Chapter 12 #2
“I do not know if I can ask you to be my anchor. To bind yourself permanently to someone who might still become the thing you’re saying I am not.”
“You’re asking if I would stay even if the corruption wins?”
“Yes.”
She is quiet for a moment, thinking in a way that feels heavier than silence.
“The corruption recoils from my touch,” she finally says. “I’ve seen it. Every time we connect, it retreats. What if that’s not temporary? What if prolonged exposure actually reverses the damage?”
“That is wishful thinking.”
“Is it? Or is it a logical conclusion?”
She props herself up on one elbow, studying me like she’s not afraid of what she might find.
“Your corruption spread when you were alone. Fighting. Isolated. Then I show up, and suddenly it is retreating. Maybe you don’t need an anchor. Maybe you need a partner.”
“What you did was wrong,” she continues. “I need you to know that I understand that.”
“I do.”
“And I’m still choosing what comes next.”
Hope flickers in my chest.
Dangerous. Bright. Almost unbearable.
“Even if you are right,” I say, “the mate bond means you are tied to me now. Not by the five-year binding. Permanently. The contract can end. This will not. If you stay in Aethermoor, you will age slowly like us. But you will never be fully human again. Your world will become harder to return to. Your old life will fit less each time you try to wear it.”
“Good.”
No hesitation. Not even a breath of doubt.
“I was never good at being human, anyway.”
The words are flippant.
The grief beneath them is not.
Despite everything, despite the weight of what that means, I smile.
“No. You were not.”
She kisses me again, deeper this time, as if she has already chosen every consequence.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says against my lips. “The corruption. The rifts. All of it. Together.”
“Together,” I echo.
The word settles between us like a vow that was always waiting to be spoken.
We lie tangled in sheets after that, talking quietly in the fragile peace we have stolen for ourselves.
She tells me about her first heist. The rush. The fear. The certainty she was going to die and somehow not caring enough to stop.
I tell her about the first time I shadow-walked. Eight years old. Terrified. Ending up three realms away with no idea how to return.
Normal conversation. Soft. Almost ridiculous in its simplicity.
Like we are not what we are.
Like I am not a Shadow King, and she is not a thief bound to me by magic that reshapes fate itself.
It is perfect in a way that feels fragile.
For one impossible breath, nothing demands anything from us.
No crowns. No rifts. No bargains. No war.
Just her breathing against me and the delicate, dangerous hope that maybe we have not ruined everything by wanting this.
The explosion shatters it.
The entire building rocks violently. Windows blow inward, safety glass erupting into glittering shards.
I throw up a shield on instinct. Shadows wrap around us both, absorbing the force.
“What the hell,” Morgana starts.
Another explosion. Closer.
I am already moving. Already pulling on pants, tossing her clothes toward her.
“Get dressed. Now.”
She does not argue. She moves with sharp, practiced efficiency, every motion focused, precise.
The door explodes off its hinges.
Six figures pour through in Shadow Court armor.
My people.
But their weapons are drawn.
Pointed at us.
At me.
“Malik.”
His name tastes of betrayal.
“What is this?”
My oldest ally steps into the room.
Two hundred years I have known him. Fought beside him. Trusted him with my life more times than I can count. He was always the one who believed survival required hardness. Tradition. Sacrifice without hesitation. I used to call it loyalty.
His blade is already in his hand.
I’ve seen that blade drawn for me a hundred times.
Never against me.
His expression is cold.
“This is an intervention,” he says. “You have lost your way, old friend. That human has corrupted you.”
“Stand down.”
I let shadows gather at my feet. A warning. A promise.
“You do not want to do this.”
“Do I not?”
He gestures toward Morgana as if she is something unclean.
“Look at yourself. The great Shadow King brought low by a human thief. Risking everything for a woman who means nothing.”
“She means everything.”
The words land heavier than magic.
For a moment, even Malik hesitates.
Then his face hardens.
“And that is the problem. You are lost. I am saving our court from your folly.”
His warriors move at once.
I do not hold back.
The corruption answers too eagerly, rising with my rage as if betrayal is exactly the doorway it has been waiting for.
Shadow erupts from me like a living thing, consuming the space between us.
They chose this.
Morgana fights beside me. Her shadows are crude compared to theirs, but effective. She drops two warriors while I engage the other three.
Malik circles, waiting, calculating.
Then Morgana makes a mistake. She overextends. Leaves herself open.
Malik moves fast, experienced. His blade finds her throat before I can react.
“One move and she dies,” he says, calm as stone.
I freeze. Every instinct in me screams to tear him apart.
“She has made you weak,” Malik continues. “The Shadow King I served would never hesitate. He would sacrifice one life to save millions. But you—” His blade presses harder, drawing blood. “You will choose her every time. That is why you are unfit to rule.”
“Let her go,” I say, my voice turning to something colder than a threat. “And I will make your end quick.”
“No. I do not think so.” Malik’s smile is cold. “My master has plans. Big plans. And they do not include you repairing that mirror.”
Cold moves through me.
Not because Malik has betrayed me.
Because he has knelt to someone else.
“Who is your master?”
“Someone who understands that change requires sacrifice. That the old ways must burn for new growth.” He backs toward the shattered window, dragging Morgana with him. “The rifts aren’t a disaster. They are an opportunity. And we will not let you waste them.”
My shadows surge forward.
Malik releases Morgana and dives backward through the window.
Morgana hits the floor, rolls, and comes up with a blade in her hand, furious and breathing hard.
I reach the edge of the window and look down.
Nothing. He is gone. Shadow-walked away.
A trace of unfamiliar magic lingers in the air where he vanished. Not his. Not mine.
The remaining warriors are dead or gravely wounded. The room lies in ruins, broken stone and splintered light.
Morgana is at my side, one hand pressed to the shallow cut on her throat.
“Are you—” I start.
“I’m okay.” She does not look at me. Her eyes stay on the carnage. “That was your oldest friend?.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s working with someone who wants the rifts to stay open.”
“Yes, apparently.”
She finally turns to me. “We’re out of time, aren’t we?”
I pull her close and press my lips to her forehead. “Yes. Yes, we are.”
The traitor is revealed. The conspiracy is real.
Somewhere out there, someone powerful has turned my court against me, weaponized the rifts, and learned exactly where to strike.
We are out of time.
Out of allies.
Out of options.
But at least we are facing it together.