Page 105 of Shackled By Shadows

A sound, faint at first, breaks through the haze, the distant crackle of energy, the unmistakable hum of Ash's magic. It is then that I realize what he is doing.

Every ounce of power he has, every last shred of energy, is being funneled into his portal. His eyes are clenched shut, his teeth grit as if straining against the very weight of the world.

There is a flash. A burst of light that sears through my vision, blinding in its intensity. The world around us trembles. For a moment, I think it is the last breath of the battlefield, the universe itself cracking open to swallow us whole.

The earth disappears beneath us, and the landscape blurs into colors, shapes, and shadows. I close my eyes against the vertigo, the disorienting rush of magic tearing through my veins like fire.

Suddenly, there is a solid thud. My body slams into something hard, the cold stone beneath me. Familiarity washes over me, knowing he brought us back to Wraithmoor.

I blink once, twice, trying to make sense of the blurred faces around us as figures rush to our sides.

“Get them to the infirmary!” a voice says, sharp and commanding. I can't place it, but the tone is one of authority, of someone used to being obeyed. A strong hand grabs mine, pulling me up, only to find I can't stand. My legs give way beneath me, and I collapse back into the arms of whoever caught me.

My head spins. I can't focus long enough to make sense of my surroundings. The stench of blood and sweat in the air is unmistakable.

They are pulling us, dragging us through corridors of stone, their faces indistinguishable from one another as the world around me sways, spinning in and out of focus. Zander is still unconscious beside me, his body limp, but I can see the faint pulse of life beneath his battered chest. Ash . . . I can’t feel him, I can’t see him.

When they reach the infirmary, they waste no time. A female healer, her skin shimmering like silver moonlight, delicate and almost translucent with long, silver-streaked hair cascading around her shoulders, framing a face carved with timeless precision and cold, calculating eyes, is already waiting for us.

She gestures sharply to the others, and they lay us down on separate tables, working quickly to stabilize Zander first. I can hear her muttering in low tones, words I can't understand, as she works her hands over him. She doesn’t have to say a word to make it clear: time is running out.

My own body is still in pieces, each breath coming in shallow, pained gasps. I want to scream, want to curl up and disappear, but I hold it in.

The healer turns to me next, her eyes narrowing with the slightest hint of annoyance as she inspects my wounds. “Not fast enough,” she mutters, but doesn’t hesitate. She touches my arm, her hands glowing with a soft, healing light.

I can feel the energy siphoning through my veins, the warmth of the magic slowly knitting my broken body together. But it isn’t enough. I can still feel the hollow burn of my wounds, the ache in my chest, the cracks in my bones.

“More,” the healer snaps, glaring down at Ash. He lies crumpled on a table across the room, drained and unconscious. “I need more power to heal them.”

Zander groans next to me, his lips parting in a weak breath. The healer grits her teeth. She moves to him, and it is clear she is struggling against the pace of recovery.

But we are alive.

We spend several days in recovery at the stronghold, each moment marked by the slow, agonizing process of healing.

The healers work tirelessly, but even magic has its limits. It isn’t enough to heal the raw, bone-deep exhaustion or the lingering memory of blood spilled on the earth. The pain, though dulled by time and the healer’s ministrations, never truly fades. It is an ache that settles deep in our bones, reminding us of everything we just barely survived.

Zander is the first to regain enough strength to sit up. His body, still bruised and battered, moves like it is protesting every motion, but his spirit is unbroken. Ash is quieter, withdrawn, though his energy is slowly returning.

There are moments when his eyes dart toward me, his gaze full of questions I can’t answer. The weight of our failures, of what happened in the clearing, seems to hang between us.

I spend my time in a daze, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, trying to ignore the hollowness inside me. The emptiness that settles in my chest feels like a void, as though something, or someone, is missing. The weight of the battle, of what we faced, is only compounded by the absence that gnaws at me. Oberon. I hoped, for a fleeting moment, that somehow, he would return, that he would be there to see us through, to lead us when we could barely stand on our own.

As we walk down the halls, finally well enough to leave the infirmary and return to our rooms, everything feels colder than I remember, the silence suffocating.

My footsteps echo in the vast emptiness, each one reverberating like a reminder of everything we lost. The stone walls, once familiar, now seem alien. The absence of Oberon is everywhere, more present than I care to admit.

I hoped that somehow, some way, he would be here when I returned. That his presence, that fierce, undeniable force of his, would fill the room and wash away the bitter taste of defeat.

But when I enter our quarters, it is just as empty as I left it. The bed lies untouched, the covers still perfectly arranged. It is a stark, painful reminder that Oberon is no longer part of this place, part of us.

I stand in the doorway for a long moment, the silence of the room pressing in on me. The walls seem to close in, and for a brief, cruel second, I wonder if he was ever here at all or if everything we have been through was just some kind of dream, a fantasy that crumbled the moment I woke.

But the lingering warmth in the room, the faint trace of his scent on the pillow, is all too real. My chest tightens, and a lump rises in my throat.

And yet, there on the pillow, in the spot where he used to lie, is a letter.

My heart skips a beat as I pick it up, my fingers brushing against the folded parchment. I unfold the letter carefully, my hands trembling slightly, the familiar scent of ink and parchment filling the quiet space, holding my breath as I begin to read.