Page 3 of Shadows of Change

My shadows stretch along the pavement, restless and alive. Mouse’s fur bristles slightly, and he keeps pace with me insteadof running ahead like usual. A sense of unease settles in my stomach, as dark and heavy as the shadows themselves.

Sometimes I really wish he could talk. It would make life so much easier.

The neighborhood is quiet, just the opposite of me. A cool breeze brushes my cheek, carrying a faint smell of rain. For a moment, it’s like I’m back on the streets, huddling under a tattered blanket after being kicked out for the first time...

Even as a kid, my shadows made noise—not the kind you hear, but the kind you feel. The kind that makes people shiver and cross the street when they see you coming without really knowing why.

I learned to shrink, to make myself smaller, but the shadows? They never got the memo. One night, when I was about seven, my foster brother screamed when he saw something move. Not that he could see my shadows, but he could definitely see his stuffy inching toward the edge of his bed. I froze, unsure what to do. I hadn’t moved it, but my shadows had—and it terrified me just as much as him.

His mother came running in, and I'll never forget the way her face twisted in fear as she listened to her son. As he convinced her wasn't making it up. I didn’t understand at the time what I'd done wrong.

Then came the anger.

“You’re cursed,” she hissed, pointing to the door like she couldn’t stand to be near me. "Get out!"

So I did. It was the first of many nights I spent on the streets.

I spent the next ten years bouncing between homes, each one more eager than the last to be rid of the weird girl with the"overactive imagination." No one ever saw the shadows directly—just their effects. A book sliding off a shelf. A door closing without wind. Little things that added up to too much strange.

Foster families had tried to help, but what could they do with a cursed girl? My shadows didn’t care about boundaries. They slithered into bedrooms at night, knocking over picture frames and spilling secrets. I learned quickly: keep my head down, say nothing, trust no one.

The memory fades, Mouse nuzzling my ankle, a quiet reminder that he’s here. But even he doesn’t know the whole truth—the screams I still hear in my dreams, the isolation that comes with being different. The shadows aren’t my enemies, but they aren’t my friends either. They were just… there. And now, with the necklace growing heavier and the shadows growing bolder, I can’t shake the feeling that my past is catching up to me.

My pity part is cut short by a sharper awareness of the present. My necklace presses against my chest, and my shadows writhe with a tension that wasn’t there before slowly curling around my legs as though they'll shield me.

Something’s wrong.

2. Kaia

The walk home is quiet—too quiet. The morning bustle of the city seems muted as if the world is holding its breath. An unnatural chill creeps into the air, making my skin prickle beneath my coffee-stained uniform. My shadows twitch and writhe around my feet, their usual playful shenanigans replaced by something more urgent. Mouse's fur bristles as he continues to pad beside me, and a low growl rumbles again from his tiny chest.

That's when I hear it—a sound like dying leaves scraping across pavement, but wrong somehow. Distorted. The shadows around me seem to move with warning, and something tugs at the edges of my memory—a half-forgotten nightmare stirring awake.

I turn slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The creature towers over me, its form flickering like a bad TV signal. It looks almost human, but stretched wrong, its too-long limbs ending in gleaming claws. Empty sockets fix on mine, and when it opens its mouth, the sound that comes out is like glass grinding on bone.

"The Heart calls," it rasps, reaching for me with those twisted fingers. The words sound wrong in its mouth, as if it's forgotten how to speak properly. "She lives... she lives..."

The jewel around my neck glows brighter than I’ve ever seen. My shadows surge forward instinctively, forming a barrier between us. Mouse—my quiet, unassuming Mouse—launches himself between us with a snarl that sounds impossibly deep for his size. His violet eyes blaze with an intensity I've never seen before, and for a moment, I swear there's something more to him—something bigger, more ancient. I wish I could say I had anything to do with their actions, but I can barely think straight.

"Stay back," I say, backing away slowly. My voice sounds steady despite the fear clawing at my throat. But the thing moves like smoke, too fast, too fluid. Something about the way it moves, the way its voice scratches at my mind, feels horribly familiar. But the memory stays maddeningly out of reach, like a nightmare I can’t wake from.

It lunges, its claws tearing through my shadows like mist. I stumble backward, my carefully constructed normal life crumbling as quickly as my shadows reform. They lash out wildly, more defensive than coordinated, while Mouse weaves between my feet, his fur standing on end, that unnaturally fierce growl still rumbling from his tiny form.

"The Heart remembers," it hisses, its voice scratching at my mind like fingernails on glass. "The blood remembers..."

My hand flies to the amethyst necklace I’ve worn for as long as I can remember. It throbs warmly against my skin, and for a moment, I swear I hear whispers—see fragments of a memory just out of reach. A woman’s voice, golden light, the beat of wings... The images slip away like water through my fingers, leaving only an ache of loss I can’t explain.

The creature strikes again, and this time my shadows aren’t fast enough. Pain blazes across my arm as its claws catch me, the touch sending ice through my veins. I cry out, more in shock than pain, and my shadows respond explosively. They surge outward in jagged spikes, forcing the creature back. The necklace throbs against my collarbone, its usual comforting warmth now a fierce heat.

A silver light flares bright, forcing the creature back into the shadows. The same light washes over me, healing the claw marks on my arm as if they never existed. When the glow dims, a man stands where the darkness had been, his staff still humming with residual energy. His dark robes ripple without wind, and his eyes fix on me with unsettling intensity.

"H—How?" I stammer trying to keep my voice level. I hate looking weak and something tells me this man is the last person I want to look weak in front of.

"That," he says calmly, as the creature retreats into the shadows, "was a Nightwraith. And that was not your victory. Merely survival."

"A what?" I demand, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way my hands shake. The word feels familiar, though I know I've never heard it before. It echoes in my mind like a half-remembered lullaby.

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