The Return of the Brightest Shadow
937 Words
Lucian ran until the trees swallowed the light.
The moment he crossed the barrier, the air changed—thicker, colder, laced with the scent of iron and ash. The Shadorian border was marked by silence, not stone. No guards. No gates. Just the knowing that once you passed through, you belonged to the dark again.
He didn’t stop until his knees gave out.
Lucian collapsed beneath a twisted tree, breathing ragged, hands bloodied. He pressed his palms towards the earth, trying to ground himself, to silence the war inside.
She saw me.
She saw what I am.
A balancer.
Not fully Shadorian. Not fully divine. A creature of both ruin and restoration. A weapon built by prophecy and broken by love.
He had failed.
He was supposed to kill her. End the line. Stop the unraveling before it began. That was his father’s command. That was the cost of his place among the Shadorians.
But he had looked into her eyes—and something ancient had stirred.
Lucian clenched his fists. “Fool,” he muttered. “You let her see you.”
He could feel it now—his corrupted side rising, the part of him that fed on shadow, that whispered of power and vengeance. He let it come. He needed the edge. He needed the fury.
Because they would come.
For vengeance. For justice. For answers.
And when they did, he would have to choose.
Again.
____________________________________________________________________
The gates of the Shadorian stronghold opened not with ceremony, but with suspicion.
Lucian entered bloodied, silent, and alone.
The guards didn’t question him. They never did. He was the son of the High Warden, the Brightest Shadow, the one who never failed.
Until now.
He crossed the obsidian threshold into the war chamber, where the air was thick with incense and old iron. Marie was already there, leaning against the map table, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“Well,” she said, her voice like a blade unsheathed. “Where’s Valik?”
Lucian didn’t flinch. “Gone. Coward.”
Marie smirked. “Of course he is.”
She stepped closer, circling him like a hawk. “And the girl?”
Lucian met her gaze. “Ambushed. A servant—unexpected. I was handling the princess when the girl struck from behind. Valik fled. I held the line, but the moment was lost.”
A beat.
Marie’s eyes narrowed, searching his face. “You could’ve killed them both.”
“I didn’t,” he said flatly. “But the story will hold. No one liked Valik. Let him take the fall.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Convenient.”
Lucian turned away, jaw tight. “It’s done.”
Marie stepped closer, her voice low. “You’re changing.”
Lucian didn’t answer.
“You’re thinking about her.”
Still, silence.
Marie’s smile vanished. “Don’t forget who you are. Or who made you?
Lucian’s voice was ice. “I know exactly who made me.”
He left her standing in the war chamber, the scent of ash and steel clinging to his skin. But the memory of Eden’s eyes—blue like his, blue like the goddess—clung tighter.
He had felt something. A pull. A recognition.
And now, the Polarians will come. They would demand answers. They would want blood.
Lucian knew the truth would not matter. Only the story. Only the spin.
And he had just given them one.
But beneath it all, something else stirred.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Something far more dangerous.
Curiosity.
_________________________________________________________________
Excerpt from Vaulys 7: The Gemini Entanglement
Filed under: Forbidden Lore Vault Designation: 7 – Fragmented Scrolls
Translator’s Note: Recovered from the Eastern Archive. The scroll was partially burned, edges torn. Transcription incomplete.
It is said that the princess did not speak of the attack. Nor did her shadow-sister, Kassiopiea. The two returned from the garden without a word, their silence not born of fear, but of something older. Something sacred. Understanding, perhaps. Or prophecy.
They entered the library through the servant’s passage, the one behind the tapestry of the twin moons. The tutor had long since abandoned his post, muttering about the futility of teaching a girl who already knew too much. The room was empty. The fire had gone cold.
Eden moved with purpose, her fingers trailing the spines of ancient tomes until she found the one she had dreamed of but never dared to open. The scroll was sealed with a sigil she recognized: two eyes—one black, one blue—bound by a thread of gold.
She broke the seal.
The parchment unfurled with a whisper. The ink had not faded. Kass stood behind her, reading over her shoulder, her breath catching as the words revealed themselves.
“When the eyes of dusk and dawn meet, the Thread shall stir.
One born of fracture, one of flame.
Their bond will bring balance—
And break the world.”
“Together, they will guide the broken to the gates.
One to the east. One to the west.
Their power will seal the portals.
And the third—”
The scroll ended. Torn. The final line lost to time or intention.
Eden stared at the jagged edge. “Do they succeed?” she asked, her voice barely a breath.
Kassiopiea did not answer. She could not.
None of the other scrolls had ever been damaged. They were centuries old, preserved by divine decree. But this one—this one had been touched. Altered. Hidden.
And somewhere, far beyond the walls of the library, the boy with the blue eyes stirred in his sleep.
- Writer
