. The glyph stilled. The door creaked open. Inside, silence ruled. Not the stillness of peace. The stillness of eyes watching where none should be. She moved like shadow incarnate down winding servant halls and prayer galleries, each corridor tighter than the last.

Dama resonated faintly beneath the floors — power lines threaded through the bones of the Sanctum to maintain stability during meetings like the one today. Ley-conduits. Stabilizers. Something’s off. The conduit nodes were warm. Too warm. Either overloaded or tampered with. She crouched near one, brushing her gloved fingers over the iron plate. A thin line of residue flaked beneath her palm — crystalline, black-red, with a faint shimmer. Corrupted damastyl. Her heart skipped. No one sane risked dama corruption inside Faeyren. Not unless they wanted to rupture the leylines beneath the continent. This wasn’t a breach. It was a ritual. Her blade itched at her side. She kept moving. Through narrow stairs, she ascended into the back rafters of the Grand Hall — a hidden path once used by stage mages and conjurers for light shows and rituals. Now forgotten.

Below, the Grand Hall unfolded. A cathedral of politics. Polished floors the color of onyx. Long tables shaped like a broken circle. Nine thrones of varying styles — stone, gold, vinewood, obsidian, carved ice, glass. The dignitaries hadn’t arrived yet. But the tension already had. And she would be here when it broke. She reached the rafters just as the moons began to align. The Grand Hall of Faeyren sprawled beneath her like a cathedral built to impress gods — vast, gilded, and lined with the echoes of centuries. But something was wrong. Even from above, the light felt off. Thicker. Muted. The stained-glass windows didn’t glow with the dawn — they absorbed it. What should have been glory felt like a mausoleum holding its breath. High arches stretched toward a vaulted ceiling paneled with star-metal and stone, each rib of the dome carved with relic scripts no longer spoken aloud. Floating chandeliers of hex-crystal hovered like dead constellations, too still. Too cold. Beneath them, the floor gleamed — obsidian polished until it drank light. Gold-veined runes traced every aisle and pillar, flickering faintly with ley-charge. But some didn’t flicker right. Some pulsed in time with something deeper… something beneath.

And the windows — gods, the windows. They should have bathed the hall in evening brilliance, those soaring stained-glass monoliths overlooking the Arborean Sea. Each panel depicted triumph: Beiron slaying the horned Dark Lord of Wrath. The unbroken circle of the Nine. A beastkin queen crowned in moonlight. But today, the colors looked wrong. Blood ran too red. The waves were too dark. And the eyes of the saints—they gleamed like they were watching her. From the rafters, Shade crouched in silence. Even cloaked in illusion, even masked in shadow, she felt the weight of the hall pressing in. Her breathing was calm. Her body was still. But her pulse? It refused to match. This wasn’t just grandeur. This was anticipation. As if the hall itself knew what was coming. Then— A hum. Low. Vibrating in her ribs. Behind the embedded crystal in her chest. A frequency no ears could catch, but her bones remembered it.

“Positions.”

Then, more quietly:

“Wait.”

She didn’t move. She didn’t need to. Every operative hidden in the chamber had just received the same unspoken order. The glyphs in the stone — the damastyl flakes embedded in its veins — had been touched. And now the Sanctum had become a stage for something older than war. Below, attendants lit braziers. Their flames cast shadows longer than they should have. Velvet banners hung limp, though no wind stirred. The moonlight that filtered through the highest windows came in the wrong hue — not silver, but a bruised, maroon tinge that whispered of coming storms. The Grand Hall — the jewel of Faeyren — had become a theater for prophecy. And somewhere, beyond the sky’s veil, the moons were moving.

