he air was cold and humid. Prickles of dust glinted as our fire balls scorched in the dark tunnel, merely lightening the shadows extending in front of us. The passage was small and narrow and suffocating, but we all moved with complete silence.

Only the whispers of our breaths and the mumbles of our footsteps echoed around us. Yet, I could hear the darkness in our minds hissing, chanting cursed words that didn't ease the fear growing deep inside.

If the messenger's words were true, then I only braced myself for the worst. And those words echoed with a constant beat in my head, stabbing claws of ice in my heart. Téors had warned me about the darkness brewing strongly in Eziara, but I never had thought they would strike this soon.

But we couldn't let anyone know. Couldn't ruin that rare gaiety that cloaked Cantelot and each and every heart. It had been long, so long, since those people lived a night of purity and easiness. And thus, we worked silently, ending the ball a couple of hours earlier than originally planned, hiding behind the mask of duties and work. No one questioned, and who did never voiced it out loud, thankfully.

And as fast the castle closed its doors, all nobles retreated, some to their houses down in the high streets of Vemor, others in the rooms we provided inside the Ether palace. The ones that stayed were to change immediately before they joined Father and me into a scouting mission.

We moved fast, taking turns after turns, and Father, guiding us, never once paused to consider which way to take. And I wondered about how many times he had used those secret passageways before. How many wars and assaults he had to endure. But I didn't ask, and deep down, a part of me didn't want to know.

We turned again, twelve shadows walking steadily behind the King and I, all of us mantled in black cloaks and hoods. A camouflage. If the need to fight ever arose, the darkness of our cloths would play for us since the sky was still black as coal. Even Luthian and Hydn, now donned in the white uniform of the White Troopers, were wrapped in black fabric for protection.

We walked, and walked a bit more until I could no longer tell how long we'd been traipsing, neither how far we were from the castle.

Those turns led far behind what the eyes could see, tying the Ether palace with almost every city and country in Cantelot, creating a vast cobweb of communications and shelters when war would rise. But what was even more fascinating was the intact state of the carvings in the stones as they lasted from Leander's days.

Breathing heavily, I forced my legs to move; all the dancing and smiling and chattering started wearing off on me. I casted a quick glance at my father grim face, my eyes locking with his for the briefest of moments, and I saw that we had almost reached our destination. But what I saw more was the tremor veiling clearly his aura. If it really was an attack, and if there really were victims like reported, then war was coming close. And drastically.

We kept treading, descending deeper and deeper into the earth, each step we took guiding us away from the surface. The passageways under the castle's ground were already low; far below the dungeons that held hostage our most secret captives, but now, I couldn't even tell how many feet we were underground.

It was an ancient method to hide magic. The deeper we went, the weaker was the scent of our gifts.

A few more minutes of ambulating brought us to a dead end before we stopped. It was a small corner a good few meters after the last turn we took, capable of accommodating at most five to six persons. We were fourteen.

At one side was carved a stairway, merely comporting three, halfway crumbled stairs lined with inked spells that glinted under firelight and might have belonged to the old language of the Elves. Father was the first to climb, and as he did, the flames flickered away, vanishing like thin dust in the air.

For a few seconds, there was darkness and nothing more before feeble light appeared, crawling from underneath the King's feet. Golden specks of light glinted from the written words, fighting hard the blackness devouring everything around.

With as much as I could manage to see, I observed as my father climbed the three steps, keeping his head low and back hunched to not hit the ceiling before he pressed his marked palm against the stones above his head. Mumbled words evaded his lips, and before he could finish them, a light appeared so strong and bright it burned my eyes. And then, more light flowed in as the ceiling was no more, slowly degrading into nothingness, forming a hole in the sol of the Larkenwoods Forest's grounds.

Silverfish rays danced freely, flooding the darkness and reflecting against the visible metals of the weapons strapped to us like armors.

One by one, we emerged from the hole into the forest, cool, clean air blessing my lungs. But the sky was not dark like I had expected it to be in this side of Cantelot. Not at all. Even as we were in the late night-dawn still far, perhaps an hour or two to come-the skies shimmered with colorful lights, and not only the familiar orangish hue.

Because, as I lifted my eyes to the firmament, I was met with a sight of beauty. Flying with the passing breezes, lanterns flew in the dark sky, washing that blackness with buttery splashes of endless colors. Colors and lights that seemed to defy the stars with their brightness. It was a sign of joy and loyalty and belief. A sign that meant people still had faith in fate.

Still believed in brightness after the storm. Still looked into the darkness hoping to find a light shining bright in the end.

A light of survival.

And it was a sign that became so rare to the sight, one that hadn't been done in seventeen years and a half. Since the attack on the palace and the murder of the queen, and like believed, the heir.

But now, the truth was out, shining bright like those lights, and never would it crawl in the darkness anymore.

Despite the warmth of the scenery, it didn't ease my dread. If ever, it only made it worse. Made the fear growing in my guts worse.

