Chapter 18
SHADOW FALLS
Kaan
The battle narrows to a single point of focus—the blade driving through Zoran's armor, the shock blooming across his face, the way his sword slips from suddenly nerveless fingers.
Then Nesilhan screams.
The sound tears through the chaos like a physical force, raw and agonized and utterly broken.
Across the thread between us—that connection forged in blood and shadow and something deeper than either—I feel her terror crash over me like a wave.
It's not fear for herself. It's something far more primal, more devastating.
Her brother is dying.
My shadows erupt outward in response to her pain, a tsunami of darkness that swallows the guard who stabbed Zoran. The man doesn't even have time to scream before my power crushes him, armor and bone and flesh compacting into something unrecognizable.
"ZORAN!" She's running before I can stop her.
Magic be damned, she said. Exhaustion be damned.
She's going to get herself killed.
I move to intercept her path, shadows clearing a corridor through the remaining guards. A soldier lunges for her exposed side. My darkness simply manifests as a spike that punches through his chest cavity, lifting him off his feet before discarding him like refuse.
Another guard. Another death. My shadows are extensions of my rage now, operating on pure instinct, fueled by the terror bleeding through our connection.
Ten guards stand between Nesilhan and her brother. They're about to become corpses.
The first two go down to concentrated blasts of shadow that cave in their skulls.
The third manages to raise his sword before tendrils of darkness wrap around his throat and squeeze until vertebrae crack.
Four and five die together, impaled on spears of solid shadow that erupt from the blood-soaked ground.
I'm vaguely aware of Emir fighting somewhere to my right, of Elcin's battle-cry cutting through the chaos. Yasar's fire-shadow magic flares in my peripheral vision.
But none of it matters. Nothing matters except clearing the path to Zoran, except keeping Nesilhan alive long enough to reach him.
She's almost there. Five steps away. Three.
Blood. Gods, so much blood spreading beneath Zoran's body.
"NO!" Nesilhan reaches for her magic, but she's spent. We're all spent. There's nothing left to give.
That's when I feel it building—the explosive potential of magic pushed too far, about to snap back with catastrophic force.
I don't think. Don't plan. Don't calculate.
I just react.
My shadows detonate outward in a shockwave of pure force, a blast powerful enough to level everything within fifty feet. And in the same heartbeat, I wrap darkness around Nesilhan, around Zoran, around each of our people, and pull.
Teleportation tears at reality itself. It costs more power than I have left to spend. But we're moving, shifting through space in that sickening lurch that makes mortal stomachs rebel.
When we materialize in the war room, I'm already falling to my knees beside Zoran.
The stillness is jarring after the chaos. My ears ring with phantom sounds—steel on steel, screams, the wet sounds of blades finding flesh.
But here, now, there's just Zoran's labored breathing. Too fast. Too shallow. Too weak.
I press my hands against the wound, feeling hot blood pulse between my fingers with each faltering heartbeat. The blade found the gap in his armor perfectly—a professional's strike, designed to kill.
"Healers!" The word rips from my throat. "Someone get the healers NOW!"
My shadows respond to the desperation, surging outward to find the nearest healer, to drag them here if necessary.
Nesilhan crashes to the floor beside me, her legs giving out completely. Her hands shake as she reaches for Zoran, grasping his hand like it's the only thing tethering her to reality.
"Zoran." Her voice breaks on his name.
“Nesilhan,I can't—I can't feel—"
"Shh, don't talk." She's crying now, tears cutting tracks through the blood and grime coating her face. "You're going to be fine. The healers are coming. They're going to fix you. You're going to be fine."
She's babbling. I know she's babbling. But the alternative is silence, accepting the possibility of loss.
I keep pressure on the wound even though I can feel how badly it's torn—the blade didn't just puncture, it ripped. Liver damage. Possibly kidney. Internal bleeding that no amount of external pressure will stop.
The others materialize around us as my teleportation magic brings them through one by one. Emir stumbles, catches himself against the war table. Elcin appears next, wild-eyed and breathing hard. Then Yasar, looking haggard.
They stand in a loose circle, watching, and the silence is suffocating.
The healers finally burst through the door—three of them, robes streaming behind them, hands already beginning to glow with that soft golden light.
"Massive blood loss," the lead healer mutters, her hands hovering over the wound. Her face tightens. "Punctured liver, possibly the kidney. Internal bleeding is severe."