The horn of Faeyren sounded — once, then twice. A clear, deliberate call that echoed through the chamber like a ritual. And the doors opened. Dignitaries filtered in, one after another, beneath the eyes of saints and shadows. Their footsteps landed soft against the polished obsidian, but every presence crackled with intent. For the first time in a generation, all Nine were present. They took their places around the crescent council. At the head, Beiron Grayare stood, every inch the hero carved from legend — his once-dark hair silvered at the temples, eyes sun-scored and unwavering. He wore no crown, only the stone-ringed cloak of the Neutral Seat, fastened with an old nail from the Tower of Silence. To his right: Queen Krysthalia of Greyclaw, radiant in black and silver, her antlered circlet catching the chandelier light. She moved like a statue that remembered how to breathe. Near her, Prince Helion Valtrasse of Containe lounged with the relaxed precision of a coiled serpent. Gold chain over navy coat, sigil rings on six fingers — too polished for grief, too young for peace. Next came Brunneth Orehearth, the dwarf princess of Thalara, her arms bare, her shoulders squared like a commander preparing to swing a hammer instead of make a vote. Beside her, Commander Kaen Draeven of the Hollow Barrier, scarred and quiet, armor scuffed but kept — a man who had seen too much and trusted too little. The High Watcher Sivren floated forward in silence, robes flowing like candlewax, mask unreadable. Their presence made the light dim wherever they stood. Archdruidess Allavira Thirien arrived with no escort, only silence and the faint smell of fresh earth. Her eyes held years the others would never earn. Speaker Virel of Daervan moved like a shadow, algae robes trailing, skin pale as clay. When he blinked, it was side to side. And last, slipping in like mist from the harbor wind, High Mariner Keros Daewin of the Sevehrin Isles — eyes like opals, voice not yet used. They sat. The silence lingered. Beiron stepped forward.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Brothers. Sisters. Watchers of the line. I speak now not as the warden of Faeyren, but as the man who bled so your sons would not.”

His voice carried — clear, heavy.

“There are those who claim we live in peace. But peace is not a gift. It is a thing earned daily, through sacrifice and through unity. And unity — true unity — must be carved from truth.”

He turned slightly, gaze sweeping the circle.

“Let us speak, then, not as thrones, but as the last flames against the dark. Let us name the cracks before the walls fall in.”

A breath passed. Prince Helion was the first to answer.

“How poetic. Truly.” He rose halfway, hands clasped behind his back. “But forgive me if I find it difficult to toast to unity in a city that has too often confused neutrality with cowardice. Shadows grow best where no one watches. Or so the Hollow Vows would say — if, of course, they were real.”

Brunneth growled. “Say that name again with that tone and I’ll bury it in your teeth.”

Helion smiled thinly. “Is that dwarven diplomacy? Fascinating.”

Queen Krysthalia’s voice cut through the brewing tension like winter steel.

“We are not here to posture, Prince. We are here because something is moving beneath our feet. Something that tastes of old blood.”

She looked at Beiron. “This hall is darker than it has any right to be.”

“An omen,” murmured Allavira, placing a small sprig of moonfern at her seat. “The trees have whispered of it. The roots of the world are uneasy.”

Virel leaned forward, his voice a rasp. “In my lands, the bogs have begun to steam in winter. That has not happened since the Time of Unmaking. Seals crack like eggshells… and we sit here in our ivory hall, smiling.”

A pause. No one dared laugh.

Then — soft, melodic — High Watcher Sivren spoke without moving their mask.

“When the Thirteen Moons battle for the sky… we shall see which gods remain.”

From the lower podium, Eryx was summoned forward. Young, trembling, clutching a sealed scroll wrapped in linen. The insignia of the Apothecary burned faintly at its center — a lotus devouring a sun. He unrolled it. His voice shook.

“A wound once carved will fester in silence. Let none forget what bleeds beneath. The child who knows the coil walks among you. If you silence her, you silence the world.”

Gasps. One or two. But no rebuttals. Beiron’s hand closed tightly on the edge of his chair. In the rafters, Shade felt her fingers twitch. Not from strain. From something else. Recognition. The Apothecary’s words were not for the others. They were for her. Brunneth Orehearth leaned forward, knuckles white against the edge of the table. Her voice was low, but thick with barely-checked rage.

“You speak of unity, yet let shackles clink in your fields. What kind of peace is that, Helion?”

Helion Valtrasse barely blinked. His tone didn’t rise — it didn’t need to.

“We feed you. Thirty percent of this continent’s land bears our crest. Forty percent of its grain, its fruit, its salted meat — all grown, butchered, and shipped from Containe. You all sit on your thrones and throw stones, but when your markets run dry, you come to us. Every time.”

He turned slightly, addressing no one in particular.

“We do not chain innocents. We sentence criminals. We offer them a role in rebuilding what they broke. They are clothed. Fed. Given purpose. It is not pretty, no. But farming rarely is.”

Commander Kaen’s gauntlet scraped across the table.

“You don’t give purpose. You give numbers. Every man we lose on the Barrier dies defending a world you’ve built on backs and blood.”

Krysthalia’s voice followed, quiet but cutting.

“Purpose without dignity is just well-dressed cruelty.”

Helion smiled, almost sadly.

“Tell me, Queen of the High Wolves — will you boycott our grain next winter? Will Wyrdwood stop importing salt? Will the dwarves cease purchasing our iron-shod plows?”

Brunneth barked a bitter laugh.