Because if those news were true...

''The shore is not far,'' said Hydn, emerging from the hole before light sealed it for good, leaving no snippet of a trace. ''Our horses are waiting.''

With that, he turned to our right, disappearing from our sights for mere minutes before he came back, fourteen bridles in hand clinging and glinting like molten silver and reflecting colorful splashes. If not looking keenly, the horses could have passed as invisible, enormous animals with skin darker than the night itself. The only thing that gave them away was the glowing silver of their eyes sparkling under the moonlight. Fourteen shadows, just like us, brought to make us pas invisible as possible.

If anyone ever saw us, recognized our features here at a far village instead of the royal palace...The words would spread fast, undoubtedly. And they would not play for our advantage.

Mounting my horse right after Father, I spared a glance back at the humongous oak tree we emerged next to, at its branches that seemed to brace the stars. At those lights that glimmered with undeniable joy. And with nothing more than this gaze, than this flicker, I turned, urging my mare to move, following the way both Hydn and Luthian led.

Having the area already scooted by trusted fellows, both the soldiers knew which way to take to keep as far as possible from any questioning eyes, and during all this short ride, no one spoke. Not even a single word. The only things that broke our silence were the heavy sights and breaths, and occasionally, a displeased groan. Not even the impact of hooves on earth made a sound, the horses moving like floating shadows.

We passed ramshackle houses and wooden, poorly built cottages that reeked with the smell of rotten fish before we reached the end of the Forest and the first grounds of the shore. It only took us a few minutes, true to Hydn's words.

Taloan was the name of the village-the shore that consisted of the final lands of Cantelot, facing from thousands of kilometers away the Dark Continent. And even despite all the seas and distances separating us, I could almost feel those eyes staring, watching every step we took, inspecting every movement and single breath.

I dismounted, followed by all of Father, Ramos, Leon and Rhia, Luthian, the Cardelyon Lords-father and son-, Sorcha, Lord Isal, Lord Némair, Sir Ayaz, and Hydn.

What spread in front of our eyes was a bloody disaster.

The shore was no longer sand glowing silver under moonlight like it should have been. Instead it was blotched with red pools seeping from the dead cadavers scattered on the floor. And they were many.

My stomach twisted and churned, a sick feeling nagging my guts.

There was black magic in the air, its scent alone capable of sucking the hope I was clinging onto. As my eyes scanned the dead bodies, that hope fully shattered. The bounders were broken, and so was the slightest chance of saving them.

And perhaps what hurt the most was the fact that they were celebrating before the murder. A camp fire stood in the middle of the bodies, the soot still new, perhaps a couple of hours ago.

Then, the message indeed was brought with no delay.

Fishes were still scattered here and there, some grilled over the fire, others still laying in their fishnets, their smell reeking in the air, adding to the heavy scent of blood and death.

I came closer, inspecting the cadavers, trying my best to keep my thoughts in order. Everything was spinning; the world itself seemed to dance around my eyes, a sick feeling blooming in the pits of my guts, punching my nerves. And it didn't get better as I stared at the paling skin, wide-shot, open eyes, and shocked faces. Many of those people-men and women and children and toddlers-had received a quick death, most of them still having their faces frozen from a torn scream that never evaded.

One by one, I closed their eyes, whispering words of prayers to the Gods, hoping that for once they would hear me.

We all did. Even as no one said it out loud; I could hear the souls whispering, could feel the cringe and disgust and worry flickering in. It was a merciless attack. A warning. A message to taunt us. And it hit straight its aim, piercing through our walls and defenses.

I walked around the shore, my feet swallowed by the wet sand, red splotches smearing my boots. Too much blood was spilled in one night. Too much to hide and conceal. And I found myself walking a bit farther from the others until I reached where the sand was wet and cool, but not from blood. Small, light waves crashed against my legs, the cold, salty water clinging to my skin. I didn't even know why I came here, why I turned to stare at my court, at the people bending over the corps, checking them, searching for any clue.

They were all heartbroken.

Maybe it was the reason of this attack. To break our souls, to show us they were capable of infiltrating our walls, of striking in our most joyous night. To make us know well that they were ready when we weren't.

My eyes locked with Father's as he was the one who moved, the one muffled whose footsteps broke the hated stillness. He didn't speak, only worked his way to the middle of the mess. To the still slightly warm embers.

I caught what he'd seen with as much as a mere glance at his face, and I came closer, crouching next to him.

In the midst of soot and ashes, something glinted.

Careful not to awaken any potential magic, the King dug through the sand until the object came to vision. It was a flacon made of iron, the lid nowhere to be seen.

But there was something about it that seeped all warmth from my blood. And it was the symbol inked on it.

The black eye painted with care seemed to stare back at us, at our minds and souls, taunting and aggravating our powers. A pair of scaly wings adorned it, accompanied with a three-edged tail, all drawn to the metal with a thick, scentless ink. It couldn't be tracked.

