Page 106 of Shadows of Change

"You studied their patterns," I say, my voice growing stronger. "But they're not just patterns to follow. They're alive. They choose."

Bob surges forward, splitting into three separate shadows with liquid grace—a move Darian has never seen. His composed facade cracks. "Impossible. The large one only divides under extreme duress—"

"Guess your notes need updating." Finn's grin turns sharp as he summons his chaos magic. "Bob's been practicing."

The other shadows follow Bob's lead, weaving through the air like smoke. Patricia creates false targets while Finnick moves with deadly precision instead of his usual chaos.

"Your research is outdated," Malrik says, his own shadow magic rising to join mine. "They've evolved beyond your calculations."

Darian snarls, his hands blazing with sickly purple light. Each attempt to counter them meets empty air as they flow around his attacks like water around stone.

"Control them!" Thorne shouts, his own dark magic crackling.

"He knew their patterns," I correct, feeling the Heart pulse in time with my shadows' movements. "But patterns can change."

Mouse launches forward, growing larger with each bound, fading in and out of reality. New shadows rise in his wake, drawn to the Heart's power. Darian's careful composure shatters as his documentation proves worthless against their fluid grace.

The shadows surge forward as one, not bound by his limitations. Bob orchestrates their movements like a general commanding legions. Patricia weaves a complex web of shadow-light while Finnick implements chaos with surgical precision. The newer shadows fill the spaces between with deadly grace.

"Your weakness," Darian spits, "was always your fear of their power—"

"No," I cut him off. "My weakness was believing they needed to be contained at all."

The shadows respond to this revelation, moving in a rhythm as old as shadow itself. I'm finally learning to dance with them rather than control them.

Thorne slams his hands together, and the ground trembles. The air shudders with magic so tainted it feels like oil against my skin. The runes on his robes ignite with sickly green light as he summons shadows twisted by corruption—jerking like puppets on invisible strings.

"Let me show you what happens to shadows that are properly broken."

My own shadows recoil from the corrupted ones, radiating distress. The Heart pulses with their agony. "What did you do to them?"

"I made them useful," Thorne snarls. "Unlike your undisciplined pets."

Anger flares in my chest, tempered like steel. "They're not meant to be obedient. They're meant to be free."

The Heart pulses stronger, and the corrupted shadows pause, caught between Thorne's commands and something older, something true.

"Bob," Finn calls out, voice unusually serious. "Show them what willing shadows can do."

Bob approaches the nearest corrupted shadow with an almost reverent touch. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the corrupted shadow shudders, its jagged edges softening.

"No!" Thorne's face contorts. "They belong to me!"

"Shadows don't belong to anyone," I say as understanding flows through me. "They choose. They always have."

One by one, the corrupted shadows break free. Patricia and Linda weave between them, easing their pain, while Finnick disrupts the last of Thorne's hold with Steve and Carl's help. Even the newest shadows join in, offering strength to their wounded kin.

The freed shadows gather around me, their gratitude and growing anger palpable. Each pulse of the Heart strengthens our connection. "Together?" I ask softly, feeling their unanimous response ripple through the air.

Every shadow moves at once, their combined power surging through the arena like a tide of liquid night. Thorne staggers back, his control shattered. Then his expression twists into something desperate and cruel.

"This little victory means nothing!" Dark energy crackles around him, tainted and wrong. "I think it's time you meet some very old friends."

The temperature plummets as darkness pools at his feet—not shadows, but something that fills me with dread. "You and your precious shadows," his voice sounds unnatural. "I wonder how they'll fare against creatures that feed on shadow itself."

Skeletal figures form in the writhing darkness, their hollow eyes burning with pale, hungry light. My shadows press closer, their movements uncertain. Even Bob ripples with unease.

"Kaia," Malrik's voice is tight with alarm. "He's drawing power from somewhere else. Something ancient."

---