Page 11 of Shackled By Shadows

His focus never wavers as I struggle for the right words. There is no way to say what I need to say without showing just how weak I feel. Instead, the words I have kept buried for so long, those raw, seething thoughts, burst forth like an uncontrolled wave. I clenched my fists at my sides, my frustration boiling over.

“You still haven’t told me why you even care?” I snap, my voice sharp, trembling with the mixture of fury and desperation.

“What's the point of all this? You want me strong, but for what? To be another pawn in your game? To fight for you?” I take a step forward, my eyes burning with intensity. “You’ve taken everything from me, Oberon, and now you want me to play along? To what end?” I shake my head in disbelief.

Oberon’s eyes darken, his expression softening just slightly as he regards me with a mixture of amusement and something else, something unreadable.

“I’m not here to fight with you, little Lyra,” he shrugs like my struggle is beneath him, the edge to his tone makes my heart race, a quiet menace lurking beneath the surface. “You’ve got questions, understandably. But you're not asking the right ones,” he challenges. His words linger, heavy in the air between us.

“Answers . . .” he drawls the word out, “well, you’ll only get those when you start asking the right questions.” His voice drops lower, his smile deepening, but the warning is clear, as if he can see right through me, as though every flicker of doubt, every hesitation, is laid bare before him.

He observes me as though he can see past the rage and the fear straight to the broken pieces beneath. And I fucking hate it.

“Why?” My voice barely comes out above a whisper, the weight of my frustration shifting into something heavier, something raw. “Why any of this? Why not just kill me or leave me the hell alone?” My eyes meet his, searching and pleading for something to make sense of what he wants from me.

For a moment, his eyes soften, the usual hardness of them giving way to something . . . quieter. “Because I do want you to fight,” The earlier playfulness and mockery gone, replaced by something I didn’t expect. There is a seriousness in his tone, a quiet ache that settles between us, and for the first time, I feel the raw sincerity in his words. “But I don’t want you to fight for me.”

Confusion and even more questions swirl through my mind like a tornado.

What does that even mean? If not for him, why am I here? That doesn’t answer anything.

Before I can speak, he tilts his head with that devilish smirk of his, his voice dropping into something playful again, even with the threat it seems to always carry. “I brought you something.” The words roll off his tongue like a challenge. “Homework.”

He sets the book down in front of me, his fingers brushing the edges just slightly. “I've got business to attend to,” he continues, boredom now etching the sharp lines of his face. “But don’t worry. I won’t leave you waiting too long for my return.” His eyes narrow. I wouldn’t want you missing me.”

He lingers a heartbeat longer, an intensity in his stare, before he steps back slowly. “Read the book. Practice your magic,” he murmurs. “I’ll be back soon enough, and I’m curious to see what progress you’ve made.”

“Oh, and Lyra,” he turns back to look at me once more. “Do try not to think about me too much.”

With a wink and a soft smirk, he is gone once again, and the loneliness creeps back in.

Chapter seven

The Enemy

The weeks blur into a monotonous cycle. Oberon appears at unpredictable intervals, two or three times a week, but it feels like an eternity between each visit. He always arrives with something new, a book, a lesson, or some instruction meant to push me. I have learned not to expect much else.

His presence is fleeting, his visits brief, and each departure leaves a hollow emptiness in the room, as though the walls themselves exhale in relief when he is gone.

I haven’t bothered asking him any more questions since the last time. What is the point? His answers are always cryptic or evasive, always leaving me with more questions than when I started. And besides, there is a rawness to it all now, too many words left unsaid that hang between us like an unspoken agreement to not acknowledge the tension that flares every time we are in the same space.

I don’t trust him, and I certainly don’t expect him to trust me. But still, there is an undeniable pull to him that I can’t shake.

Each time he leaves, I am left with a swirling mixture of frustration and something I refuse to recognize. And yet, I know he will return. It is always the same: the soft click of his boots on the floor, the cool press of his presence in the room, his voice sliding across my skin.

He never stays long, but when he does, it is as if the world outside ceases to exist, leaving only the two of us in this small cabin, tangled in silence and something else neither of us dares name.

And despite my resistance, he has even managed to teach me things. My magic is growing stronger; there’s no doubt about it. I can move objects with ease now, summon Fae light at will, and even light the hearth and candles with a flick of my fingers. Simple things, nothing too extravagant. Still, it is progress. The power hums beneath my skin, filling me with the sense of both fear and longing.

Nevertheless, I can’t yet access the full extent of it. That depth of power where my true abilities lie remains locked away. Oberon never seems to ask what my full abilities are. He either doesn’t care or already knows. Either way, I’m not about to offer up that information.

“Again,” Oberon says, his voice smooth and annoyingly patient.

“Come on, Lyra. Focus.”

“I don’t need your help,” I snap, the words tearing from my throat before I can stop them. My hands clench into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms, but I refuse to back down. Refuse to let him see just how much he is getting under my skin.

Oberon only smirks, that infuriating, lazy smirk that makes my blood boil.