The Mage

Chpt 3: Black Shadow

(Serenity’s POV)

The ink on the pages refused to stay still. It flickered and slithered like a living creature, crawling along the lines and gathering in the margins. Smoke seemed to rise from each word, a thin black mist that curled and vanished before I could catch it. I couldn't keep the sentences intact; my eyes darted after the letters as they moved and then disappeared. The book felt wrong in my hands, as if it were warm with a secret.

I turned the cover over and over, searching for a mark, a seam, a sign that someone had tampered with it. There was none — no scratches, no scorch marks, no fingerprints older than dust. It sat on the shelf like any other foreseer volume, but the way the ink breathed told me otherwise. Someone had bound shadow magic to these pages.

Shadow magic isn't something a fairy is born with. It's the thing we fear to name aloud, the corruption that grows when desire and fear are fed until they turn into hunger. We learn about it in lessons, just as we learn about magic: with diagrams, warnings, and stories of ruin. In books, it's a concept of ink and theory; in whispers, it gnaws at people. The darkness surrounding our floating city is patient and silent, but shadow magic is a voice that speaks and promises. It tempts. It twists. It takes.

I closed the book and looked for Sadie. The library buzzed with tiny movements: pixies darting like sparks, pages shuffling on their own, a ladder creaking as someone reached for a tall spine. Sadie was a flurry of wings and seriousness, balancing a tower of books so high she had to tilt her head back to see over them. She was always careful, always precise. Watching her wobble made my chest tighten.

I gently placed the book back on its shelf, feeling a little silly about it, then hurried over to help Sadie with her pile. “Here,” I said, taking half the weight from her arms. Her smile was quick and thankful.

“You know this is my job, right?” she whispered, eyes flickering around as if the shelves themselves might be listening.

I laughed and grabbed another book from her. The movement steadied her. Then, without thinking, I blurted out what had been burning inside me. “One of Magdalene’s books, Morgan Magic, had a shadow in it. The ink moved. It…”

Sadie’s stack slipped from her hands and spilled onto the floor. She looked at me as if I had mentioned a ghost. “Which book?” she asked, her voice thin.

“It’s Morgan Magic,” I said. “By Magdalene Fareway.”

Sadie didn’t hesitate. She darted through the aisles so fast that the air seemed to hum and returned with the book instantly. She opened it, eyes scanning the page, then frowned. “What shadow magic?” she asked, genuinely confused. “It looks normal to me.”

I stared at the page she held. The letters were neat and orderly, like rows of ink that didn’t shift. My stomach sank. I had seen the words slither. I had watched smoke rise from the margins. I felt the book breathe. Now it was ordinary, and that ordinariness felt like a betrayal.

“Maybe I imagined it,” I said, but the words felt strange. I held the book open in my hands, my fingers trembling. I flipped to the first entry and read aloud, because if I spoke the words, they might settle into the air.

A Foreseer Volume by Magdalene Fareway. An entry of Morgan Magic: a curse of the ages, the worst form of shadow magic ever seen. This princess, trapped in a vessel — The Black Book, an ancient volume of black magic — has had her soul consumed, leaving her with a shadowy form. She is to be released, and she will consume souls, reducing them to ash, in an attempt to regain her former self. She will take souls with her, having a primary host to hold onto and ground herself. Morgan will no longer be. She will be known as The Mage...

The words were blunt and terrible. They sat on the page like a wound. I felt the air in the aisle grow colder, as if the book had drained the room of its warmth. Sadie’s wings fluttered faster, a nervous staccato.

“That’s…” she began, then stopped. Her face turned pale. “Magdalene wrote that? Are you sure?”

“Yes.” My voice was soft. “She wrote it.”

Sadie’s eyes flicked to the ceiling, then the ladder, then the closest window. “You shouldn’t read that aloud,” she whispered. “Not here. Not like that.”

“Why?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. Words hold power. Foreseers write what they see, and sometimes the act of seeing feels like a kind of summoning. Saying a name can make it seem more real.

