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Chapter 1 - A Shadow Cast Long

  Lion’s Keep – The Royal Council Chamber

  The doors burst open, shaking the iron sconces along the stone walls. A dozen advisors turned, startled, their hushed discussions falling silent. At the head of the chamber, Knight-Commander A’noa Teorista looked up from a war map, his expression unreadable as Princess Marianna stormed inside, her crimson gown sweeping behind her like spilled wine.

  She was clutching a letter—creased, stained, gripped so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

  She threw it onto the table. “He must be found.”

  A’noa sighed, stepping forward, his armoured boots making barely a sound. He picked up the note with practiced patience, scanning its contents. A flicker of something passed over his face—too fast to read. He folded the letter and tucked it into his belt.

  “Calm yourself, Marianna.”

  “Calm myself?” Her voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “My son is gone, and you tell me to calm myself?”

  Her gaze flicked to Prime Minister Duke Halladean, searching for an ally, but the older man merely pressed his lips together, fingers interlocked over the polished wood of the council table. Her eyes then landed on Ashen Teorista, standing near the arched window, arms folded beneath his ceremonial robes. His expression was unreadable, the candlelight glinting off the gold and silver rings on his fingers.

  “I will hear no outbursts in the council chamber,” A’noa said, his voice edged with quiet authority. “We will discuss the next steps, but we will do so with reason.”

  Marianna shook her head. “Send the Vanguard. The best of them. You must.”

  A chair scraped against the floor as a voice interrupted.

  “We will do no such thing.”

  King Arno II sat at the head of the table, the golden crest of Gallian embroidered into the velvet of his tunic. He did not rise—he did not need to. His voice carried the weight of a man who expected to be obeyed.

  Marianna turned toward him, disbelief widening her eyes. “Brother, he is your blood.”

  King Arno leaned back in his chair, fingers resting against his chin. “He was given a choice. He made it.” A pause. Then, smoothly: “Why should we waste resources to find a boy who so willingly exiled himself?”

  Marianna took a step forward, fire in her veins. “He only left because you made it clear he was never welcome in his own home.”

  King Arno exhaled through his nose. “Then it worked out for everyone.”

  Her fists clenched. “Our father loved him—”

  “And that was his problem,” the king cut in, voice cold as steel. “Sentiment.” He leaned forward now, his gaze fixed on her like a hawk eyeing a struggling bird. “We treated a Shadeborn as if he were one of us. We clothed him in royal silks. We gave him a name. When, in truth, it would have been a mercy for him—and for us—if we had cast him to the fires as a babe.”

  The words landed like a knife to the ribs.

  Marianna moved before she could stop herself, hand raised—

  A’noa stepped between them.

  His armoured fingers caught her wrist before it could strike.

  For a long moment, no one moved. The chamber held its breath.

  A’noa did not raise his voice, but there was finality in it. “We will discuss the next steps,” he repeated. “You should retire to the royal chambers.”

  Marianna trembled with rage. She turned, scanning the room, searching for anyone—anyone at all—who would still fight for her son.

  Her gaze landed on Ashen.

  For a brief second, their eyes met.

  Ashen inclined his head slightly—an acknowledgment, nothing more. Then he spoke, his voice calm, collected. “This matter has taken enough of the council’s time. If we are concluded, I will excuse myself.”

  King Arno waved a hand dismissively. “Do as you will, Court Sorcerer.”

  Without another word, Ashen stepped away from the table, his silver-trimmed robes whispering against the stone floor.

  Marianna took a slow breath, then turned and strode toward the door. But as she passed Ashen, he murmured, just barely loud enough for her to hear:

  “Meet me in the Queen’s Quarters.”

  She hesitated for only a second before disappearing into the halls.

  Lion’s Keep – The Queen’s Quarters

  The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the chamber walls. The air was thick with lavender and myrrh, the scent of burning incense doing little to soothe Princess Marianna’s fraying nerves as she stood by the open balcony, gripping the cold stone railing.

  This chamber had been empty for years.

  The Queen’s Quarters—a title only, a room without an occupant. Gallian had not seen a queen since Marianna’s mother had died, and her brother, King Arno II, had never sought to remarry. The doors remained shut most days, dust collecting over forgotten finery. It was a room that once held power but now sat untouched, a hollow remnant of what had been.