"Can you save him?" The question comes out harsher than I intend, edged with barely controlled violence.
She doesn't answer immediately. Her magic pours into Zoran's body, golden light seeping into the wound. Sweat beads on her forehead from the effort.
"I don't know," she finally says.
Three words. Just three words.
"No." Nesilhan shakes her head violently, still gripping Zoran's hand. “You save him. You hear me? You save him."
The healer doesn't acknowledge the threat. She just works, her companions joining her, their combined magic creating a nimbus of golden light that bathes Zoran's broken body.
I step back, giving them room to work, my hands dripping with Zoran's blood. Still warm. Still fresh. Still screaming evidence of how badly we miscalculated, how thoroughly we were outmaneuvered.
This was always a trap. We just walked into it anyway.
Emir moves to my side. "How bad?" he asks quietly.
"Bad enough that three healers don't know if he'll make it."
His jaw tightens. "It was always going to be a trap. Taren wanted us out of the palace. Wanted us isolated and surrounded."
"And we gave him exactly what he wanted." The words taste bitter. "How many did we lose?"
"Unknown. We scattered during the retreat. Some made it back, some..." He trails off. Some are dead in those ruins. Some were captured. Some are fleeing with enemy forces in pursuit.
We didn't just lose this battle. We lost people. Resources. Strategic advantage.
I glance at Nesilhan, still clutching Zoran's hand, her lips moving in what might be prayer or plea or promise. I feel the maelstrom of her emotions—terror, guilt, rage, desperation.
She blames herself. Just like I blame myself for not seeing the trap sooner.
"They're stabilizing him," one of the healers announces, and the relief that floods through Nesilhan nearly buckles my knees.
She lets out a sob—half laugh, half cry—and presses Zoran's hand to her forehead. "You're fighting," she whispers. "Of course you're fighting. You stubborn ass."
Elcin sinks into a chair, her sword clattering to the floor. Blood seeps from a dozen small wounds. Yasar leans against the far wall, his clothes torn and scorched. For once, there's no sardonic commentary. Just exhaustion.
We look like what we are—survivors of a massacre, barely held together by sheer stubbornness and rapidly depleting reserves of power.
"We can't win this war," I say quietly, the admission costing me more than any spell I cast tonight. "Not like this. Not against Taren's endless reinforcements."
Everyone turns to look at me. Emir's expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the agreement in his eyes.
"Then what do you propose?" Elcin asks, her voice rough with exhaustion.
The answer comes to me with the crystalline clarity of desperation. "The Twilight Eclipse is tomorrow night. Both courts' magic will weaken. The Veil Between becomes accessible—the only time it's possible to cross safely."
Understanding dawns across Nesilhan's face. "Banu," she breathes.
I nod. "If she's truly trapped there, tomorrow night is our only chance to reach her. And if we can free her..." I pause. "The fae have power that predates both courts. Power that doesn't play by the same rules. If anyone can help us turn this war, it's them."
"You're talking about entering a realm that exists between life and death," Emir says slowly. "A place where reality itself becomes fluid."
"I'm talking about survival," I counter. "Ours, and everyone in this gods-forsaken realm who's counting on us to stop Taren's butchery."
"I'm coming with you." Nesilhan's voice cuts through any further debate. It's not a request. Simply an immutable fact.
I turn to face her, ready to argue. But the look in her eyes stops the words in my throat.
She's not asking for permission. She's informing me of her decision.
And looking at her now—bloodied and exhausted but unbowed, her grip still fierce on Zoran's hand—I realize that arguing would be pointless. We made a promise. Together. That was the word we chose.
"Together," I say, and she nods.
"I'm going too." Elcin pushes herself upright, wincing. "You'll need someone who understands the old magic. My people have stories about the Veil."
"As do mine," Yasar adds quietly. "And my fire-shadow magic might be useful in a place where normal rules don't apply."
I want to refuse him. But he's not wrong. In a realm of impossible physics, his particular brand of wrong magic might be exactly what we need.
"Fine," I say. "The four of us will enter the Veil tomorrow night during the Eclipse."
"My lord—" Emir starts.
"No." I cut him off before he can volunteer. "I need you here. Someone has to hold the Shadow Court together if we don't make it back. Someone has to protect Zoran while he heals. Someone has to keep Taren from walking through our front door."