16. Seren
SEREN
Darkness folds around me, soft as velvet.
My cheeks are still wet, my chest heaving from the grief that shredded me only moments ago—now dulled to a numb, distant throb.
I’m not in my chamber anymore. The white walls have melted, replaced by a sky of midnight satin and silver pinpricks of starlight. They drift too close, swaying like lanterns, yet casting no warmth.
A rhythmic drum hums beneath my bare feet as I hover, suspended.
Silky black material—edged in lace—clings to my body, replacing the rags I arrived in.
My arms float, carried by a liquid silence, moving without thought or resistance.
I look to my wrists. There’s no metal biting the skin. The manacles are gone.
And then I see her.
Her hair—a cascade of pale yellow—floats on the air like spun gold. Her eyes are dark as charcoal, alive with the shifting depths of an endless sea. She glides forward until she’s within arm’s reach. For the first time, her predatory smile is gone, replaced by something soft. Kind, almost mournful.
My shadows roam freely, slithering over her neck and back like they’re greeting a long-lost friend. She returns the favour, stroking them like a forgotten pet.
“My poor girl.” Her words are muffled, as if I’m listening through a thick wall of water. “You have been through so much already.”
Tears blur my vision again. My words feel dense, heavy as I push them from my throat. The pressure builds in my chest, making the question come out slow. “Who are you?”
It takes all my strength to keep the grief down—a volcano on the brink. “Why is this happening to me? I just want to go home.”
Her eyes soften. “I know, child.”
Something cracks inside me at the gentleness in her face.
“You have been chosen, my love.” Her voice is gurgled, distorted, forcing me to lean in to catch the fading remnants of her words.
My throat constricts. I have to push through the tightening walls of muscle to reply. “Ch—chosen? For what?”
She leans closer, hands cupping my face as she studies me intimately. Under her gaze, my flaws and imperfections feel exposed—naked.
“You can be free of me—” she looks down to the shadows draped around her neck, “—and of them.” Her thumb caresses my skin, her long nails feathering in its wake. “You don’t have to carry this darkness alone,” she murmurs. “Set me free—and you will be free, too.”
I swallow the nausea that stirs inside. “Fr—free?” I sniff, fighting the floodgates that threaten to break at the mention of normal.
“Find the other shrines, piece by piece. Each one will loosen the chain that binds us.” Her words are a dull, distorted murmur, but they pierce deep. “Set me free, and you will be free too.”
She doesn’t wait for my response. Her lips curve—tender, maternal. “Free of shadows. Free of pain. Free to live without fear. No longer Shadowborne.”
Time stills. Nothing but the thud of my heart fills the silence. My brow creases as the reality of my prison returns to me. “But—I’m their prisoner. How am I supposed to leave?”
A smirk creases her porcelain skin. “Trust me, child of the night. The shadows will help when the time comes. You only need to follow the map. It will take you where you must go.”
Her hands lift away from my face. Her smile flickers—maternal comfort one moment, predatory the next.
Invisible hands seize me by the waist, dragging me into the darkened depths. Above, the stars bleed into lines of light until I’m falling, with no one to catch me.
The ground greets me with a thud. I wake with a gasp, the manacles burning my skin. Searing pain pulses in my chest, right where the crescent lies.
* * *
The weight of her voice echoes within, coiling around my chest like a thorny vine, squeezing the very breath from me.
Find the shrines. Free me, and you’ll be free.
Her words cling like cobwebs that I don’t understand. Behind my eyes, the map throbs—eager for me to obey. Light floods my vision, stinging after the mercy of the dark. I wait for the room to bleed into focus, forcing my heavy lids open to the four walls of my cage. There is no way out.
At that thought, the shadows stir restlessly at my feet. A tendril snakes up my leg, coming to rest near the manacle—a silent exchange I don’t yet have the language to comprehend.
I heave in a thin, broken breath, letting the citrusy incense calm the swarm of moths trapped in my gut, even though the comfort feels like a lie.
The room hasn’t changed. Silk sheets still drape the bed; lamps still glow in the evening light. Evening? How much time has passed?
The sound of a latch scraping fills the silence. The door opens, and a young girl steps inside. Plain-faced, dressed in simple cream linen, she looks entirely ordinary—except for her eyes. They are two pools of molten silver, shining with a cold, piercing intensity.
She doesn’t look my way. Instead, she sets a tray beside the bed and turns to leave.
