Page 70 of Shadows of Change

"What youcando," Thorne interrupts, leaning closer until the faint scent of ozone prickles my senses, "is stop making excuses and reclaim control. Or I will."

"And if you do?" I ask, my voice quieter, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

"Then she becomes expendable," he says simply, as if he’s discussing the weather. "And so do you."

The words are a reminder of how little I matter in the grand scheme of his plans. A part of me wants to fight back, to push against the chains he’s wrapped around me. But the shadows inside me stir, coiling tighter, as if warning me to stay silent. I can’t tell whether the cold fear curling in my chest is from Thorne’s words or the magic he forced into me all those years ago—magic that twists in ways I barely understand, that sometimes feels like it’s trying to consume me.

Thorne straightens, his calm mask slipping back into place. "You have one chance to set this right. Do not waste it."

I nod stiffly, my hands still trembling as I turn for the door. Just before I reach it, his voice cuts through the room like a knife.

"Remember, Darian," he says, his tone deadly soft. "Those shadows may live within you, but they are not yours. They are mine. Don’t make me take them back."

The memory rises unbidden: the searing pain as light twisted into shadow, the way Thorne’s magic dug into my soul like claws. Even now, the phantom ache lingers, a constant reminder of what I owe him—and what he could take from me.

The door shuts behind me, the finality of the sound ringing in my ears. I press my palms against the cool stone wall outside, trying to calm my racing heart. Inside me, the shadows churn, a restless tide of power that has never truly felt like my own.

I hate them. And yet, without them, what would I be?

45. Kaia

This morning I woke on a pile of cushions, still in my dress from the ball and an ache in my chest that I can’t seem to shake. The air hums with residual energy, each breath thick with the weight of magic—an electric, thrumming force that tingles against my skin and pulls at the edges of my awareness, as if trying to whisper secrets I can’t hear. My shadows coil restlessly at my feet as I pace the length of the common room, their movements reflecting the chaos in my mind. Finn's usual flippant remarks have been conspicuously absent, and even Mouse seems subdued, perched on the arm of a chair with his violet eyes tracking my every move.

"They're trying to tell us something," I say aloud, more to myself than to the others. "But I can't make sense of it."

"You're not supposed to yet," Malrik replies, his voice low but steady. He's leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, his silver eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. There's a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze—unease, or perhaps a knowledge he's not ready to share. "It's not a message for your mind; it's for your magic."

"Great," I mutter, running my fingers over the necklace at my throat. Its warmth pulses in time with my heartbeat, a steady reminder of its presence—and its secrets.

"What did you see in the dreams?" Aspen asks from his spot near the window. His voice is calm, but there's a sharpness in his gaze as he watches me.

I hesitate, the fragmented images still swirling in my mind like smoke. "Wings," I finally say. "Massive wings made of shadow and starlight. They kept forming patterns—constellations, I guess—but I couldn't read them. It was like trying to remember something I’ve forgotten."

Finn, sprawled across the couch, sits up straighter. "So, your shadows are trying to enroll you in celestial cartography? Sounds fun." His grin fades slightly as he glances at Malrik's glare, the humor a thin shield against the palpable tension in the room. "Not that anyone here appreciates my stellar wit," he adds, softer now.

"It's not a joke," Malrik snaps, his tone cutting. "Those constellations appeared at the ball. Her shadows created them when—"

"When Darian touched me," I finish quietly, the memory sending a shiver down my spine. "And now they're in my dreams."

"But what if they're not dreams," Aspen says. "What if they’re memories?"

The room goes silent, the weight of his words settling heavily over us. My fingers tighten around the necklace as my shadows ripple in agitation, their movements erratic and sharp.

"Memories of what?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Of who you are," Malrik replies. "And what you're meant to become."

The door bursts open, breaking the tense stillness. Torric strides in with his usual aggressive energy, his fire rune faintly glowing. "What's with the secret meeting? And why does it feel like the air's about to explode?"

Aspen rolls his eyes at the way his brother barges in. "The magical energy in here is... unusual," he says, his gaze sweeping settling on me once again. "Something's shifting."

"Yeah," Finn quips, "Kaia’s shadows are doing interpretive dance again."

"Focus," Malrik snaps, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "Aspen, did you find anything in the texts?"

Aspen nods, pulling a worn leather-bound book from his bag. The edges are frayed, and the leather is cracked with age, its surface etched with faint, arcane symbols. "I found references to stellar magic being used as a form of communication." Like a language written in light and shadow. But the details—how it worked, who used it—those were in the missing pages."

"Torn out," Torric growls. "Let me guess, recently?"

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