Sadie’s wings beat faster. “Because some things are meant to be kept quiet. Because the library remembers more than we do. Because…” She swallowed. “Because people listen.”

I closed the book and hugged it to my chest as if it were a child. The passage had conveyed more, but the rest of the page blurred when I tried to focus. My mind filled with images that weren't mine: a woman hollowed out, a black vessel, a host shuddering under the weight of other souls. The idea of a person turning into a monster that stole souls terrified me.

“Who would cast a shadow on a foreseer’s volume?” I asked. The question felt foolish. Foreseers are cautious. Their work is protected. To cast a shadow on a book was to invite disaster.

Sadie’s face showed clear worry. “There are stories,” she said. “Old stories. About people who wanted to keep things safe by locking them away. About people who thought they could control what they sought. But trying to control the shadow is like trying to hold the devil in your basement. It never stays where you put it.”

I thought about my father’s marginal note in Magdalene’s book, just the single letter “H.” Had he known? Had he feared the same thing? That thought twisted my stomach.

We didn't discuss it out loud. Instead, Sadie fiddled with the book as if fixing it might make the words less dangerous. She smoothed the cover, arranged the pages, and then, with a small, firm motion, closed it and slid it back onto the shelf. The spine clicked into place like a lock.

I should have left it there. I should have walked away and pretended the chill in my bones was just the draft coming from the approaching darkness. But curiosity is a stubborn thing, and fear is a louder teacher than caution. I opened the book again and read the following line, despite my hands shaking.

The Mage will bring it all to an end, but there will be one. Star-touched heavenly gaze; they will be the one to lead them all to victory, for the end is nigh...

The sentence shattered in my mind like glass. Star-touched, heavenly gaze. The phrase felt like a bell tolling somewhere far away. I thought of the portrait in the gallery, the woman with golden eyes, and the foreseer’s painting of a future that didn’t belong to our time. The threads braided together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.

“Serenity,” Sadie whispered, and the way she said my name made my bones jump. “You should hide that book.”

“Hide it?” The idea sounded absurd. The library is a public space. Books are meant to be read.

“Not here,” she said. “Some things are safer when they're not on a shelf for everyone to touch. If someone wanted that book..." She didn't finish. The implication lingered between us like a shadow.

I thought about Peter’s warning in the practice yard: Keep it hidden. If the wrong people find out, they will come for it — the wrong people. The phrase had seemed abstract at first, but now it felt more real.

I tucked Morgan Magic under my cloak and felt its weight like a secret heartbeat. I walked out of the foreseer aisle with deliberate steps, as if the library itself might notice and call me back. The pixies watched me with bright, curious eyes, and a page shuffled as if to say goodbye.

Outside, the castle felt different. The corridors were familiar — marble, paintings, the hush of servants — but the air seemed thinner, as if the book had taken a breath and left the world feeling a little emptier. I moved through the halls holding the book close, thinking of the words: The Mage will end it all. Star-touched heavenly gaze. The end is nigh.

I found Lysa in the herb garden, her hands buried in the soil, with the scent of plants thick around her. She looked up as I approached, and her face softened. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

“I read something,” I admitted. “Something that made the library feel colder.”

She wiped her hands and sat down next to me on the low stone wall. “Foreseers don’t write lightly,” she said. “Magdalene, especially. She paints and writes like someone who has seen too much. Too much, indeed.”

“Do you think the book is dangerous?” I asked.

Lysa’s eyes stayed steady. “Books can be dangerous if they teach the wrong things. But danger isn’t always in words. Sometimes it’s in the longing. Sometimes it’s in the hands that hold the book.” I reflected on my father’s initial warning, Peter’s warning, and Sadie’s fear. The threads tightened into an unbreakable knot.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The words from the book kept spinning in my mind. There would be a hero to end everything, to defeat The Mage and bring peace to our world. If such a savior could exist, I could only hope. Our future depended on it, for this prophecy held more mysteries than I understood. One thing was sure: every detail was precise, even if spoken in circles, except one. Who or what would free The Mage from her prison?