22. Kael
KAEL
The day ends the way it always does in Auria: with light pretending it never fades.
I’ve spent hours drafting the report for Riven, and it’s early nightfall by the time I finish. The ink dries unevenly where my hand shakes—fatigue, not fear, I tell myself.
I omit the part where I tried to intervene.
The parchment curls as it dries, the filigree of the Sun House crest catching the lamplight.
I sign my name in an unbroken scrawl, roll the sheet, and press the aureate wax seal into place.
One report for Riven, one copy for the Triarch.
No doubt after today’s performance, they’ll want to see her in person.
I hate that I know the protocol so well.
The war drum of the past still beats beneath the surface. Even now, a century later, Auria thrives on the myth of its own salvation. Every decree, every trial, every burning is written as mercy. We call it peace, but I know what peace smells like; polish and decay.
After years of studying the shadows, I know how deep the lie runs. It’s ingrained so thoroughly into the fabric of society that no one remembers what is real and what is merely a disguise.
My hand fumbles in my pocket, the miren crystal warming against my palm. I step to the window of the Archives and look out over the golden city.
It unfurls below like a tapestry stitched in gold thread. Streets are veins of light; the towers gleam as if the sun were still caught in their tips. From here, I can almost see the entrance to the tunnels that lead to the Hollow—a bruise at the base of the world.
I know I shouldn’t look, but I always do. It’s where I first saw what the light left behind.
The flame sputters within my core, my mark pulsing at the memory; a faint warmth beneath my glove, the same colour as her shadows. I press a thumb into the ache until it stops.
They say the war began because the gods couldn’t agree on who owned the sky. Solan believed the darkness was a fracturing of the soul; to succumb to the void was to submit to weakness, chaos and corruption. How could the strength of the sun collapse so easily under the weight of the dark?
The Veiled Mother believed in a balance where purity and order cannot coexist without chaos and weakness.
Fearing the growing dominion of her mortal dreams, Solan brought about the War of Sun and Shadow, shattering her divine essence into three, and cleansing all who whispered to the old faith—those who ‘bent to the fragility of their own minds.’
The Hollow was born to house the non-conformists.
Solan’s will became law, ridding the world of those who practiced memory magic, shadowcraft and balance.
Now, they live in our shadow, tending to Auria’s underground network with a plague that has spread through their tunnels, dooming generations to forced labour and slow decay.
That is the version they teach. It isn’t the one I’ve seen.
People like Seren, or those that carry the dark mark, are proof that the darkness still breathes. She said it herself today: her people know suffering. She isn’t wrong.
I glance down at the sealed report. The words inside feel like the lies the Triarch always twists. They will call the artifacts destruction ‘containment failure,’ never what it truly was: resistance.
I think of Riven—his wine-stained lips that look like blood—and his voice echoes in my mind: Purity through pain. I see the scholars behind their translucent panels again, their pens scratching her agony into their ledgers.
The Triarch will want to strike while she’s weak, expediting the process to meet tomorrow. Riven will stand before them—gilded and composed—claiming control over a phenomenon he still doesn’t understand. Not like I do. The mark on my wrist prickles in acknowledgement.
And ever the obedient shadow-scholar, I’ll stand at his side, delivering data like scripture.
When they ask for recommendations, I’ll say exactly what is expected: further testing, stronger containment, reinforced manacles.
But another version of the answer forms behind my teeth: You cannot contain what was here before you named the light.
My walls are lined with books, shelves heavy with sanctioned histories. But behind them lies the one I’m not supposed to have—banned volumes salvaged from my time in the Hollow, charred at the edges but still breathing ink.
The war outlawed shadow-work in every sense, both the literal and the prophesied. Anyone found consuming these materials, or praying to the gods of night was destroyed. Holding them now would be enough to end me. They tell us what we need to know about the shadows.
I close my eyes, leaning my head against the windowpane as my thoughts turn to Seren. Beneath the chandelier, shadows rising like a tide, light bending around her instead of consuming her. It didn’t look like corruption. It looked like stability.
A knock pulls me from the dark. “Scholar Kael,” a guard's voice drones. “High Commander Riven summons you.”
Of course he does. The report was only an invitation.
