Page 114 of Shackled By Shadows

I swallow hard, forcing the rising panic down, but the feeling lingers, crawling beneath my skin. The rain shows no sign of easing, soaking through my clothes, and still, the alarm screams in the background, a shrill reminder of just how screwed we are.

Zander’s voice cuts through the storm like a blade.

“Will someone turn off the gods-damned alarm so I can hear myself think?”

Moments later, the alarm cuts off, but the overwhelming noise remains: the pounding rain, the hurried footsteps, the clipped orders being shouted across the stronghold. The chaos hasn’t lessened, only shifted. And despite the absence of the alarm, the tension inside me refuses to settle.

Zander doesn’t waste a second. The moment the alarm falls silent, he raises his voice above the clamor, commanding the attention of every soldier within earshot.

“We don’t know what caused the wards to fall,” he says, his tone sharp and unwavering. “Which means we assume the worst. We are exposed. Vulnerable. We move as if an attack is imminent.”

The gathered Fae nod, their expressions grim but focused. They don’t need to be told twice.

“Ash,” Zander continues, turning to him, “triple the perimeter watch. I want scouts posted at every high vantage point within a mile of the stronghold. If so much as a twig snaps, I want to know about it.”

Ash gives a firm nod before striding off, already shouting names and orders as he disappears into the crowd.

Zander’s gaze flicks to me. “Lyra, I need you with me. We’re checking the lines.”

I don’t argue. Without hesitation, I fall in step beside him as he moves through the stronghold, his pace quick but controlled. Everybody we pass is armed, their faces hardened with the weight of what this can mean.

“How do we even check the wards?” I ask, my voice low but urgent. “They’re gone, Zander. Just . . . gone.”

“That’s exactly why we need to see it for ourselves,” he says. “We need to know if they were broken from the outside or if something failed within.”

That thought sends a chill through me. If an external force took down the wards, then whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing. But if something failed from within . . . I don’t let my mind wander too far down that path.

We reach the outer edge of the stronghold, where the wards should be. I have crossed this threshold countless times before, always feeling the shift of magic, the faint press of its protection. Now, there is nothing. Just empty air where a powerful barrier should stand.

Zander stops, his jaw tight as he scans the forest beyond. The darkness feels heavier, more menacing, without the wards keeping it at bay.

I extend my senses, searching for any lingering trace of magic, but it is like trying to grasp at smoke. The wards aren’t weakened. They are completely gone. “This doesn’t make sense,” I mutter. “Even if someone attacked them, there should be some trace left behind. Magic doesn’t just disappear.”

Zander’s expression darkens. “Unless it was taken.”

A cold shudder runs down my spine.

Before I can respond, one of the scouts comes sprinting toward us from the tree line, his face pale. “You need to see this,” he pants. “Now.”

Zander and I exchange a glance before following him into the woods, our hands already drifting toward our weapons.

The scout urgently leads us deeper into the forest. I can hear his breath coming fast and uneven, but he doesn’t slow.

We push past the thick undergrowth, the damp scent of rain and earth heavy in the air. My hand hovers over the hilt of my dagger, and every nerve in my body is on high alert. The further we go, the stronger the feeling of wrongness becomes, like a whisper at the edge of my mind, warning me to turn back.

Then we see it.

A large section of the forest ahead is dead. The trees stand like skeletal remains, their bark blackened and peeling. The ground beneath them is dry and cracked despite the rain still falling around us. But it isn’t just decay, it is unnatural, as if the life has been stolen rather than simply withering away.

Zander stops beside me, his face grim. “What in the gods’ names . . .?”

The scout swallows hard. “This wasn’t here yesterday.”

I step forward cautiously, my boots crunching over brittle leaves. The moment I cross into the deadened space, a wave of something foul presses against me. The air feels wrong, heavy, as though a presence is lingering just out of sight.

Symbols are carved into the trunks of the dead trees, strange markings, ones I don’t recognize. They spiral and curve in jagged, almost erratic patterns, like they were carved in haste or desperation. Some are shallow scratches, while others are deep gouges, seeping with something dark and tar-like.

Magic. But not the kind I want anything to do with.