Page 3 of Shadow's Claim

Total darkness descends on the courtroom. Emergency systems should activate immediately, but nothing happens. The specialized ceiling material that typically emits soft purple illumination remains dead black.

I hear confused voices, panicked movements. The booth door slides open—emergency protocol releasing sealed chambers during power failures. Through my earpiece comes the automated announcement: "System failure detected. Emergency evacuation procedures in effect. All trials suspended until further notice."

It's chaos—exactly what I need. I slip from the booth, joining the flow of humans moving toward the exit. Shadow demons can see perfectly in darkness, but they're outnumbered and momentarily confused by the system failure. I keep my head down, letting the crowd's movement carry me toward the main doors.

Ten years since the Conquest, and still the sight of shadow demons moving through solid objects sends shivers down my spine. I glimpse them now—dark forms phasing through walls and floors as they implement emergency protocols, purple eyes floating like eerie beacons in the blackness.

I reach the atrium where emergency lighting has activated—dim red bulbs that cast everyone in blood-tinged shadows. Court workers file toward designated assembly points with practiced efficiency. I should join them, maintain my cover as the dutiful translator.

Instead, I slip away, calculating my chances. The suppressants are failing faster than anticipated. In the confusion of a major power outage, I might reach the translator quarters and access my emergency supplies before anyone notices my absence. The warming beneath my skin has intensified to an uncomfortable flush, the first hint of slick beginning to form despite my desperate control.

With careful, controlled breathing, I hide my mounting panic behind the blank face expected of court translators. I fall into step with a group headed toward the eastern exit, staying within the tight formation that offers some protection from shadow demon attention.

The blackout grows worse as I leave the administrative district, streetlights failing across the human settlement sector. Curfew alarms begin to sound, warning all humans to return to their assigned homes before total darkness falls. Panic rises as I realize I'm too far from the translator quarters to make it before lockdown. Breaking into a run, I cut through a demolished zone—a dangerous shortcut, but my only chance to avoid being caught after curfew.

Behind me, shadows grow unnaturally dark, a sure sign of shadow demon movement. I don't need to look back to know what's happening, but terror forces me to turn anyway.

Lord Kael Nightshadow himself is tracking me, his four arms extended as he manipulates darkness to move with unnatural speed. Those purple eyes cut through the darkness like twin flames, fixed on me with terrifying intent.

My fingers brush the silver pendant in a final, desperate prayer. The pendant that has kept me safe for three years now feels like nothing more than decorative jewelry against the approaching storm.

What looked like mercy—the blackout offering cover for my escape—was merely the bait in a more elaborate trap. And I've walked straight into it.

CHAPTER2

THE ENFORCER WATCHES

The blackout spreadslike contagion through the Shadow Dominion as I flee the Midnight Courts. What began as darkness in a single courtroom has cascaded into sector-wide power failures, streetlights dying in sequence as I race toward the translator quarters.

Reports filter through emergency broadcasts on my wrist communicator—system failures across multiple districts, security protocols activating, curfew enforcement accelerating. This is no random technical glitch. The scope and timing suggest something far more deliberate.

I weave through crowds of panicked humans rushing to reach their assigned sectors before lockdown. The integration zones where claimed omegas live with their shadow demon alphas maintain priority power—their windows still glowing while the rest of the city dims into darkness. Beyond that relative safety, the human settlement sectors are already falling into shadow.

Curfew alarms begin their discordant wailing—the sound designed to be impossible to ignore, to create instinctive compliance. I check my wrist communicator with growing dread. Sunset in forty minutes, mandatory lockdown in sixty. The translator quarters lie on the far side of the settlement sector, at least thirty minutes away under normal conditions.

These are not normal conditions.

The warmth beneath my skin has deepened to an insistent pulse, the first unmistakable sign of suppressant failure. Pre-heat symptoms accelerating in direct proportion to my stress levels—a cruel biological feedback loop where fear triggers the very condition I'm desperate to hide.

I make rapid calculations, weighing routes and risks with the precision drilled into me through resistance training. Standard paths through monitored sectors: too exposed to security patrols. Underground maintenance tunnels: likely sealed during emergency protocols. Public transportation: already shut down as part of lockdown procedures.

Which leaves one option—the demolished zone. A partially collapsed section of former residential neighborhoods destroyed during the initial Conquest and never rebuilt. By day, it's dangerous with unstable structures and minimal security coverage. During a blackout, when shadow demons move fastest through darkness, it borders on suicidal.

But with failing suppressants and a closing curfew window, "suicidal" becomes merely a "calculated risk."

I cut eastward toward the crumbling boundary between settlement sectors and the demolished zone. My translator uniform might pass initial inspection if stopped—court officials receive extended curfew allowances during emergencies—but the pendant at my throat grows warmer against my skin, a silent alarm warning that my chemical shield is dissolving by the minute.

The transition from settlement to demolished zone happens with jarring abruptness. Maintained streets give way to cracked pavement overtaken by stubborn vegetation. Intact buildings vanish, replaced by skeletal structures with exposed rebar and partially collapsed walls. The jagged skyline creates perfect hiding places for anyone wanting to avoid official notice.

Or perfect hunting grounds for shadow demons.

I navigate using mental maps memorized during resistance training, picking my way through rubble as twilight surrenders to true night. My pace quickens with each passing minute, the silver pendant bouncing against my throat with every step. Useless now except as a timer counting down to complete exposure.

The first warning comes not as sound but as sensation—darkness pooling slightly thicker than it should in corners, temperatures dropping several degrees beyond the evening chill. The distinctive weight of shadow manipulation presses against my skin like cold, invisible hands.

Behind me, shadows move against the natural flow of darkness, gathering density and purpose.

I don't look back. Don't need to. Training kicks in and I accelerate, leaping over fallen concrete barriers, ducking under twisted metal supports, navigating the urban ruin with desperate efficiency. The translator quarters shimmer like a mirage in the distance—lights still functioning on backup power, safety tantalizingly visible but impossibly far.

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