“Better a rusted tool than one forged from stolen hands.”

Sivren raised a delicate hand, motioning for stillness.

“Containe does what the rest refuse to admit they need. This is not approval. It is an observation. A dying body will drink poison if it keeps the heart beating.”

Allavira, the Archdruidess, folded her hands in her lap. Her voice was as cool as wind across a grave.

“Then perhaps the body is no longer worth saving.”

A heavy silence fell. Speaker Virel broke it, voice soft as mildew.

“The bog swells with unmarked graves. The names do not vanish. They only sink.”

Helion turned toward him.

“You speak riddles. I speak about harvests. When your people are hungry, they will not eat justice.”

A long breath passed through the chamber. Then Beiron rose again. His gaze swept from face to face — not with judgment, but weariness.

“We have gathered to address a death. But we stand on the edge of a larger one. If we do not find reason here, we will find war.”

A pause. His voice dropped.

“And I would rather bury no more children — yours or mine.”

***

Above, in the rafters Shade sat, biding her time. She felt a pulse from the crystal at her sternum. Warm. Expectant. Below, the banners of the Nine trembled. And from somewhere behind the stained glass above the Tenth Pillar, the first hum began to rise — just low enough that only a few turned their heads. A silence had just settled — the kind that clung to the lungs — when the doors at the far end of the Grand Hall slammed open. Boots thundered against obsidian. Auren Grayare — eldest son of Beiron, barely nineteen, chest heaving beneath ceremonial bronze — stormed into the chamber, panic carved into every step.

“They’re coming!” he shouted. “The wards are cracking—something’s breached the city!”

Gasps rippled like wind through dry leaves. Guards along the chamber walls drew weapons. Queen Krysthalia’s eyes sharpened, her ears twitching almost imperceptibly.

Beiron’s voice thundered: “What do you mean breached?”

“The Stricken,” Auren said, voice breaking. “They’re already inside the outer ring. They—gods, they’re everywhere. How did they get this close without—?”

He didn’t finish. The stained glass above the Tenth Pillar began to hum. Not quietly. Not hidden. A high-pitched vibration filled the chamber, wrong and rising. Scrolls fluttered. Banners twisted in windless air. Then — slamming shut with the weight of tombs — the doors behind Auren sealed themselves. Iron bolts that hadn’t moved in centuries slammed into place. The room’s wards flared once, not with golden warmth — but with a color like old blood and dying stars. And in front of those doors, where Auren had stood moments ago during his speech, reality split. It didn’t tear. It spiraled, a red-black vortex of dama energy twisting inward like a blade piercing the skin of the world. The floor cracked. The marble curled upward, groaning.

A horned silhouette stepped through. Broad. Armored in jagged plates that pulsed with crimson light. Smoke poured from the vents in its chestpiece like incense from a broken altar. Its eyes burned like coal-forges in a blizzard. The Drekon, a creature of malice and hatred, had arrived.

Behind him, the walls themselves shivered — and broke. From trapdoors hidden in floor runes, from shadow-illusioned alcoves, from the very stone — they poured in:

Stricken. Twisted, raw, and howling. Some wore scraps of cloaks — Hollow Vows remnants. Others were barely recognizable as once-human, their forms warped by overuse of dama and the foul rituals of the southern Hollow Zone. Some emerged from blood-slick anchor glyphs painted days ago and hidden beneath royal crests. Others dropped soundlessly from the ceiling beams. Too many. Cries of alarm rose. Steel rang. The summit collapsed into screaming. Beiron didn’t flinch. As the first wave of Stricken lunged — shrieking, war-twisted, frothing — the old warrior simply stepped forward. His hand rose. The blade on his back—“Oathwake”, forged in the leyline flame beneath Mount Silvyr—sang as it cleared its sheath. The sound alone cracked two nearby glyphs. He lifted it high and the embedded runes along its edge ignited — not with fire, but with memory: names of the fallen etched in luminous script, each one pulsing once as if called to witness.

“For Faeyren,” he whispered.

And the sword answered. A wave of radiant force exploded from the steel, cascading through the chamber like a storm given form. It wasn’t flame. It wasn’t light. It was judgment. The first dozen Stricken turned to ash mid-scream. The next dozen imploded, sucked inward as their dama-bloated cores were ripped apart. The rest fell where they stood, charred outlines smoking on obsidian. Silence. Horrified, awestruck silence. Beiron turned, sword still glowing, and pointed it straight at the Drekon.

“Is that all?”

