Bound By Shadows

My life in Saila was predictably boring. Not empty—never empty—but predictable in the way something well-contained always is. Everything had its place. Everything had its rhythm. It was the kind of life that didn’t fall apart because it was never allowed to. The only thing that made it bearable was Freya. Not that she was the only person in my life. I had friends—a set group that came with routine. Dinners that turned into late nights, movies we barely paid attention to, functions where I showed up because that was what was expected. I laughed when I was supposed to, stayed as long as I needed to, and left without anyone really noticing the difference. Even in the middle of it, I always felt slightly removed. Not unwelcome. Not invisible. Just… not entirely there. Freya was different. She wasn’t the kind of person you missed in a crowd. Dark, wavy hair that never stayed tied no matter how hard she tried, expressive brown eyes that picked up on everything, and a smile that always looked like she knew something you didn’t. She filled space without trying. Next to her, I felt quieter. Not invisible. Just harder to approach. Which didn’t make sense, because people did notice me. They just never did anything about it. My brunette hair fell straight down my back without effort, no matter how little attention I gave it. My skin never quite tanned, always staying pale no matter how much time I spent outside. And my eyes—turquoise—were the one thing people always seemed to linger on a second too long before looking away. “You know people stare at you, right?” Freya said once during lunch, watching me over the rim of her glass. “They stare at everyone,” I replied. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “They look at everyone. They stare at you.” “Why?” She shrugged. “Like they’re trying to decide something.” “Decide what?” “If they should come talk to you.” “And?” “They decide not to.” I sighed. “Great. That’s comforting.” Work didn’t make it better. Architecture sounded better than it felt. It wasn’t ideas and creativity—not anymore. It was deadlines, corrections, expectations that didn’t care how long the day had already been. Internship had a way of stripping things down to what they actually were. “This… is a rectangle,” my senior said, staring at my design like it had personally offended him. “It’s minimalist.” “It’s lazy.” Freya leaned over to look. “It does look like a prison.” I turned to her slowly. “Thank you for your support.” “I’m here for honest feedback.” “You’re the worst.” “And yet, your only friend.” “…Unfortunately true.” After work, time blurred. Some evenings were spent at crowded tables, voices overlapping, plates passing, laughter rising and falling like it belonged to someone else. Other nights disappeared into movie theaters, the dark making it easier to sit through something without thinking too much. I was always there. Always present. And still— somehow distant. And then there was martial arts. Not optional. Not really. My father believed in “preparedness.” He never explained what for. “You owe me for this,” Freya muttered on the first day, clearly regretting her decisions. “I didn’t force you.” “You emotionally manipulated me.” “That’s dramatic.” “I had plans.” “You were going to watch movies.” “Important plans.” Three days later, she was better than me. “I hate you,” I told her after she knocked me down again. “I’m naturally gifted,” she said, flipping her ponytail. “You tripped earlier.” “That was strategy.” Still, no matter how full my days were, there was one thing I could never avoid. Family gatherings. Every fifteen days. Always the same. Our farmhouse sat just outside Saila, far enough from the city to feel separate, but close enough that everyone could reach it without effort. It wasn’t just a house—it was an estate, wide land stretching in every direction, gravel paths that had long since memorized the sound of arriving cars, trees lining the boundaries like silent guards. And every fifteen days, it filled exactly the way it always did. Cars lined the paths in familiar rows. Doors opened, voices carried in before people even stepped inside, conversations already mid-flow as if they had never really stopped. The same families, the same faces, the same rhythm repeating itself so often it no longer felt like an event—just something that happened. “Why are there so many people?” I muttered once, more out of habit than curiosity. “They’re called relatives,” my mom replied. “That doesn’t explain anything.” Inside, it was what it always was—loud, crowded, impossible to follow if you actually tried. Conversations layered over each other, laughter mixing with arguments, the scent of food settling into every corner of the house like it belonged there. “Kiana, come sit with us,” one of my aunts called the moment I stepped in. “I just got here.” “Exactly.” Which, apparently, meant I had no choice. “Can I bring Freya next time?” I asked again, for what had to be the tenth time. “No.” “Why?” “No outsiders.” “That sounds suspicious.” “It’s a rule.” “It sounds like a secret society.” My mom just smiled. She always did that. Still not reassuring. Most of my cousins were boys. Which meant chaos. “Race you to the stables!” one of them shouted. “You’re ten!” “And faster!” He was already running. I followed anyway. The stables were my favorite place on the property, tucked far enough away from the house that the noise softened into something distant. The air felt different there—quieter, calmer. “You’re late,” one of the caretakers said. “I got distracted.” “Again?” “Always.” Out there, riding across open land, everything else faded. No noise. No expectations. Just movement, wind, and the steady rhythm beneath me. It was the only place that felt simple. But even there— my thoughts drifted. To them. Nish and Ray. Older. Constant. Unavoidable. Nish looked like trouble without trying—tanned skin, dark hair that never stayed in place, eyes that always seemed to carry amusement even when he said nothing. But he had never really been my brother. Not in the way people meant it. We weren’t raised with distance. We were raised together. Friends. Too close for the label everyone used. Ray was different. Quieter. Ash-blonde hair, pale skin, green eyes that didn’t just look— they noticed. “You’re staring,” Nish had said once. “I am not.” “You are.” Ray had glanced at me then, that small, knowing look— and I looked away first. I had liked him before I understood what that meant. And I never really stopped. They had left for Barau. Pre-med. Or at least, that was the explanation. And I followed. Because in a life filled with bodyguards, with eyes always watching, with a presence that made people hesitate before even speaking to me— they were the only ones who didn’t treat me like something to be protected. Or avoided. With them, things felt normal. Simple. Like I could just exist. But this time— when they left for Kopara— for medical residency— I didn’t. I came back to Saila. For me. For work. For something that was supposed to be mine. And yet— standing in the middle of something I had seen a hundred times before— I still felt like I didn’t quite belong in it. *Far from Kiana’s carefully contained world, nothing was ever simple. Barau had never just been about pre-med. That had only ever been the explanation that made sense on the surface. Beneath it, something far more deliberate had always been in motion. Nish and Ray were sent there not only to study medicine, but to be shaped for the roles they would one day take on. Their training extended beyond lecture halls and textbooks, running parallel to an education that demanded discipline, control, and survival. Nish had not been born into their family. His father had been one of Liam’s most trusted men, loyal to the point where trust had never needed to be questioned. The ambush that took both his parents had not been an accident—it had been calculated, timed with precision, unfolding while Kiana’s mother lay in a hospital bringing new life into the world. In the aftermath, there had been no hesitation. Nish was brought into the family not out of obligation, but because he had already belonged there long before it was made official. Zion had been in Barau long before either of them. Saila had never suited him, the environment itself forcing him away while he was still young. He was raised there, trained under conditions that left little room for anything unnecessary, shaped by distance from the place that had once been meant to be his. While Nish and Ray followed medicine, he chose law—not as an easier path, but as a different kind of control. Where force left traces, law erased them. It allowed power to move quietly, to reshape outcomes without ever being seen. Even so, his training never stood apart from theirs. It ran alongside it, just as deliberate, just as unforgiving. When Kiana came to Barau, their worlds never crossed. To her, he did not exist. Now, in Kopara, Nish and Ray were deep into medical residency, their lives consumed by exhaustion and decisions that carried irreversible weight. Zion remained on his own path, immersed in law, learning how to navigate systems with precision that mirrored the discipline the others applied elsewhere. Different paths. Same destination. And Kiana—moving through a life that had never truly been as simple as it seemed— had no idea she had always been at the center of it.