Page 99 of Shadebound
Crossing the short gap to Maya’s bed, I reached under her pillow, my fingers brushing over the cool fabric before closing around the solid, unyielding weight of steel. The hilt was cold and slightly tacky with oil, the texture grounding me. Death had told me she kept it there for protection, and the truth of that pressed into my palm now.
She didn’t wake up when I stole her knife. Neither did anyone else as I made my way across the room.
I stepped up to Alessandro’s bedside, close enough to smell the faint tang of sweat and stale blood. The shadows I could muster gathered thickly around me, clinging to my skin, sealing me in. His chest rose and fell in slow, careless breaths, each exhale brushing the air between us. The gloom seemed to press harder against me, every inch of me aware of the fragile stillness as I lined up my weapon.
I rammed the blade into Alessandro’s eye.
His scream was instant and loud enough to shake the air as I stepped back. Blood pumped hot and thick over my fingers, coating my palm and dripping down my wrist in slick rivulets. His body twisted hard, legs kicking, hands clawing blindly as pain locked his features into something almost inhuman. His dragons exploded from their beds as they wrestled him up, one gripping his shoulders while another caught his flailing legs. They half-carried, half-dragged him toward the appropriate medics, ready to seal the torn flesh I’d just shredded.
I knew he would be healed at any moment. That was fine.
This was just my warning.
I turned away, stepping over the faint streaks of blood on the floorboards as I made my way back to Zayden’s bed. His gaze tracked every movement, eyes wide, his face drained of colour. But with a glint there too—confusion tangled with something darker, almost like he found the viciousness intoxicating, as if the sight of me like that only made me more dangerous in his eyes.
“Goodnight,” I said, voice steady, almost bored.
I lay down, shut my eyes, and for the first time in two days, I slept.
Field Journal — Entry #291 - Classified
Power doesn’t whisper—it growls. Shadebound don’t ask for mercy, and we sure as hell don’t give it. We were forged in what came after the scream, in the silence that followed the final breath. Death didn’t break us. It branded us. And now, when the fight starts, we don’t hesitate. We grin. Because we already know how the story ends—and it’s not with us bleeding on the floor. It’s with them.
Chapter Thirty, Darkness
Iwoke slowly, warm and still for once. The blanket had twisted down around my ankles in the night, and Zayden’s mattress dipped beneath me with a kind of quiet reassurance. His scent still clung to the pillow. For a moment, I stayed there, letting my body settle. My muscles didn’t ache. My skin didn’t buzz with threat. It was... peaceful. Strange, but not unwelcome.
When I reached across the space beside me, it was empty. Zayden wasn’t there. That was unexpected. I cracked one eye open and scanned the room. Maya’s bed was empty too, her sheets crumpled as though she’d left in a hurry. Maybe they’d gone together. Or maybe not. Either way, I didn’t feel like getting up to chase them down.
Most of the dorm was still asleep. Luna hadn’t moved from her corner, her arm half-slipped through the sleeve of her jumper, face buried in her single pillow. Kalamity was sprawled across his back with one arm flung over his face, snoring with the dramatic flair of someone doing it on purpose. Draven, curled up closest to the wall, was just a lump of dark hair and blanket. The dragons were gone—still hiding in the infirmary, probably pretending to be more worried about their leader than they were. The thought made me smirk. Alessandro deserved worse.
I sat up and stretched, slow and stiff. The cuff on my wrist stayed quiet. No pain or static. No alarms or alerts or commands blaring through the walls. For the first time in days, Mors wasn’t watching me.
I celebrated with a goblet full of mynonna’shot chocolate. The only bitterness to it, that I didn’t have any cream to squirt on top.
My boots were still beside the bed. So was my case, tucked neat against the footboard. I crossed the cold floor and crouched to unzip it, running my hand over the worn leather before I even touched the zip. My mother’s initials carved into the top meant something this time. Not a lot. Just enough that I noticed. Enough that I didn’t want to look away straight after.
I grabbed a clean shirt, and underwear. And then pocketed a handful of vials of random herbs and potions my mother had packed. Just in case I needed something small and quick to aid me. Then I stood again, and caught movement at the edge of my vision. My doll sat on the pillow, propped up as though someone had positioned it deliberately—just slightly off-centre, just enough to draw the eye. I frowned and leant closer. Same size. Same clothes, more or less. But the hair was shorter. Not just cut—different. Roughly cropped above the brows, the ginger curls now dull and straight. I didn’t inspect it closely. Probably a dragon’s idea of a joke. But it still felt... odd.
I turned toward my side table to grab some hair ties—and stopped. A letter sat there. Folded neatly.
My breath stuck somewhere in my throat. I reached for it, careful without meaning to be. The handwriting was neat. Too neat. My name sat on the front, nothing else, but I knew who it would be from even before I unfolded it slightly.
Jinx.
You were supposed to answer the riddle but you didn’t. You thought you could cheat. Break the rules. Ignore the terms I so clearly laid out.
I warned you there would be consequences ifyoudidn’t give me the answer.
So I took some of your things. You might get them back. If you behave.
P.s I suggest you go to your next class. Unless you never want to see them again.
My hands curled around the edges of the paper before I could stop myself. I didn’t hear Draven approach. Not until he tapped my arm.
I turned. His hair was a mess. His eyes, still half-asleep as he signed,Why is your doll a boy now?
I looked at the bed again. The differences hit me properly this time. The hair wasn’t just cropped. It was redder. Thinner. The clothes, too—cut differently. Itwasa boy. A new doll entirely. Not mine.