The Drekon laughed. A deep, grinding sound that echoed like falling stone. From the warped plate of his chest, a pulse radiated outward — a summons. More glyphs lit across the walls. Hidden sigils broke open like wounds. The ambush truly began. From every crack and shadow came more Hollow Vows: Tools clashing with guards, illusions twisting space. Two of the elite Weapons lunged at Beiron— he cut them down in four movements. But it wasn’t enough. The tide was turning. Shade moved. She dropped from the rafters like a falling blade — fast, silent, deliberate. The Grand Hall had become a battlefield of prophecy: Stricken flooding through broken glyph-doors, Tools locked in combat with royal guard, screams echoing between the pillars. Magic scorched the air. Steel clashed in rhythms that felt too ancient to be coincidence. She was still one of them. For now. No order had turned against her yet. No blade aimed her way. But her mission had changed. She had found her target. A veiled woman in mourning black stood behind a fracturing line of Silvermane guards. Unmoving. Unflinching. As though the chaos bowed around her. Shade didn’t know why — not fully — but her body had already chosen. She cut through the crowd like water finding its level. Two Tools glanced at her and turned away. The barrier spell flickered — she slipped through. A soldier’s blade lifted, but her illusion trailed just far enough to mislead the blow. A second guard reached— She vaulted over him and didn’t stop. Beiron stepped into her path. He had seen the flash of her cloak. The angle. The speed. He swung without hesitation — clean, perfect, fatal. She dipped beneath the arc, her body barely brushing the obsidian floor, momentum never breaking. She passed him in the breath between thought and memory. Behind her, Beiron turned slowly, sword still raised.

“...I missed you,” he said under his breath — more to himself than to her.

But Shade was already there. At the dais. She struck. She tackled the veiled woman to the ground, grappling her across the marble platform, pinning her beneath her forearm. Her breath was sharp, shallow. Her voice barely audible:

“I need answers.”

The woman didn’t resist. Her hands didn’t rise. She only looked up. And spoke one word.

“Ashanti.”

The world stopped. The chaos. The screaming. The clashing of spells and steel. All of it vanished behind that name. Shade’s grip faltered. Her knees locked. Her throat closed. It wasn’t possible. That name was hers — buried, carved out, forgotten in a room that bled memory. No one should know it. No one should say it. The woman’s hand moved slowly, not with threat, but reverence. She unpinned the veil and let it fall.

White hair. Wolf ears. Ageless beauty lined with sorrow.

And her eyes—

Green. Not purple like Shade’s. No trace of the man she had forgotten. Just bright, vivid green — a color that felt like spring trying to survive winter or a tree blooming without sun. She was the woman from the visions. The one who waited at the edge of every dream, always turned away. Shade stared. Her mouth parted, but nothing came. The recognition wasn’t conscious — it was woven. A tether braided through time and pain and lives half-remembered. Her knees trembled. The voice of the Apothecary echoed again:

One regret left.

Her fingers moved without thought. The third vial was in her hand. Cool glass. Gold seal. The woman watched her — silently, tearfully — saying nothing more. Shade pulled the cork. Lifted it. Paused, just for a moment, searching those green eyes for a reason not to.

She found only sorrow and something else she didn’t have a name for. She drank. The potion burned like a second sun sliding down her throat. It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. It was remembrance — too fast, too much. A surge of self so blinding it nearly tore her mind apart. She staggered back from the dais, gasping. Her knees struck stone. Then it began. Her eyes lit first. Not gold. Not red. Not the voidshade glint of dama. White. Radiant. Primal. Like the color of silence before creation. The runes along her body—those scars of control, of obedience—flared to life. One by one, they ignited across her arms, her collarbone, her throat, even her jawline. Not with pain, but with truth. They were no longer brands.

They were marks of divinity, older than the Hollow Vows, older than the thirteen moons.

Then her hair. The pitch-black strands that had hung low, hiding her in shadows, turned silver-white in a single breath. Not dyed. Not bleached.

Revealed.

Her fur followed, radiant and moon-kissed. A perfect match to the woman still kneeling, veil fallen at her side. The hall recoiled. Even the Stricken faltered. Light poured from her — not flame, not magic, but something older. Like the world remembering it had been broken and trying to undo it. A monarch of Wyrdwood dropped their staff in shock. Cael stared like he was seeing a ghost. Eryx fell to his knees. A breathless beat passed. Then— A Weapon of the Hollow Vows — one she had trained beside, shared silence with in the blood-soaked halls of the Hollow Zone — turned toward her. His gaze locked on her glowing eyes, her white hair, the runes that now pulsed with something he did not understand. What he saw was not reverence. It was threat. He raised his blade.

