Shadow Legacy
1. CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
N ever in her wildest dreams would Rowan have imagined that the fate of everyone she loved would depend on her crawling inside a tiny, claustrophobia-inducing box while it descended beneath the frozen northern tundra.
With each passing moment, she grew increasingly restless as the air inside the pitch-black space became thick and stifling. Rowan tried to shift, but her knees bumped into the hardwood on one side, her back scraping against the other. She hastily brushed strands of long, silver-blonde hair out of her eyes and yelped as her elbow hit the side panel with a painful thud.
The structure shuddered violently and dropped several feet all at once. Panic clawed at her, gnawing ravenously at her sanity as the confined space became her universe. A universe that was rapidly shrinking around her. She drew in ragged breaths, each sounding too loud in the deafening silence.
Keep it together, Rowan . She tried to regain control over her mounting panic, but couldn’t stop mentally screaming as the small, rickety box jerked and plunged lower. The darkness was so oppressive, so complete, it felt like a living entity, closing in around her.
Suffocating her.
After what seemed like an eternity, the dumbwaiter lurched to a halt. Relying on touch alone, she yanked open the sliding door, desperate for a breath of fresh air. A chill bit into her flesh as she clambered out of the box. Rowan fumbled around until her fingers grazed a torch hanging on the wall. She struck a flint and had to resist the urge to collapse with relief as the darkness dissipated, restoring her sight .
If you’d asked her only a few weeks ago about her future, she could never have predicted she would become a cat burglar. Yet here she was, breaking into a storage room beneath the permafrost, using a long-forgotten dumbwaiter to bypass the locks.
Dusty crates and barrels filled the makeshift room carved into the rocky earth. The scent of damp soil permeated the air. The space wasn’t exactly inviting, but it served its purpose. For the past few weeks, Rowan had been stealing provisions in the dead of night and stockpiling them until she had enough to run away from the orphanage with as many children in tow as possible.
She rushed to gather supplies, making sure not to take enough to arouse suspicion.
It will be worth it. I only need to do this a few more times. Rowan attempted to psych herself up before making the nightmarish journey back up in the dumbwaiter. With the arch patriarch’s nightly bed checks looming, she had to hurry.
After hiding her stash, she tiptoed toward the girls’ dormitory. Just as she was about to round the last corner, she froze. The familiar whistling tune of Arch Patriarch Williams echoed through the silent hallway, making her blood run cold.
Frantically searching for a hiding spot, Rowan’s eyes landed on a wooden storage chest shoved into an alcove, its latch broken from years of misuse. Without sparing another second, she squirmed into the cramped space, praying that she would escape his notice.
She had to bend her body in unnatural and uncomfortable angles to fit. Her face was smashed up against the filthy interior of the chest, and her nostrils flared as they were assaulted by the pungent scent of rotting wood and mildew. Her heart pounded frantically against her ribs as the eerie tune grew louder.
Why is he making his rounds so early tonight?
Minutes seemed to stretch into hours, but in reality, only seconds passed. Rowan gritted her teeth and willed herself to be as silent as the grave. A shiver crept down her spine when his boots scraped against the stone floor just outside her hiding place. She held her breath, eyes wide open in the blackened chest.
Her heart seized as she heard him pause. The whistling stopped and the air became dense around her, as though she could physically feel his gaze probing the darkness. He was close; so close that Rowan could hear him draw breath and then let it out in a long sigh.
She was paralyzed by fear. The sound of her pulse drumming seemed impossibly loud, and she worried the arch patriarch would hear it. He let out a heavy cough, followed by the sound of a striking flint, and the scent of burnt tobacco wafted through the tiny cracks in the wood. She held her breath, trying to suppress a sudden urge to sneeze.
Rowan waited for what felt like an eternity until the sounds of his footsteps faded into the distance before she finally dared to suck in a breath, her lungs burning for air. She emerged from her hiding place, grateful that the arch patriarch had decided to check the boys’ dormitory first.
