Page 34 of Empire of Wrath and Ruin
Patir shook his head. "He snapped during a routine training session in the hall. Killed an entire squad of his own men, but not quickly. He tortured them, tore them apart piece by piece while they screamed for mercy. The darkness showed him exactly how to cause the most pain, how to keep them alive and aware for as long as possible."
"How was he stopped?" I managed to ask.
"His own son had to bind him," Patir said. "He was a shadow mage too, not as powerful as his father back then but skilled enough. It took him and six other mages working together to contain Sayven, and even then, it was barely enough. He's been down here for eight years now."
"Does he ever have good days like the others?"
"No." Patir's voice was flat, final. "The others still have glimmers of who they were, memories of their families, moments of recognition. This one... this one is pure evil. Whatever Sayven used to be died the day he broke. What's left is just hunger and malice wearing his face. Now we need to leave, my Lady. It isn't good to be down here for long."
But I was frozen in place, staring down the stone steps into that impenetrable darkness. "Do all shadow mages become like this eventually?"
"Yes," Patir said simply. "All of them. The more they use their powers, the faster it happens. It's the fate that awaits every person born with shadow magic. The power always wins in the end."
The full horror of what he was saying crashed over me like a wave. Taveth. This was what was going to happen to Taveth. The man who claimed to love me, who showed me tenderness evenas he held me captive, was destined to become something like the monster lurking in that cell ahead.
I thought of the moments I had seen darkness flicker across Taveth's features, the way his eyes sometimes burned white when his power surged. The headaches he tried to hide, the way his hands trembled when he thought I wasn't looking. Signs I had dismissed as stress or exhaustion suddenly took on a terrifying new meaning.
"How long does someone usually last?" I whispered.
"It varies. Those with greater power burn out faster, but they also tend to fight the madness longer. A weak mage might succumb in five years, while someone like Sayven lasted decades. But Lord Taveth..." Patir trailed off, realizing what he was implying.
"How long does he have?"
Patir wouldn't meet my eyes. "He's been using his power heavily lately. The war with the Empire, the demands of leadership, and now..." He glanced at me meaningfully. "Strong emotions accelerate the process. Love, hate, fear—they all feed the darkness."
I felt sick. "How long?"
"Maybe months," Patir said quietly. "Maybe less."
Patir escorted me back to my chambers, his face grave with the weight of what he had shown me.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he said as we reached my door. "But you need to understand what our people face, what Lord Taveth faces. We're not monsters by choice, my lady. We're victims of a curse that demands everything we are in exchange for the power to protect those we love."
After he left, I sat on my bed and stared at my hands, trying to process everything I had witnessed. Below me, in the depths of the temple, forty-three people lived out their days as shadows of their former selves, their humanity sacrificed to keeptheir people safe. And somewhere among them, in the deepest darkness, something that had once been a good man now existed as pure malevolence.
This was Taveth's future. This was what awaited the man who held me captive and yet somehow made me feel safer than I had in years. In a few months, maybe less, he would be just another broken mind in a cell, and I would be left to mourn the person he used to be.
The shadows in my room seemed darker now, more alive, as if they were already reaching for him with hungry fingers. And for the first time since my capture, I found myself truly afraid—not of Taveth, but for him.
12
The heavy metal cuffs chafed on my wrists, reminding me a little too eerily of my time in captivity before I became a gladiator. I could feel through our mate bond that Sirrax was feeling much the same, though here in this temple, the bond felt muted and vague. I glanced over at him as the guards stopped before massive double doors carved with symbols that seemed to writhe in the torchlight, but his face was impassive, despite the churning anger and worry inside his mind. One of the guards knocked, and a voice from within called for us to enter. The chamber beyond was circular, with seats arranged in tiers around a central space where we were positioned. Council members in dark robes filled most of the seats, their black eyes fixed on us with expressions ranging from curiosity to hostility.
A man with silver hair and sharp features stood near the centre, clearly the one who had ordered us brought here. Malachar. Others sat around the chamber looking in, and at the highest point sat a woman with braided silver white hair and strings of dark and silver beads that fell down her front, her dark eyes calculating as they swept over us. She wore robes moreelaborate than the others, marking her as someone of significant authority within this council.
"Bring them forward," she commanded, her voice carrying easily in the acoustically perfect chamber.
The guards prodded us toward the centre, and I felt every gaze in the room like a physical weight. These people had been fighting the Empire for generations, had watched their loved ones enslaved and broken by the very forces we had served. That we stood here alive at all was probably more mercy than we deserved. But it was the figure standing near the high seat that made my blood freeze in my veins once again.
The man who looked exactly like me.
Not similar. Not resembling. Exactly like me, as if someone had carved us from the same stone. The same height, the same build, the same face that I saw in mirrors every morning. The only differences were his longer hair and the silver markings that rippled under his skin like veins of starlight, fading in and out as he stared at me. His eyes were white rather than black, but the shape, the expression, even the way he held his head—it was like staring at my own reflection.
I felt my knees buckle slightly, and only Sirrax's steadying presence beside me kept me upright. This was impossible. People didn't just look like other people, not like this. The man—my mirror image—stared back at me with equal shock, his pale eyes wide with something that might have been recognition. For a moment, neither of us moved, the entire council chamber falling silent as they witnessed our mutual discovery.
"By all the gods," someone whispered.
"Malachar," the older woman's voice cut through the silence, sharp with displeasure. She rose from the high seat, her movements graceful despite her obvious age. "What is the meaning of this? I specifically said I would handle the prisoners privately."