“Traitor.”

He lunged. Cael reached her first. He collided with the Weapon mid-stride, knocking them both off balance. Steel clashed. Cael spun, blades flashing in tandem, and drove the assassin back with a snarl of effort. He stepped in front of her, back arched protectively.

“Shade—what are you—?”

His voice cracked. Not in fear but in wonder, however, she didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her breath came in ragged bursts. Her body was still changing — not just in appearance, but in presence. The air around her rippled like reality trying to make room. Cael’s gaze darted between her and the enemy he'd just downed.

But then— They came. The Hounds. Three of them. Towering. Cloaked in flesh-bound armor and ritual scars, their eyes devoid of empathy, mouths sewn shut but still leaking breath like mist. They moved like divine punishment. Cael turned just in time to meet the first. He didn’t stand a chance. The lead Hound struck him with a brutal shoulder-check, enhanced by pure dama force. The impact threw Cael like a broken doll across the chamber. Cael hit the wall like a broken weapon. The crack of stone. The crunch of bone. The way his body dropped — not limp, but wrong. Shade watched it happen. For a breath.

Then she moved. Something inside her broke free. Not a scream — not a word — but something deeper. A pressure that had lived beneath her skin since the moment they carved her name out of her mind. It rose all at once. And the room changed.

The firelight dimmed. The breath of the Hall slowed. Even the chaos behind her — monarchs shouting, guards bleeding, spells crashing — seemed to pull back, as if the world knew something had just been unleashed. Her white hair drifted as if caught in a wind that hadn’t started. The Hounds felt it and yet, they still came. Three of them. Old blood. The Hollow Vows’ perfect enforcers — not just killers, but corrections. Trained to end threats before they could bloom. They saw her as an error. She saw them as everything the Hollow Vows wanted her to be.

She went to meet them. They came fast. So did she. The first clashed with her directly — a blur of blades. Their knives aimed for her throat, her ribs, her thigh. Precision strikes. Finishing moves. None landed. Shade moved with instinct she didn’t understand — like her body remembered battles she had never fought. She parried with bare hands. Dodged without thought. Countered with violence. A palm to the chest. A knee to the gut. An arcing kick downwards that knocked the first Hound to the ground hard enough to crack the marble. He didn’t get up. The second came from range — an archer already loosing his shot. The arrow aimed clean for her heart. She pivoted. It missed by inches. The second arrow came faster. She raised her hand — it struck through her palm. She didn’t flinch. She snapped the shaft, dropped the broken tip at her feet, and charged him. He backpedaled, firing again. A third. A fourth. One grazed her shoulder. One hit her thigh. She didn’t stop. When she reached him, her fist shattered his bow, and her second punch shattered his jaw. He dropped. The third Hound was waiting. The conjurer. He didn’t waste time. He summoned a net of arcane light — glowing with venomous script — and flung it wide. Shade was caught. The magic gripped her — bound her arms, knees, throat. She stopped moving. He smiled. Shade exhaled. The runes across her arms began to burn white. The net fractured. He stepped back — muttering a second spell, desperate now. Too slow. She surged forward, shoulder into his gut, drove him back through a stone column. The magic broke. The air cracked. He didn’t rise. Three Hounds down. She stood there — covered in red blood that wasn’t hers, panting, bright-eyed. Not unscathed. But unbroken. Behind her, the Hall had gone nearly still.

Until the Drekon laughed. It wasn’t joy. It was finality. The sound echoed through the ruined Grand Hall like the cracking of heaven’s bones — slow, deep, full of knowing. Before him, Beiron Grayare knelt in a growing pool of his own blood, teeth clenched around a snarl that refused to become a scream. His left arm was gone — sheared at the elbow by the poisoned blade of a Stricken, torn further by the Drekon’s force. And beside him, his son — Auren — knelt as well, shaking, one hand clutching his father’s cloak. They had lost. The Guards were dead. The wards shattered. The banners of the Nine lay torn in the dust. And the Drekon raised his weapon — a jagged cleaver of fused bone and corrupted dama — high overhead. No one moved. Not a Tool. Not a sovereign. Their hero — the man who had slain the Dark Lord of Wrath — was about to die. Then— Auren moved. Hands trembling, heart hammering, he reached beside his father. And lifted Oathwake. The blade resisted at first — it was too heavy for a nineteen-year-old unblooded in war. But his arms locked. His legs braced. And through sheer fury and fear and something brighter than both— He raised it.

“Get away from him!”