The scent of hot food stirs a hollow growl within me. My stomach complains, bitter and aching for a taste of something—anything—other than potatocake. I cave, rising to my knees and shuffling to the nightstand. I snatch the warm bread, dipping it into the oil-slick broth.
A cough snaps me out of my hunger. I turn, broth dribbling down my chin, to find her staring. The white sclera of her eyes widens. She jolts, the mere sight of me turning her into a frightened rabbit, scurrying for the door.
“Wait! My voice cracks, crumbs spilling down my chest. “Please.”
She freezes, her back to me, as if a single glance my way will condemn her to the depths of hell.
“I need…something.” I say, wiping the remnant of broth from my face. “...to draw with.”
Slowly, she turns, a deep crease forming as her brow creases. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
“When I’m…anxious, I like to draw.” I pick at the remaining bread, watching crumbs fall into my lap.
The girl’s silver-moon eyes dart back and forth, searching for an answer she isn’t authorised to give. Without a word, she bows her head and rushes out, the door closing behind her with a heavy click.
The scent of warm bread and meaty broth makes my mouth water. I don’t wait for her to return; instead I turn back to the tray and devour everything in sight.
My reflection ripples in the grease lining the bowl.
I stare, waiting for my image to shift the same way it did in the mirror back in the Hollow—but it doesn’t.
The image staring back at me doesn’t just show my face—it shows what I’ve already become.
And the thing that scares me the most—I don’t know who or what that is.
A lock clicks. The door opens once again.
But it isn’t the girl. It’s him.
Kael.
His cloak hangs open, the sharp grey uniform beneath freshly pressed—devoid of wrinkles or originality. Our journey through the underbelly of Auria leaves no trace, as if it never even happened. Runes etched into his dark leather belt glint softly, as if repelled by the darkness within me.
He stands, arms crossed over his chest as he looks down at his nose to where I still sit.
“You want to draw?” His voice is laced with sarcasm. “That’s your request?”
The map pulses harder, sending a spike of pain through my eye sockets. I wince and nod, a flush of heat spreading over my cheeks
“My hands—” I glance down at my fingers, picking the edges of the cuticles until a small spot of crimson blooms on my thumb.
I lift my chin, watching the muscle in his jaw flex.
For a second, I see it: a quick tightening around his eyes, a small fissure in his brow.
Then it’s gone, vanishing behind a mask of indifference.
Concern? No. It can’t be.
“—it helps…when I’m anxious.” I whisper. The food curdles in my stomach at the thought of begging, but my hands itch for something to do—some way to bleed these thoughts out of my head.
My shoulders hunch as my chest caves, the marble biting into my knees as he towers above me. I turn away, back to the empty bowl, afraid to see the answer on his face.
“You think I’ll hand you parchment and ink to sketch your pretty little drawings?” He steps closer, boots silent against the rug. “No. But you’ll have your charcoal.”
My head snaps up. The corner of his mouth curls as he pulls a short stick of blackened wood from inside his cloak and flicks it onto the floor.
It lands with a sharp click, settling between us.
Both of our gazes fix firmly on the stylus at my knees.
The tension in the room is deafening—a wire stretching between us, waiting for one of us to snap.
My fingers twitch. A crazed, jittery motion overtakes me as I inch towards the wood—a puppet’s dance controlled by the gnawing creature in my core. I stop, my hand curling back as his silver eyes burn into me. Watching.
“You know what I could do with this.” A smirk threatens the corners of my mouth.
Just as he’s about to turn, he pauses. “Yes. Believe me, although we have just met, I’m well aware of what your kind are capable of.”
“And yet,” I say, my gaze dropping to the blackened wood, “you still give it to me?”
His mouth curves. “Make do,” he says, a thread of wickedness curling in his tone. “If it’s so important to you.”
He turns on his heel, the silver links at his side rattling like a slow-moving river.
At the door, he pauses and glances back.
“Oh, and Seren—” The way my name stretches on his tongue causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand.
“Let those thoughts convince you to end it all you want. You’ll never succeed, no matter how hard you try. ”
He nods to the manacles, then to the runes lining the ceiling. “You aren’t our first, and most definitely won’t be our last. Both you and this room are protected. No harm can be done while you’re stuck in here.” His sneer is a dangerous promise—one that hints at ancient secrets and casual cruelty.
The door slams shut.
I stare at the charcoal stylus. It’s smokiness fills my nose, reminding me of home. Of comfort. Of Sylas.
