Thrones of Shadow

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

****Elara’s POV****

The road home stretched long and uneven beneath the wheels of the small cart I had borrowed from Master Orrin. The wooden spokes creaked in a rhythm that matched the sway of the harnessed mule, a tired old creature with dull eyes and a mind of its own. He seemed determined to take the slowest possible pace, pausing every so often to flick his ears toward the wind as if listening to voices only he could hear.

I didn’t mind. After the crowded streets of the capital, with its overwhelming smells of baked bread, horse dung, and frying meats; after the press of strangers and the relentless calls of merchants; after the heavy weight of someone’s eyes following me from the shadows of the market… the empty road felt like a reprieve.

Still, I kept glancing over my shoulder.

The memory of the masked man from earlier lingered, sharper than I wanted it to. He hadn’t approached, hadn’t spoken. He’d just stood there, tall and still, half-hidden behind a stall piled with crimson apples. But I’d felt his gaze the way a deer might feel the breath of a wolf on its neck—quiet, patient, assessing.

Now, with the sun sliding low, painting the sky in streaks of gold and purple, the fields around me stretched endless and open. A breeze carried the scent of wild thyme from somewhere unseen. It should have felt peaceful. Safe.

It didn’t.

The road wound between scattered groves of twisted olive trees. Their shadows grew longer with each passing minute, stretching like dark fingers across the dirt path. Every sound felt amplified—the distant cry of a hawk, the scurrying of some small animal in the grass, the jangle of the mule’s harness.

Halfway down a gentle slope, I heard it.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate.

I froze, the reins tightening in my hands. My heart thudded once, hard enough to make my throat ache. The steps quickened, crunching the gravel behind me. I turned, my pulse spiking—

Three men.

They weren’t travelers.

Their clothes were worn, but not in the way of farmers or shepherds. These were men who didn’t work the land—men whose eyes knew how to measure a victim before a word was spoken. Two of them carried short blades tucked carelessly into belts, while the third had a length of knotted rope slung over his shoulder.

“Well, look what we have here,” the tallest one drawled, his gaze flicking over me with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to making others uncomfortable. “Pretty thing, alone on the road.”

The mule snorted and shifted uneasily.

I swallowed, forcing my voice to steady. “I’m on my way home. I suggest you step aside.”

They laughed—three sharp bursts that sliced through the fading light.

“She talks like she’s got somewhere important to be,” said the one with the rope. He moved a little closer, his boots stirring dust. “Maybe we should make sure she gets there… eventually.”

My fingers tightened on the reins. My mind raced—calculating distance, weighing options. I had no weapon beyond the small fruit knife in my satchel, and even that was buried beneath wrapped bundles of herbs. If I bolted, the cart would never outrun them.

The tall man reached for the mule’s bridle. “Why don’t you come with us, sweetheart? Roads get dangerous after sunset.”

A voice cut through the air.

Cold. Low. Steady.

“She’s not going anywhere with you.”

The three men stiffened. I twisted in my seat.

A stranger stood a few paces behind them.

At first, I thought the failing light was playing tricks on me. He wore a long, dark coat that swayed with the wind, its high collar shadowing part of his face. His hair was black, the kind that caught faint glimmers of silver in the right light, and his eyes—though the distance made their exact color unclear—were fixed, unblinking, on the men blocking my way.

He wasn’t holding a weapon. He didn’t need to.

There was something in the way he stood—shoulders loose but poised, every line of his body balanced as if he were built for sudden movement—that made the air between us feel thinner.

One of the men recovered enough to sneer. “Who are you supposed to be?”

The stranger’s gaze didn’t waver. “The one telling you to walk away.”

The shortest of the three stepped forward, trying to mask his unease with bravado. “Or what?”

The man didn’t answer. He moved.

I barely saw it—just a blur of dark fabric and the dull gleam of metal. A heartbeat later, the short man was on the ground, groaning, his blade skittering uselessly across the dirt.

The rope-bearer cursed and lunged. The stranger sidestepped, catching his wrist in a grip that made the man howl. A swift, precise twist, and the rope-bearer crumpled, clutching his arm.

The tall one hesitated, glancing between his fallen companions and the stranger. His lips parted as if to speak—then he spat into the dust and backed away. “She’s not worth it.”

They disappeared down the slope, muttering under their breath.

The only sound left was the creak of the cart and the restless flick of the mule’s tail.

The stranger stepped closer.

Up close, I saw that his coat wasn’t plain—it was finely made, stitched with subtle patterns I couldn’t quite place. His eyes were a deep, stormy gray, and they carried an intensity that made it difficult to hold his gaze for long.