He charged. The Drekon barely blinked. He brought his weapon down, cleaving toward the boy— And it never landed. A shockwave detonated between them. Auren flew backward, flung by air pressure so dense it cracked stone beneath his boots. He tumbled across the floor— and came to rest behind a still, white-haired figure. Shade. Her dual shortswords were crossed above her shoulders, catching the Drekon’s strike between their edges. No words. No announcement. Just impact. The ground beneath her cracked in a perfect circle. Dust billowed outward. Columns trembled. The Drekon’s blade didn’t move. Neither did hers. They were locked. Then Shade pushed — just once — and the cleaver skidded off the swords with a violent screech, throwing sparks into the air.

She stood there, body still dripping from earlier wounds, blood flowing from her the color of radiant silver, eyes glowing faintly in the dim. The Drekon straightened. His smile faltered. What happened next could not be followed by the untrained eye. One heartbeat, they were ten feet apart. The next — metal rang. Shade was already behind him, a thin line of blood trailing from his armored shoulder. He turned. She was gone again. Flash. Slice. Parry. Step. Her movement wasn’t teleportation — not exactly. But to most who watched, it looked like reality skipped. She phased through light, angles wrong, momentum impossible. Only the swordmasters and spellcasters in the room saw it clearly. And they were horrified. Because they realized: She wasn’t even trying yet.

The Drekon swung— And missed. Not because he was slow. Not because he lacked technique. But because Shade was already gone by the time his blow reached air. She darted past his guard again — low, precise — her left sword slashing across the side of his ribcage. Sparks flew. Blood followed. He pivoted with brutal efficiency, trying to catch her on the turn. Too late. Her second blade kissed the back of his knee. Another wound. Another cut that should not have been possible. To the untrained eye, it looked like magic. A flicker. A shimmer. Then blood. But to those who had wielded steel or shaped spells in battle, it was clear: this was movement at the edge of possibility. Not teleportation. Not an illusion. Just speed and precision so refined it broke the mind trying to follow it. Shade struck with blade and body. A cut behind his shoulder, a slice down his thigh, a jab beneath his arm. She moved between each breath, each blink, like wind threading through a broken cage. The Drekon roared. Not in pain. In frustration. He could follow her now — just barely. He could see her strikes coming. Could predict her angles. But he couldn’t do anything about it. Every time he turned to strike— She was gone again. Her blades danced like silver ghosts, carving him down piece by piece. He was bleeding now. Profusely. Armor shattered in places. A gash across his side sprayed red with each movement. His swings became heavier. Slower. His growls, deeper. And then— He laughed. It wasn’t the laugh of confidence. It was the laugh of someone who’d been waiting.

“Ah,” he said, blood dripping from his jaw. “There you are.”

He dropped his cleaver and the impact rang like a war gong. He lifted both arms, body and bones making a cracking sound. Once. Twice. Then it split. The outer shell of the Drekon’s armor — of his flesh — sloughed off in chunks. Charred plates. Burned muscles. Withered bone. And what remained was something leaner. Faster. Wrong. Tall, wiry, flexing with a corded grace that wasn’t human. His veins pulsed with dark crimson light, moving beneath pale skin like coiled worms. His eyes burned like novas. His claws flexed. And then he was gone. Shade barely dodged the first strike.

She twisted — just in time — as his palm cut the air beside her neck. The force alone split the wall behind her clean in two. He’d almost moved faster than she could react. And now she knew, this was the real fight. The Drekon’s outer shell cracked with a sickening sound, the hardened dama armor shedding in shards. What remained was a leaner, faster version of the beast, his body rippling with dark power, veins glowing with the force of his magic. He stretched, claws flexing and stretching, savoring the change. His eyes locked onto Shade, a cruel smirk twisting his face.

“Ahh, thank you, Shade,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “I’ve waited centuries to break free of this. Now, thanks to you, I can fight at full power. How delightful.”

He flexed his claws, the air growing heavy with the pressure of his magic.

“I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

Shade’s breath came sharply, her pulse pounding in her ears. She was slower now. The speed she had relied on, the fluidity she had mastered — it was all failing her now. The Drekon was too fast, his magic and claws overwhelming her defenses. She reached out with her magic, pulling her first weapon — a longbow — into existence from the void. The energy it was forged from was not steel but hardened dama, glowing faintly with the force of the void that had summoned it. She notched an arrow and let it fly, aiming straight for his heart. The Drekon dodged with ease, his body moving faster than the arrow could track. He laughed, catching the arrow mid-flight and crushing it with a flick of his claws.