Make do.
The walls gleam around me—white, pristine and unmarked.
I can’t wait to stain them.
* * *
I lose track of time.
The charcoal moves of its own accord, my hands frantically following the rhythm humming in my head—the map, the woman, the shadows, the crescent. I have to get it all down. I have to understand.
Black lines slither across the surfaces, venomous strokes coiling over the white and gold room. The room resists me—the light pushing back against every mark—but the charcoal obeys.
The woman’s eyes come first: dark and endless, smoke bleeding from the edges. Then her hair: smudged charcoal forming the pale, golden locks that float on a ghostly wind.
My shadows, drawn with trembling hands, pace the length of my legs. They coil with tension—or excitement; it’s hard to tell.
A final stroke, and I stop, gasping for air.
The room feels smaller now, as if it's breathing with me. Charcoal dust fills the cracks of my skin. I look down at my hands; black smudges mark the manacles. Dark against gold. My stain is everywhere and I can’t help the shadow of a smile that plays across my lips.
Focusing on the dull edge of the coal, Kael’s voice echoes in my mind: You are protected.
Like a defiant child, I place the end to my wrist, just beneath the manacle. I slice with force, but nothing happens. My skin doesn’t break. No marks form whatsoever.
Without thought, I thrust the edge into my neck, bracing for pain. But again, nothing happens. Again and again I try. But nothing. An invisible barrier prevents me from breaking out of this perfectly pristine hell hole.
A painful stillness fills the silence, holding the screams of my frustration at bay.
Kael’s voice reverberates through my mind again: Wash.
I hate that I obey him, but I do.
The bathroom is just as lavish as the bedroom—white marble, gold fixtures, a claw-footed tub gleaming beneath soft light. It’s obscene. All of it. The kind of room designed to make a person forget they were ever dirty.
Black smudges the porcelain as I turn the taps.
The scent of honeysuckle fills the air—sickly and thick.
Bubbles foam where the stream hits the water, and the corner of my mouth lifts at the memory of Sylas and me sharing our weekly soak when we were young.
The pit inside me opens wider at the realisation: all I have left of him are the memories we once shared.
The tub fills quickly. I strip away my filthy clothes, my skin shivering against the cool night air.
I sink beneath the surface. The heat bites before it yields, my muscles melting as years of tension finally release. The water clouds to a murky grey, streaked with charcoal and the remnants of home.
I lean back against the porcelain and close my eyes. The visions return—the woman, the promise.
“Free,” I whisper. The word tastes sour in the empty room.
My gaze drifts to the ceiling. A chandelier hangs above me, its crystal strands shimmering in the lamplight and fracturing in the air into expensive, heavy colours.
Even the light here feels wrong. My stomach twists at the thought of this opulence—the way they bathe in gold while my people rot in the dirt.
I sink lower, hoping the water will drown the thoughts. I let it rise until only my nose breaks the surface, muffling the world until the only sound is the rhythmic thud of my heart.
And in the quiet, a memory surfaces.
* * *
When I was little, shadows used to play with me.
They were small then—soft, shy things that danced across the floor when the light fell just right. I used to chase them, giggling as they darted away, only to circle back and brush my ankles like curious pets.
Da would laugh sometimes, though tried hard to hide it. But when Ma disappeared and people visited with their annual prayers and pity, the laughter stopped. One night, he knelt beside me and whispered: “Keep them hidden, Seren. People won’t understand.”
I didn’t. Not then.
I close my eyes tighter as the memory twists.
The shadows stopped playing when the sickness came. They started listening, staying close to me when Da coughed up blood into his hands, when Sylas screamed from fever. They curled around me like my dark guardians.
Until they hurt me.
I remember the sting of it—like glass against my skin. The way they cut me once—just once—as if to remind me of who they belonged to.
The same sting I felt at the altar.
* * *
My hands clench under the water. Bubbles rise and burst as I break the surface.
“When did you change?” I croak. “When did I?”
The shadows curl over the gold taps, silent as ever. I close my eyes, and the faint pulse of the manacles reminds me I have a new master. The Luminaries.
The silence surrounding me is a lie. A hot, simmering pressure builds behind my ribs—a heat that has nothing to do with the water and everything to do with rage. With every shallow breath, the pressure swells; a captive animal thrashing against my sternum, threatening to break free.
I can feel the clock ticking. It's only a matter of time before the cage snaps.