Rowan sprinted to the girls’ dormitory, collapsing onto her mattress in relief. That was far too close for comfort.
Moonlight seeped in through the grime-streaked windows, casting an unsettling aura over the cramped rows of beds. Her heartbeat still thundered in her ears. Rowan wrapped her thin, worn blanket around her legs, trying to ward off the unrelenting chill. The cold was a constant presence this far north, with winter dragging on for close to seven months every year.
She shifted to retrieve a small leather pouch from underneath her lumpy mattress. Opening it gingerly, she let the aged parchment within slide into her hand. She closed her eyes and traced the strange symbol with the tip of her finger, allowing herself to fall into the familiar ritual. Not for the first time, she questioned why it had been given to her. It must have a purpose.
From a young age, Rowan had always been told she was unwanted and abandoned, but something about that explanation had never felt quite right to her. Occasionally, snippets of memory would resurface unexpectedly—a female voice singing a lullaby, the feeling of being cradled in someone’s arms, the image of a woman’s smile. In those fleeting moments, Rowan felt a deep sense of love that renewed her hope for a better tomorrow.
Twenty-one now, she’d aged out of the orphanage several years ago. But she had been forced to stay on as Williams’ indentured servant to repay her debt to the Institute of the Brotherhood for the “privilege” of being fed and housed as a child. It was no secret that Williams had always had his eye on her, but at least the former arch patriarch had managed to keep him somewhat in check. Rowan would take a few lashes over Williams’ roaming hands any day of the week.
Everything had changed a few weeks ago when that monster took over the role of arch patriarch, giving him complete reign over the orphanage, and the lives within it.
Rowan felt an odd sensation tingling in her fingertips. She watched in disbelief as the symbol on the parchment began to glow: a soft blue radiance that gradually intensified. Startled, she jerked her hand away as if scalded, and the glow vanished .
Hesitantly, she traced the symbol again, but nothing happened. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. I really need to get to sleep. With a sigh, she returned the pouch to its hiding place and drew the flimsy blanket around her slender frame. Rowan turned onto her side, her back to the door as she listened to the haunting wails of the wind rattling the windowpane.
At the muffled sounds of Arch Patriarch Williams’ whistling and the click of the door handle turning, she curled into a tight ball. The door creaked open slowly and she snapped her eyes shut. Feeling like a frightened rabbit trapped beneath a hawk’s gaze, she had to will herself to lie still and breathe evenly.
A few more moments passed before the door clicked shut and the arch patriarch’s footsteps retreated. Rowan allowed herself to relax and nestle deeper into the warmth of her thin blanket. She closed her eyes once again, this time to escape her life through the refuge of dreams.
Her attempt to drift off was cut short by the shrill sound of a whimpering cry. Rowan rolled over and saw Emma, the youngest of the orphans, trembling in her bed. The child’s nightmare was most likely caused by the arch patriarch’s chilling melody. Without hesitation, Rowan scurried over to her.
“Shh, Em,” she whispered soothingly, pulling Emma’s shuddering body into her arms. With practiced ease, Rowan gently rocked them both back and forth. She patted Emma’s tousled auburn hair in an effort to comfort her. “Shhh . . . it’s all right. You’re safe.”
Emma clung tighter, her tiny fingers digging into Rowan’s side as she buried her tear-streaked face into the crook of her neck. “C-could you . . .” Emma began, but trailed off as another sob wracked her delicate frame.
“Would you like me to tell you a story?” Rowan offered, and was rewarded with a small nod.
She tugged the threadbare blanket up to cover them both and wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders. With the crisis averted for now, Rowan began a tale she knew would distract Emma.
“Imagine a world far beyond the Kingdom of Borealia,” she whispered. “A world brimming with mythical beings like witches, vampires, and mermaids, just waiting to be discovered by a daring adventurer like you.”
It didn’t take long for Emma to forget about her nightmare and become entranced by Rowan’s words. For a few brief moments of laughter and wide-eyed wonder, the suffocating misery faded away, replaced by the power of a story.