“You still think that can touch me?” he mocked, his voice full of amusement. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

Failure. Shade gritted her teeth, her body bruised and aching, but she wasn’t done. Void magic surged again, and she pulled her next weapon from the air — dual kama, their edges crackling with dama-infused energy. She swung them with precision, moving low, aiming for his legs, trying to cripple him, but the Drekon was too fast. With a swift motion, he swatted both kama out of her hands and crushed them with a single, brutal swipe of his claws.

“Better. But still not good enough,” he chuckled, his voice dripping with sadistic pleasure.

Failure. Shade’s hands shook as she dropped to a knee, each weapon destroyed. She couldn’t keep up. The Drekon stepped closer, his claws raking across her shoulder, tearing through her dama-infused cloak.

“Pathetic,” he taunted, leaning down to meet her eye-to-eye. “All your tricks, your toys… and still, I’m standing. Why don’t you give up?”

Her heart pounded, her pulse running faster than ever. She couldn’t keep up. She was losing. Her magic flickered. She needed something more. Something different. With her mind racing, she summoned another weapon — this time a spear, its blade forged from the deepest edges of dama, its form sleek and deadly. She thrust it forward with precision, aiming for his chest. He didn’t move. His claws intercepted the spear, snapping it in half before she could even follow through.

“Is that all? I’m disappointed. You’re just full of empty promises.” His voice dripped with venom. “You’re still not learning.”

Failure. Shade’s hands clenched around the broken spear. Each weapon was destroyed, and each time, the Drekon mocked her more. Her body burned with fatigue, her magic flickering as her strength drained. But she couldn’t stop. Not now. She reached deep within herself, calling upon the void again. The scythe appeared in her hands — a deadly arc of dama energy, forged to bring destruction. She swung it with all her might, the blade singing through the air, aiming straight for his exposed neck. But the Drekon’s claws moved faster, cutting through the scythe like it was made of paper, crushing it into fragments. His laugh echoed as she staggered backward.

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” He leaned forward, taking pleasure in her struggle. “But you will. I’ll make sure of that.”

Failure. Shade’s body ached, bruised and bleeding from the battle. Her weapons shattered. The Drekon’s claws cut her deep. And yet, she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. The Drekon stood before her, savoring the moment. His claws were raised, ready to finish her. He was faster, stronger, and his mocking words poured out, each one meant to tear her apart.

“What’s it going to take, Shade? How many more of your pathetic little weapons are you going to waste before you understand?”

The whispers returned. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t forceful. But it was there.

“Bring it out.”

Her eyes snapped open. She could feel it. She didn’t want to do it. She didn’t want to need this weapon. But she had no choice. With one last effort, she reached deep within her, pulling on the void once more. Tenebrae came into existence, its form glowing in her hands, its power far beyond anything she had used. The moment Tenebrae appeared, the air around it froze. Shade’s body shuddered with the weight of the blade, its energy pulling her in, forcing her to attune to it.

The usual darkness of the blade being replaced by light that radiated from the sword and pulsed like a heartbeat. The world around her seemed to stutter, frozen in place. The Drekon stopped, his eyes widening with shock. For the first time, he could feel the sheer power emanating from the greatsword.

“What... what is this?” he growled, his voice faltering as he felt the change. “What have you become?”

Shade stood still, the sword humming with energy as it merged with her soul, her body, her will. The very air around them seemed to be locked in place, unable to move until the weapon had fully attuned to her. And then, with a flash of white light, everything changed. The moment Tenebrae manifested in Shade’s hands, everything shifted. The red moon above Faeyren seemed to bleed into the silver one, the two celestial bodies merging with an eerie and unnatural glow, casting a surreal light over the entire city. The heavens themselves seemed to tremble. Shade stood in the center, her body surrounded by a radiant aura, her form draped in pure white hardened dama, glowing with divine light. It wasn’t just a weapon; Tenebrae was a symbol of everything she had been, a dark pit of nothingness, now it was everything she was becoming. Her body, though battered, was now lifted in a way that seemed to defy gravity. Her white gown flowed, the fabric shimmering as though it were woven from light itself. She didn’t speak — her eyes were closed, and a deep, resonant hum filled the air. Her very being thrummed with power that seemed to resonate with the cosmic forces around her. Krysthalia, standing in the chamber, felt her heart skip a beat. She had seen her daughter’s true form, recognized her power. But even she stood in awe of what had just been unleashed. The others in the chamber, the monarchs, the dignitaries — they were frozen in shock. To them, Shade was still a stranger. But Krysthalia knew. Her gaze locked onto the figure at the center of the chamber, the woman who had once been a child lost to the Hollow Vows, the woman who was now something far more than human. Her daughter.