“You were never meant for this life,” he said quietly.

The words hit harder than I expected, though I couldn’t have explained why.

Before I could speak, before I could even ask who he was or how he’d known to find me, he stepped back into the growing shadows. One blink, and he was gone—vanished down the road in the opposite direction.

I sat there for a long moment, staring after him, my heartbeat refusing to slow.

When I finally urged the mule forward, the cart’s wheels groaning against the stones, I couldn’t shake the sound of his voice.

Not meant for this life.

It echoed in my head all the way home.

**** Lucien’s POV ****

The council chamber was empty save for me and the rain. The heavy curtains were drawn open, allowing a pale gray light to fall across the table strewn with scrolls and ink-stained reports. The storm outside painted the castle walls with streaks of water, each drop striking like the dull rhythm of a war drum.

I sat with my elbows braced on the table, fingers steepled beneath my chin as I reread the parchment in front of me for what must have been the tenth time.

The inked words were brief, written in the sharp, disciplined hand of my most trusted spy, Maeron.

> She matches the description in the archives. Hair like dusk’s shadow, eyes holding the molten warmth of gold. She moves through the market as though the world does not know her name. Yet the world once did.

At the bottom, sealed into the wax, was something I had not expected — a small sketch. Not a perfect rendering, but enough to capture the essential truth of the girl’s face.

I studied it with an uncharacteristic stillness.

She could have been anyone — a merchant’s daughter, a farmer’s niece, another nameless girl moving between bread stalls and cloth vendors. And yet…

Something in that face pierced through the years I had spent wading through lies, politics, and death.

The angle of her jaw, the faint upturn at the corner of her mouth, the way her hair fell in loose waves around her face — these were not remarkable in isolation. But together, they stirred recognition, faint and unsettling.

Not from my own memory, but from the countless hours I had spent in the vault beneath the palace, poring over fading portraits of those long gone.

And one in particular — a girl painted in gold and emerald, her gaze solemn yet alight with a spirit unbroken by the cruelty of her world. A princess who had lived before I was born. A princess who, if the records were to be believed, had perished in the flames of the castle’s downfall.

Yet here she was — or someone who wore her blood in her bones — walking in the market as though she were nothing at all.

I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath me.

"Maeron," I said without raising my voice.

A shadow detached itself from the far corner of the room. My spy bowed low. "My lord."

"You saw her yourself?"

"Yes," Maeron replied, stepping closer. Rain clung to the edges of his cloak. "She is young — perhaps twenty summers, perhaps fewer. She does not carry herself like nobility, but…" He hesitated, which was unlike him. "There’s something in the way she holds her head. Even when harassed by market men, she did not shrink. And there is something else, my lord."

I gestured for him to continue.

"She was met on the road by a man — tall, cloaked, and armed. I could not see his face, but he knew her. He said to her, ‘You were never meant for this life.’"

The words struck me harder than they should have.

They were the kind of words you did not say to a stranger. They were the kind you said when you knew the truth.

"Did she answer?" I asked.

"Not in any way that revealed her knowledge. She looked startled… but not ignorant. As if the words planted a seed she did not want to water."

The chamber seemed to grow smaller around us. My eyes went back to the sketch, to the curve of her lips and the quiet defiance in the set of her brow.

If she was who I suspected… then her existence changed everything.

The old bloodline was not just a matter of history — it was a threat. A living heir meant old loyalties could rise from the dust, and kingdoms had fallen for less.

Yet, beneath the cold calculations of power and risk, there was something else I could not deny — a pull. Not the kind that came from beauty alone, though even in charcoal lines she was striking. This was deeper, more dangerous.

It was the pull of an answer I had been searching for without knowing the question.

I rose from my seat, pacing to the tall window where rain distorted the view of the courtyard below. Soldiers crossed the cobblestones, their armor wet with the storm. The air was thick with the scent of wet stone and steel.

"Continue watching her," I said, keeping my tone even. "Do not be seen. Do not approach again. I want to know where she goes, who she speaks to, and if anyone else takes notice of her."

Maeron inclined his head. "And if she is… who you suspect?"

I turned, letting my gaze settle on the sketch one last time before answering. "Then we will decide if she is a threat… or an opportunity."

My spy left without another word, the door closing softly behind him.

I remained by the window, the rain streaking down like thin bars between me and the world beyond.

Somewhere out there, a girl with a stranger’s pendant and a stranger’s life was walking roads she was never meant to walk.

And I — whether fate intended it or not — had just stepped onto hers.