Page 101 of Shackled By Shadows

Zander is already moving, his twin blades a blur in the moonlight. He doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t waste a single movement.

A soldier barely has time to lift his sword before Zander’s dagger finds his throat, silencing him before he can shout a warning. Another comes at his back, but Zander twists, catching the attacker’s wrist and driving a blade between his ribs.

I don’t wait for more. With a sharp breath, I shape the air itself into a piercing resonance, a concentrated note so high-pitched that it shatters the first soldier’s eardrums before he even registers the pain. He staggers, clutching his head, and I drive my dagger into his exposed side.

A shout rings out from the left, and one of them recovers fast, swinging a heavy axe toward me. I duck, sending another pulse through the earth, amplifying the sound of his own footfall back at him. His equilibrium snaps. He reels sideways, and Ash crushes him under a sudden, brutal increase in gravity, forcing him to his knees just as Zander finishes him.

We weave through them, striking hard, striking fast. The fight is over in minutes.

The last soldier falls with a heavy thud, the sound of his body hitting the ground swallowed by the eerie quiet that follows. The silence presses in, only broken by our ragged breaths.

Ash lets out a heavy exhale, propping his hands on his knees. “Is that all of them?”

Zander scans the clearing, his chest rising and falling in steady, measured breaths. Then he nods. “Thank the gods.”

Ash straightens, rolling his shoulders, shaking out the tension from his limbs. “Let’s go home.”

The word hits me like a punch to the gut.

Home. I don’t know what that is anymore.

For a while, I thought it was him. Thought it was the space we carved out between stolen moments and whispered words. But now? I’m not sure if Oberon is still waiting for me on the other side of this war, if he ever was.

I force my feet to move, falling into step with the others as Ash turns toward the path back to Wraithmoor. The battlefield became my constant, my certainty. But as for what waits beyond it?

I have no idea.

The snap of a twig sends my instincts screaming. We aren’t alone.

A slow, deliberate clap echoes through the clearing.

We turn as one.

A figure steps from the shadows, tall and imposing, his armor gleaming even in the dim moonlight. He moves with the effortless grace of a predator, his presence suffocating, commanding. The soldiers we just slaughtered are nothing compared to what stands before us now—

Keagan.

The King’s emblem is displayed proudly across his chest, a polished insignia of power and brutality. His armor, black as midnight, bears the marks of countless battles, each scratch a testament to his skill. He is the King’s blade, his enforcer, the shadow that haunts every battlefield. Scars twist along his jaw, remnants of wars he has walked away from, but his eyes, sharp, cold, unyielding, are what make my breath stall.

There is no hesitation in them, no mercy.

His smile is cold, calculated. “Impressive,” he muses, his voice like the scrape of steel against stone. “But you didn’t really think I’d send them alone, did you?”

He tsks at us with a devilish laugh that sends chills down my spine. “You didn’t think I realized what you were up to?” he chuckles, the sound as jagged as broken glass. Then he laughs again, maniacal and sharp. “That I wouldn’t notice when my possessions didn’t show up?” His smile widens, dark amusement twisting his features. “You fools,” he sneers.

He takes a step forward, like a cat toying with its prey. “I’ve been watching. Waiting. And now . . . well, now you finally get to understand what it means to cross me.”

Zander doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. His grip on his blades tightens, but his face has gone eerily blank, except for his eyes. They are locked onto Keagan with something close to terror, a flicker of vulnerability I have never seen before.

Keagan smirks, the kind of expression that sends a sickening chill curling through my gut. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turns his gaze to me.

His eyes rake over me, taking his time as if trying to place a memory just out of reach. I force myself to meet his stare, refusing to let him see the way my pulse thunders. His head tilts slightly, a mocking curiosity in the movement. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he muses, his voice dripping with amusement.

My fingers twitch at my sides, itching for a weapon, for something solid to ground me. I force myself to stay still. Does he remember? I will never forget. Never forget the face of the male who had cut my life apart with casual ease. The male who slaughtered my brother before my eyes and tossed me into hell without a second thought. But does he remember me? Or are the lives he destroys nothing more than fleeting afterthoughts, lost in the tide of his endless carnage?

I swallow the bile rising in my throat. “I doubt it,” I say coolly, though the weight of his gaze burns into me.

Keagan chuckles, low and dangerous, like he already knows the truth but enjoys playing the game. “Pity,” he says. “But I never forget a face.” He takes a step forward, his hand resting lazily on the hilt of his sword. “Maybe a little blood would jog my memory.”