  Perhaps that was why Ashen had chosen it.

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  No one came here. No one listened at these doors.

  Behind her, the door creaked open.

  She did not turn. “If you’ve come to lecture me, save your breath.”

  A measured pause. Then: "I would never presume, Your Grace."

  She exhaled slowly, then turned to face Ashen Teorista, standing just beyond the threshold. His dark eyes were composed as ever, but in this light, she thought she saw something softer beneath them.

  “You left the council chamber,” she observed.

  Ashen inclined his head. “There was little left to discuss.”

  Marianna’s lips parted, but she stopped herself. A long silence stretched between them before she whispered, “They won’t send anyone, will they?”

  Ashen exhaled softly. “No.”

  Something in her shattered.

  She turned sharply, hands clenched at her sides. “Then I will go myself,” she hissed. “I will take to the saddle, ride through the night if I must. If Delacroix is lost to the world, then I will find him—even if it means sailing into the Forgotten.”

  Ashen’s eyes flickered, just slightly. “Then it seems I must remind you, he is my brother, too.”

  Marianna stilled.

  Ashen took another step forward, lowering his voice. “What do you think Delacroix would say if he knew his mother endangered herself for him?” His tone was not cruel, nor mocking. It was simply the truth.

  Her throat tightened.

  "Do not mistake my silence for indifference," he continued. "I would see him returned. But if he is to be found, he must be sought discreetly."

  Marianna swallowed, closing her eyes for a brief moment. “If you’ve come to offer conjecture, spare me. I need solutions.”

  Ashen studied her for a moment before nodding. “As fortune would have it, we have one soldier in the Legion we can trust. Junior-ranked, but capable.”

  Marianna's brow furrowed, then realisation dawned. “You mean… Araeius.”

  "A trusted friend to Delacroix," Ashen confirmed. "He will not betray him. Nor will he betray you."

  Marianna placed a trembling hand on his arm. "Bring my son home."

  Ashen did not hesitate. "On my honour."

  Then, with a final nod, he turned and slipped back into the corridors, vanishing into the flickering torchlight.

  Outside, the night grew colder.

  Leonidas – Merchant’s Quarter, Nightfall

  In the city of Leonidas, a man could measure his wealth by how brightly his streets burned at night.

  In the slums, the dark crept in early, slithering through half-lit alleys and abandoned streets, swallowing the unwary whole. But here, in the Merchant’s Quarter, the lamplighter’s job was sacred. As the last shreds of dusk faded into black, iron lanterns flickered to life, casting pools of golden light along the cobbled roads.

  At the top of a ladder, an old lamplighter struck a flame, his hands worn and calloused, his face shadowed beneath the wide brim of his hat. The fire caught, dancing inside its glass prison, pushing back the encroaching dark.

  Araeius strode past as the man grumbled to himself. “Every year, the nights get darker.”

  A flick of the wrist. Another flame.

  Araeius kept walking.

  The Lion’s Mane was exactly the kind of place a man could disappear in.

  Nestled between a jeweller’s shop and a perfumery, it reeked of wealth—not the old, inherited kind, but the type won through cunning hands and cutthroat deals. Inside, the air was thick with spiced mead and candle smoke. Laughter and song mixed with the occasional argument, the kind that started as a joke and ended with steel.

  Araeius scanned the room, his gaze drawn to a dark corner where a cloaked figure sat, half-hidden by the dim light.

  He walked over, his boots echoing against the wooden floorboards. “Would you kindly tell me why we’re meeting in a tavern?”

  Ashen Teorista glanced up, face partially obscured by his hood. “A tavern attracts all sorts. Folk spew all kinds of nonsense.” He gestured faintly to the room around them. “Drunk ears are harder at hearing than the walls of a castle.”

  Araeius scoffed. “That sounds like something a man says before he gets stabbed over a bad wager.”

  Ashen smirked. “Then we’d best keep our voices low.” He gestured toward the bar. “Order something.”

  “I don’t partake,” Araeius said flatly.

  Ashen raised an eyebrow. “How noble.”

  “I prefer virtuous,” Araeius corrected.