She had no name for her here. No title that could fit. She had never wanted to call her daughter's name once more. Shade. Not her name any longer. That name was for someone else. And yet, as she gazed upon her daughter’s transformation, her heart ached with the feeling of who she truly was.

The Drekon, still standing in the center, seemed to flinch at the power rising before him. For the first time, he was not the one in control. His eyes narrowed, his claws ready to strike, but even he could feel it — the pure, unyielding power that flowed from Shade. Tenebrae hummed louder as she raised it above her head, the light intensifying, gathering into a swirling mass of energy that filled the air around her. The Drekon watched, his mouth falling open in realization, though he couldn’t comprehend what was happening. He had been so sure of his victory, and now... now he was facing something far beyond his power.

“No...” he growled, his voice faltering for the first time. “This... this cannot be!”

But the light already engulfed him, peeling away at his darkness. The red moon continued to bleed into the silver one above, a symbol of what was to come. The world shuddered as the immense power from Tenebrae surged. With a final motion, Shade gathered the energy, pulling it up into the air. The power was so pure it shone like the sun, and the ground beneath her feet trembled as the energy exploded outward in a blinding wave. In an instant, the Stricken — all those who had been tainted by dark magic — were consumed by the light. Their twisted forms ascended, reduced to a radiant silver mist as the purity of the blast scorched the city. Beiron stood among the remnants, his injury healed, his poison purged, his body restored in an instant by the power of the purification.

“By the gods...” he whispered, his voice filled with awe as he looked around at the radiant light. “What is this power?”

The room seemed to hold its breath as the blast of light swept over the city. The Drekon screamed in rage and disbelief as the light overwhelmed him. He screeched in agony as his body disintegrated, his form torn apart by the force of the purification.

“You... you lied to me!” he howled, his voice twisted in fury and betrayal. “I was their champion! I was chosen! I was promised power! They lied to me!” His last words were lost in the chaos of the light as his body crumbled to nothingness.

The light faded, leaving only the soft glow of Tenebrae in Shade’s hands. The city was cleansed. The Stricken were gone, their curse lifted. But Shade’s transformation didn’t end with the purification. As the light receded, she stood alone, her gown of dama shimmering faintly, but the weight of her power still lingering in the air. Beiron’s eyes were wide as he looked at her. He had seen her change, but now, in the wake of the battle, he was overcome with the realization of just who she truly was.

“My goddess,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “What are you?”

The others in the chamber, still dazed by the light, looked upon her in awe, not understanding what they had just witnessed. But Krysthalia, alone, knew the truth. The woman standing before them was not an assassin. She was Ashanti Del Rathaile. The light from Tenebrae began to fade, the radiance dimming like the last echo of a dream. As the glow receded, Ashanti’s body shimmered with a soft afterglow, her hair returning to its deep, familiar black — as did the fur at her sides. Her runes, once white and blazing with divine energy, now returned to their original shade of darkness, glowing faintly, but no longer blinding. Ashanti floated gently down, her body still thrumming with the energy of the battle, but her movements slower, as if gravity had returned to her. The air around her felt lighter, the earth beneath her feet welcoming her back, though her steps were unsure. She turned slowly, her gaze locking with Krysthalia, her mother. For the briefest of moments, there was a flicker of recognition in Ashanti’s eyes — something old, something deep and ancient. Then, in a whisper, almost too soft to hear:

“Mom.”

Those words, spoken so quietly, yet filled with the weight of centuries, seemed to ripple through the air. Krysthalia stood frozen, her face pale with disbelief, her heart in turbulent chaos as she looked at her daughter. But before she could step forward, Ashanti collapsed in her arms, her body unable to hold the weight of the transformation any longer. Beiron, still standing in awe, turned to Krysthalia, his voice breaking the stunned silence.

“What… what just happened?”

But Krysthalia’s gaze never left Ashanti, her fingers trembling as she gently cradled her daughter’s head. The realization hit her like a wave: her daughter had returned, but not as she once was. Ashanti was no longer the child lost to the Hollow Vows, nor was she the Weapon she had become. She was something greater — the force that would reshape their world. And in that moment, as she whispered her daughter’s name for the first time in so long, the weight of everything fell upon Krysthalia’s heart. As the world around them settled, and the echoes of the battle faded, the city of Faeyren stood purified, reborn in the aftermath. The moons in the sky, now whole again, shone down on them, casting long shadows over the chamber where Ashanti lay.