Page 83 of Shackled By Shadows

I fall in step beside him, but he only gives me a sidelong glance, a flicker of something behind his eyes, maybe curiosity, maybe wariness.

“Good morning to you, too,” I tease, trying to gauge his mood. I’m not sure if he is as burdened as Oberon, but I need to know.

“What’s so good about it?” he asks flatly. I can’t tell if he is joking or genuinely irritated. His voice is hard to read, and his expression gives nothing away.

I shoot him a questioning look, trying to find a crack in his armor. But there is nothing. He is a stone. “Glad to see you’re as chipper as ever,” I muse, my tone light, but it is clear he isn’t in the mood to play.

Zander only raises an eyebrow, his face still a mask. “Is there something you need, Lyra?” he asks finally as we make our way down the hall, his voice a bit sharper than usual.

I debate for a moment whether to push or let him keep his secrets. Curiosity wins, a need to know pulling me forward. “Were you with him?” I ask quietly, barely above a whisper, afraid of the answer, but needing one nonetheless.

He pauses for a long moment, his gaze lingering on me, as though he were deciding whether or not to answer. Finally, he lets out a soft sigh. “Yes.”

I look down, watching my feet glide over the long rug that lies across the cold stone floor, my thoughts racing. The silence stretches between us as I fight for the right words to say. I want to know more, need to, but I can’t quite bring myself to pry deeper. “Are you okay?” I ask after a long pause, my voice tentative, unsure if I am asking the right thing.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replies flatly, his eyes focused ahead. “I was given an order, and I executed it.”

Whose order? Oberon’s? The King’s? Does it even matter? Is it any easier to swallow if it is just an order and not a choice? Maybe it is better not to have to choose. Maybe it is a mercy to be told what to do instead of being asked. I ponder this for a moment, as my next question starts burning on my tongue. “Is he okay?” I whisper, testing, trying to gauge how much he truly understands about Oberon’s torment, the weight that seems to be crushing him.

Zander looks away for a moment, his gaze distant, as if he is choosing his words carefully or perhaps weighing whether he should speak at all. “It’s different for him,” he says slowly.

“Why?” I press, feeling the weight of the question on my chest.

Zander turns his head slightly, avoiding my eyes for a moment before he speaks again, his voice measured. “I was ordered to do something by my commander, my leader. I trust them to make sure it’s the right thing, I don’t feel guilty about it after.”

He pauses, his face unreadable. “Oberon . . . he had to make the choice. He has to keep making those choices, not only as the king’s son but also as the leader of the rebellion.” He stops again, letting the depth of those words settle between us. There is something unsaid there, something heavy.

Zander has said it without saying it: Oberon’s burden is not just one of duty, but of constant inner conflict. And that is the part that tears him apart, the part that no one can really see.

“His choices are what determine the outcome of both. They weigh on him, especially the hard ones,” Zander says quietly as we walk the rest of the way in silence, heading to the meeting room.

The tension is thick. I can feel it pressing on my chest with every step. My mind lingers on Zander's words. I can’t help but wonder just how heavy Oberon’s burden truly is. The thought doesn’t have much time to settle before we reach the doors.

When we enter, the room is filled with a low hum of conversation as the Fae gather around, taking their seats. Despite the noise, I can feel the eyes on me, on us.

Everyone seems to be waiting, watching for something, maybe a reaction, a hint, a clue about what happened.

As the minutes drag on and Oberon still doesn’t appear, the murmurs in the room grow more restless. The gathered Fae shift in their seats, their eyes darting around, lips whispering secrets and suspicions.

The tension is palpable, and I can feel my own anxiety building with each passing second. I excuse myself quietly, ignoring the curious glances that follow me as I slip out of the chamber. My boots echo softly in the stone corridor, the muted sounds of the meeting fading behind me.

My steps quicken as I start checking nearby rooms that I know he frequents. I pause at a split in the hall, uncertainty tugging at me before the cool breeze catches my attention. I turn toward it, following the draft like a tether pulling me forward, toward the eastern balcony.

Oberon stands alone, facing the horizon where the sun has already claimed the sky. His hands grip the railing, knuckles pale, jaw clenched. The light paints gold into the dark strands of his hair.

I hover at the threshold for a breath before calling out softly, “Oberon?”

He doesn’t turn. Just let out a breath as if it hurts. “You shouldn’t be here,” His voice comes out hoarse.

I ignore the warning and step out beside him. “They’re waiting for you. We all are.”

“I know,” he snaps through gritted teeth. “I just needed a moment . . . to remember how to breathe.”

I turn to face him fully, trying to meet his gaze. “What happened?”

He shakes his head slowly, as if trying to clear something tangled and heavy from his mind.

“You know what happened,” he begins, his voice distant, laced with frustration, or maybe it is disgust. “It was senseless and violent.” His grip on the railing tightens, knuckles straining as he wrestles with his resolve. “He wanted me to understand that my loyalty to the king was more important than anything else. And every time, I did it.” He looks at me then, but not really, like he is looking through me, into something darker.