But that symbol-that insignia-played on my nerves, dancing and pulling on thin strings.

Because it was the same insignia that was painted on the walls of our dorm when havoc spread through the Norm. The same one that meant Blake and Lysithea were watching and understanding and plotting against every single move we took.

But there was a sort of glint on this iron, and it wasn't created by the shimmering lights. It felt distant and unattainable, and I understood, and so did Sorcha. It was a shimmer visible to no eyes but spirits.

With mildness, I reached for that flacon, merely brushing my fingertips against the oddly warm metal. The light was still there, feeble and pale, but it glinted still between my fingers, brushing against my skin. I could feel it dancing on my hand, caressing my palm, ordering, urging, me to hold it. To pull at it.

And I did.

What happened next didn't shock me as much as I wished to, didn't faze me like it should have. Because it wasn't something new, to see the past through an artifact. Nor the fact to share that memory with everyone else.

Time stopped slipping, freezing with the winds and flying moths. The waves didn't move, didn't sway, didn't dance anymore. The stars and burning lanterns were fixed in their places, even their shimmers pausing.

One heartbeat passed in an agonizing silence. Then another one. And then everything went back to life.

But it was different. The stars and lights glimmered again, the waves crashed with passion on the sandy shore, the flying insects around the rotting fishes buzzed again.

But the fire was brightly lit. The cadavers were not lying on the floor, soulless. Instead, they danced and sang and drank and ate, infants jumping from one side to the other, illuminating some lanterns of their own. Mothers smiled and laughed, fishermen arguing who caught more prizes over a few bottles of cheap ale and beer. Three kids were playing in the water despite the nippiness of the autumn night with eyes so bright I could see the reflection of the sky in them.

And in the middle of this all, we stood pale and unmoving, staring at this shadow with ultimate powerlessness.

And a pinch in the heart.

For moments, the scenes kept playing like this; a joyful, bubbly night of eating and dancing and drinking. A night to forget the world and all its worries and dreads.

But it all changed as one of the kids playing in the sea, a girl that hadn't even reached her first bleed, came to the shore, an iron flacon in hands. She didn't know what she was holding. Didn't know it was the weapon that killed them. The one that turned this night to their last.

She reached the small fire, tugging at the sleeve of a man in his early thirties, most likely her father, showing him what treasure she found in the sea. It all ended here, the happiness and smiles, as the falcon opened by its own, thick, black smoke curling from it, clawing its way into the sky like a freed beast.

A low growl emerged from the bottle before screams echoed through the vastness, begging for help. There was none--and deep down, those people knew no one would come for them. No one could save them.

The smoke intensified into a clouding fog, cloaking the shore and the sea, drowning everything in darkness. The bottles of beer exploded, most of the lanterns burned in place, the fishnets were tossed everywhere, and then that darkness lunged.

Fast and sharp and precise, it swirled all around, piercing from body to body, through heart and heart, never stopping once to stare at the mortified faces. Like fallen leaves in an autumn night, bodies thumped the ground, blood oozing, hearts stopping, and bounders breaking. They were gone even when their screams still stuck in their throats, their tears still pooled in their eyes, their faces still contorted in fear and pain.

Just like that, they fell and never rose back again.

The memory shattered. We were still standing in our places, rooted deeply with throats as heavy and tight as stones and hearts too broken to speak.

Nothing broke the silence this time, no sighs or groans or grunts. Not even the flies seemed to buzz anymore.

But Isal spoke, his voice soft and weary, "To the Gods they have returned, now freed in a world of ease and joy for evermore.''

Hand over heart, he stared at the stars, and we all mirrored him.

And in the far firmament, a star shined brighter than any other, glinting with pride as though it was their home. As though they were up there, staring down at us, begging us to not feel remorse or grief.

"There is something wrong in all of this," voiced Rhia. And she was right, we all knew, without her adding anything more.

Still silent, the King and I went back to the sea, walked deep into it until the coldness of the water bit the flesh of my thighs. Our marks glowed, sheens of silver and gold fluttering on the surface, brushing it with gentleness.

Gold flickered in front of us, a barrier standing high just past our feet, rising in the sky until it seemed to reach not only the stars and colorful lights but the Gods themselves, as though cascading from their Thrones far above.

Placing my palm on the warm shield right next to my Father's, I closed my eyes, mending my soul with his and taking us through that barrier. Our minds and souls spread everywhere, wandering like lost stars in the infinite galaxy, running through spells and enchantments and magic as old as this world, checking and studying.

To every single corner of the continent, to every bit of power building the shield, we reached, looking for any weakness. Any fissure. Any broken cleft Siltheres might not have seen.

The magic broke and I opened my eyes with a heavy breath despite the pain and burning intensity in them, meeting the king's emeralds now dark and stormy. And worried.

Dread grew in my heart, seeping in my veins like a killing poison.

There was nothing.