Before first light, a tempest descended on Valisar.
The sky bruised purple, promising a downpour. Rain began to fall on deserted streets, where torchlight danced off the wet cobblestones. Guards patrolled, their boots echoing in the growing gloom. Everyone knew something awful had happened in the Black Hollow. The guard count plummeted - dozens lost. Those held captive vanished. Not a soul remained to tell what happened.
Nailed to a body, one of several, a message stood out, penned with precise strokes.
Torches sputtered as the report arrived at Hardard's fort. He loomed over charts alongside papers, knuckles white where he held the tabletop - wood creaked under the pressure. A fiery glow surrounded him, pulsing and distorting the room with warmth.
Lyra Ganills was kneeling, a single knee touching the floor before him. Light barely touched her face; it revealed angles both delicate yet severe, a composure that felt cold.
"They're saying it was a massacre," she said. "Every man stationed in the lower tunnels is dead."
A muscle jumped in Hardard's cheek. "What about those taken captive?"
"Freed," she replied, her voice as smooth as glass." Some people saw them near the eastern roads.". The rest… vanished."
A stillness descended, brief but absolute. Consequently, the tabletop split under Hardard's hand. Fire climbed his arm, alive with fury. He spat out, "Magnus Caldryn… that child actually thinks he can escape his parents' influence?"
Lyra's lips curved faintly. "He's not a boy anymore, my lord."
A flicker from the torch played across Hardard's damaged features. A familiar rage smoldered within his gaze - the kind that leveled cities long ago. "He inherited her kindness," he growled, "a flaw destined to undo him."
"Perhaps," Lyra said softly. "But you saw what he left behind. That wasn't mercy."
The silence after her statement felt thick, almost visible. Hardard, usually quick to respond, remained quiet - a stillness he hadn't known in ages. He'd witnessed it too, that gruesome tableau: bodies contorted, expressions locked in lasting fright. A scent clung to the air - darkness mixed with iron. Not a sound broke the dread.
It wasn't a chance that Magnus moved when he did; rather, his action spoke volumes.
Lyra moved closer, her violet aura faintly shimmering. "If he keeps this up, the people will start whispering about him. A savior, maybe even a hero."
Hardard laughed harsh sound. "A hero? He's a murderer playing in the dark."
"Heroes and murderers are the same to the desperate," Lyra said, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. "And Valisar is full of desperate people."
Harald walked from them, heading to the window. The rain tapped a gentle beat against the pane. A faraway city shimmered - golden spires mirroring a divine headpiece. It was the very realm where he'd been wronged, those walls enclosing the one person he cherished.
Anna.
His fist clenched again, fire crackling in his palm. "Edward took everything from me. Now his son steals my peace."
Lyra tilted her head. "Then take his peace in return."
His gaze met hers, anger giving way to a steely calm. "Get the team ready," he said. "Seal up the Hollow.". Get every last living thing below us turned to ash. Also, let Valisar know we need eyes on the kid; find out where he goes.
"As you command, my lord." Lyra bowed slightly, her smirk returning. "But if I may, burning the Hollow won't erase the symbol he's become. The people are whispering already."
A crease formed between Hardard's brows. "Say that again, the whispering bit?"
"That a red-eyed shadow freed the slaves. That a prince walks among them."
The fire dimmed slightly as he processed her words. "A prince…" He almost spat the word, but then smiled darkly. "Good. Let them call him that. Every prince needs a crown — and every crown attracts the blade."
Lyra's eyes gleamed. "Then we'll make sure he puts it on himself."
Sunlight arrived as the last raindrops faded.
Away from the stronghold, near where the east wood began, Magnus shared the last warmth of a fire alongside Rhea. Those they'd liberated were long gone, led to better places while night concealed their journey. They possessed several days' worth of provisions and money alongside edibles courtesy of Magnus. Meanwhile, he chose to remain with Rhea, seeking respite.
Damp soil mingled with pine scent hung in the air. Mist hadn't quite lifted from among the trees.
Hood up, Rhea rested on old wood, eyes fixed on Magnus. He worked over his sabers, not rushed, but careful. A dark energy clung to them, making the steel softly shine.
"You didn't have to write that note," she said quietly.
He kept his gaze fixed downward. "Yeah, I get it."
"Then why did you?"
He paused, the faintest smirk curling at his lips. "Because they think shadows fear the light. I wanted them to learn the opposite."
Rhea sighed. "You're making enemies faster than you can count them."
"I'm making them afraid," he corrected. "That's better."
No protest came from her. Flames whispered in the hearth, stretching dark shapes over open ground. Then quiet descended once more a stillness brimming with unspoken ideas.
Finally, Rhea spoke again. "What happened down there? Before you woke up. You looked… lost."
Magnus hesitated, his crimson eyes reflecting the embers. "I heard something. A voice. It called me the heir of shadow."
A single eyebrow arched. Rhea asked, "To what exactly is the heir?"
"I don't know," he said softly. "But whatever it was, it wasn't human."
A lengthy silence fell between them; she seemed genuinely worried, something rare for her. "So, you believe this has to do with…your aura?"
He slipped his sabers back into their places, rising to his feet bit by bit. "That's just how I am," Magnus offered
A whisper in the leaves stopped her reply. Rhea's fingers instinctively found the hilt of her knife; however, Magnus gestured for patience. Then, through the fog, a figure appeared – an escaped slave, gaunt-faced, his hands shaking.
"Prince… they're saying your name," the man stammered. "In the taverns. In the alleys. They say the Red Shadow walks again."
He didn't react, not even a flicker across his face. "So they chatter," Magnus offered
The man hesitated. "But they also say Hardard is furious. He's gathering men. He wants blood."
A faint red shimmered within Magnus's gaze as he turned toward the man. "Warn them," he said, his voice low. "Because my vigil begins with Hardard's arrival."
He gave a sharp nod, dipped his head respectfully, then practically bolted away along the path.
Rhea watched him go. "You're becoming something more than just a fighter," she said. "The people are starting to believe in you."
The distant shimmer of Valisar its towers, gold, pointed like weapons, held Magnus's gaze. He spoke softly, almost to himself. "A person who truly believes? That's trouble. Because belief gives them courage. Yet courageous people don't live forever."
Rhea smiled faintly. "Then what about you?"
She caught his gaze. "Belief isn't my concern," he offered, voice level. "Doing is."
No protest escaped her lips. That voice…she recognized it.Steady, absolute. A person set on their course spoke thus.
A gust arose, flinging embers from the fading flames. Magnus faced the path, his cape streaming out as a dark banner unfolding.
"Let's move," he said. "Hardard won't sit still for long."
She stood, quiet as a shadow, matching his pace. Soon, the fog swallowed them whole.
A messenger dropped to one knee facing Hardard's throne, where Lyra waited. The fortress felt distant now.
"The boy was last seen near the eastern woods," the messenger said. "But there are more people in the slums who are saying his name. They call him the Red Shadow."
A flicker from the hearth played over Hardard's features as he settled deeper into his chair. "Excellent," he murmured, a wicked grin tugging at his lips. "So, we'll demonstrate to this shade the consequences of embracing the blaze."
To Be Continued in Chapter 23…...