Page 39 of Shadows Rising

The woman turns, headed for the far doorway. “Follow me.”

Finn sighs dramatically, pushing away from the table. “Summoned before I could even finish breakfast. This is oppression.”

I roll my eyes and stand, my shadows gathering around me like a second skin. The others follow, and I don’t hesitate before slipping between Aspen and Torric.

They don’t acknowledge it, but they don’t pull away either. Their magic hums against my skin, Aspen’s cool presence, Torric’s steady heat, and the bond in my chest responds with a dull ache that feels both uncomfortable and right.

The halls are quiet as we follow the Guardian through the sanctuary, the air shifting the deeper we go. With each turn down another corridor, the stone beneath our feet grows older, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. The magic changes too, no longer the gentle hum I’ve grown used to, but something deeper, more primal. It feels heavier, charged with history, like the magic here isn’t just present—it’s waiting. My shadows ripple with each step, responding to power that seems to seep from the walls.

Torch flames flicker in ornate bronze holders, casting dancing shadows that feel almost alive. The air grows cooler, carrying the scent of ancient stone and something that reminds me of ozone before a storm, of power gathering.

No one speaks much.

Finn, normally incapable of letting silence exist, makes a few halfhearted jokes, but they don’t land the same way. His voice seems to get swallowed by the weight of the air around us. Malrik hasn’t said a word since we left the dining hall, his silver eyes tracking shadows I can’t see. And Aspen and Torric… they still aren’t looking at each other.

I stay between them, keeping my pace even with theirs, but it’s impossible to ignore how tense they are. They don’t touch me, they barely acknowledge my presence. The space between us feels charged, like static building before a lightning strike.

It’s like they’re holding something back, and I hate that I don’t know what it is.

But now isn’t the time to push.

I turn my attention to the Guardian who walks a few steps ahead. Her stride is confident and controlled, like someone who doesn’t doubt where she stands in the world. She doesn’t look back, but her voice carries easily when she finally speaks.

“I’m Mira, by the way,” she says, still facing forward. “Second to Kieran.”

I blink, something cold settling in my stomach at the casual way she says his name.

Finn quirks a brow, glancing at me before grinning. “Wow. Second to Kieran? Sounds important.”

Mira doesn’t react to his teasing, her spine straight as a blade. “It is.”

The way she says it, so smooth and certain, irritates me immediately. Maybe it’s the confidence. Maybe it’s the way she hasn’t looked at me once since she started speaking.

Or maybe it’s the way she’s clearly implying something.

Second to Kieran.

Does she mean politically? Strategically? Or something else entirely?

I keep my expression neutral, but something about her tone sticks in my ribs like a thorn. “Second in what, exactly?”

Mira finally glances over her shoulder, her silver eyes lingering on me. “In everything that matters.”

I don’t know what pisses me off more—the answer, or the fact that I have no idea if she’s deliberately messing with me. But before I can come up with something appropriately cutting, Malrik speaks, his tone flat.

“We’re here.”

I tear my gaze from Mira, and my breath catches.

The Hall of Echoes.

The entrance is massive, carved from ancient stone that seems to pulse with its own heartbeat. Runes line the towering archway, glowing faintly with old magic—not the steady shine of modern enchantments, but something wild and untamed. They shift and dance as I watch, forming patterns that tug at something deep in my memory before dissolving again. The doors stand open, revealing the vast chamber beyond.

Through the archway, I catch glimpses of soaring columns that disappear into shadows far above, their surfaces etched with spiraling patterns that seem to move when I’m not looking directly at them. The air that drifts out feels different—heavy with memory and magic so thick I can almost taste it, like metal on my tongue.

The moment I see it, something in my chest pulls. The sensation is physical, like a hook behind my sternum drawing me forward. My skin prickles with goosebumps, and my shadows coil tighter around me, responding to whatever power waits inside.

Not the bond.

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