The Echo of the King
The Shadowlands were not what the old scrolls described.
They were alive.
Mist moved like breath, and every echo seemed to have its own heartbeat. Selene walked slowly, her boots leaving faint trails of silver on the glass-black ground. Beside her, Kaen padded silently, his massive form a streak of shifting shadow.
No sun, no stars—only the light that came from within her and the dim shimmer that rippled across the horizon.
After hours of walking, they reached what looked like the ruins of a bridge, its arches half-submerged in fog. Etched into the stone was a symbol she knew from her dreams: a crescent within a circle, split down the middle by a c***k of light.
“Lucien’s mark,” she murmured.
Kaen growled low, ears flattening.
“I feel it too,” she whispered. “S