  Ashen exhaled through his nose. “We’re in a tavern, Legionnaire. Sobriety sticks out like a sore thumb. Order a drink and at least pretend you don’t have a stick up your arse.”

  Araeius stared at him for a long moment, then let out a slow, dry chuckle. “Didn’t realise the court sorcerer was a cunt.”

  Ashen’s smirk widened, unbothered. “Then clearly, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  Araeius shook his head, sighing as he stood. He returned a moment later, setting a pint of ale down on the table, its frothy gold surface catching the candlelight. He didn’t drink yet—only crossed his arms, leaning back.

  “Now,” he said, “if you’d be so kind, Your Lordship, let’s get on with it.”

  Ashen tapped his fingers against the table. “It’s true what they say. Flameborns really are impatient.”

  Araeius narrowed his eyes. “I don’t recall asking for an evaluation of my temperament.”

  Ashen’s amusement faded. “Unfortunately, the matter at hand will require you to check your fiery nature.” He met Araeius’s gaze, all humour gone. “This must be handled with the utmost discretion. Understood?”

  Araeius’s expression hardened. “I understand.”

  Satisfied, Ashen slid a folded letter across the table.

  Araeius picked it up, unfolding it. He read in silence, but his face told the story well enough. His brow furrowed at one line, his jaw clenched at another. By the time he finished, his grip on the parchment had tightened.

  His eyes snapped back up. “Where the fuck has he gone?”

  Ashen leaned back slightly. “That is up to you to find out.”

  Araeius’s fingers curled into the table’s edge. “He’s a prince. Shadeborn or not, there should be—”

  “No one is looking,” Ashen interrupted smoothly. “Nobody wants him found.”

  For the first time, Araeius didn’t respond immediately. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “That’s madness.”

  Ashen tilted his head. “Is it?”

  “He’s still a prince, for fuck’s sake.”

  Ashen gave him a pointed look. “Was he, really?”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Finally, Ashen sighed, resting his hands on the table. “Delacroix was sent to the frontlines, Araeius. Over and over. Meant to die as fodder. He simply had the audacity to keep coming home.” He held his gaze. “Do you understand now?”

  Araeius sat back, running a hand through his hair. He glanced down at the letter again, then at the ale sitting untouched before him.

  Slowly, he picked up the pint and took a sip.

  He immediately grimaced. “Fucking hell.”

  Ashen raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  Araeius set the glass down with a thunk. “Thought it might help with the nerves.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can nary stomach the taste.”

  Ashen chuckled, taking his own drink. “You’d best get used to it.”

  “Why?”

  Ashen smirked. “It’s part of the job.”

  Araeius exhaled, shaking his head as he pushed back his chair. “Then I suppose I’ll have to adjust.” He grabbed his cloak from the back of the chair, throwing it over his shoulders. “Until next we speak, Your Lordship.”

  Ashen lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Try not to set anything on fire in the meantime.”

  Araeius snorted but said nothing more, turning toward the door.

  The Merchant’s Quarter was quieter at night, but not silent.

  The soft clinking of horse tack echoed from a distant carriage. A pair of drunkards stumbled out of a brothel, laughing as they disappeared into a side alley. Somewhere, a lute played, its melody half-lost to the wind.

  Araeius stepped out of the Lion’s Mane and into the street, exhaling as he adjusted his cloak. The taste of ale still lingered bitter on his tongue. He had never been one for drink, but Ashen was right—some things were expected in this line of work.

  He took two steps forward—then stopped.

  The sensation crept up his spine before he could name it. A tension in the air. The feeling of a gaze, weightless but present, pressing against his back.

  Araeius turned his head, scanning the street behind him. The lanterns burned golden, flickering as a warm breeze passed through, but the alleys between them sat swallowed in shadow. His eyes narrowed.

  Nothing.

  He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. Paranoia. Ashen’s secrecy must have gotten to him.

  He started walking again.

  Another step.

  Then another.

  A soft scuff of leather on stone.

  He whipped around—but the street was empty.

  A breeze passed through, stirring the leaves of a potted olive tree near a shuttered bakery.

  His pulse steadied. Just the wind.

  Still, the sensation lingered. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to move forward.

  But even as he walked, the feeling refused to leave. Something—someone—was out there. Watching.

  He just couldn’t see them.

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