I grip the scroll tight and take one last look out the window. The city glows, its sky tinged with ambient light that hides more than it reveals. That is the secret of Auria: it teaches you to fear the dark, then blinds you with its absence.
“Coming.”
The mark on my wrist warms in reply—a pulse that has only grown more persistent from the moment I laid eyes on her.
* * *
Riven’s chambers always smell of wine and burning sugar—a sweetness enough to rot the air.
As I enter, he stands by the window with drapes half-drawn, watching the evening collect over his city.
The light from the crystal chandelier paints the white marble pink; everything looks softer than it is. Including him.
“Kael,” he drawls, his back still turned. “I trust you’ve filed the reports?”
I hold out the sealed parchments. “One for you. One for the Triarch.”
He pivots slowly—a predator unhurried by its prey.
The lamplight gilds the curve of his jaw, but his eyes are flat, the gaze of a man built entirely of polished surfaces.
He takes the scrolls, his finger tracing the seal of the one destined for him.
“Your handwriting is sloppy. I hope you haven’t rushed this. ”
“I’m tired.”
He smiles, faint and reptilian. “I’m not surprised, after that catastrophe.”
“It wasn’t a catastrophe,” I bite back. “It was a reaction.”
His brow furrows, the corners of his mouth turning downward. “Reaction. An interesting word for destruction of a relic passed down since the age of Solan.”
Silence follows, as heavy as the crystal that holds his wine.
“Containment runes failed. Your subject nearly collapsed the room! I would call that a catastrophe.” Riven steps closer, lifting the decanter to pour a heavy serving of wine. The fruity, fermented scent fills the space between us.
“I hope you’re not getting too attached. I know you have a tendency to empathise with these…creatures.”
I go still, his words cutting like a blade. “In order to understand them, one must think like them,” I say, keeping my voice nonchalant.
He edges around his desk, crowding my space. “She screamed your name. Do you remember that?”
My pulse spikes. I can’t stop the slight twitch of my eye. “She screamed because you were hurting her.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Semantics.”
“I don’t study semantics,” I say, tightly. “I study behaviour. She reacted to provocation—exactly what you were after.”
“The manacles were built perfectly! No one has ever broken them—not like anyone even had the chance.” He laughs under his breath, a sound without humour. “Perfect until they met her. That’s what intrigues me the most.”
Riven moves back behind his desk, unsealing the parchment with a flick of his thumb. He scans the page. “You describe her shadows as protective. An interesting choice. Most would have said violent.”
“I used the correct term.”
He glances up, his eyes gleaming with that sick light I’ve come to dread. “Protective of whom, exactly? Herself or…you? It was your name on her lips, Kael.”
The question hangs between us like smoke. I force my jaw to unclench. “She’s responding to pain, not me. I happen to be the one who she has seen the most. It has likely painted me as her saviour.”
“Hmm.” He reads a line from my report. “Subject demonstrated signs of internal resonance; manacle runes destabilised.” He taps the parchment. “You see what this means, don’t you?”
“That her power and our containment draw from a similar source.”
“Yes,” Riven whispers. “Light and shadow—siblings pretending to be enemies.” His finger presses harder into the parchment until the skin whitens. “Imagine what we could do if we understood it.”
I know exactly what he means. Cutting. Opening. Peeling back layers until the divine shrieks.
“You plan to request another trial? With the Triarchs?”
“Of course,” he says, his tone dismissive of my questioning. “A phase no shadowborne has ever reached. Phase Three: Control through Communion.”
He looks radiant—a priest at the altar of his own obsession. “If she truly carries the goddess, we will wake it. I’ll have her on her knees before the Triarch by tomorrow.”
My throat tightens. “That soon?”
The corners of his mouth lift, baring wine-stained teeth. “Strike while she is weak.”
“What if she doesn’t survive?”
“Then we do what we always do, boy. We record the results and move on. What’s inside the Vessel is the objective, and if that proves unsuccessful, then its contents are secondary.”
There it is again—that word. Vessel. Contents. As if Seren’s soul means nothing.
It strips her of breath. Of will. Of blame.
He folds the parchment neatly, sliding it into a golden tube before sealing it with the crest of the High Commander. “I’ll deliver this to the Triarch myself,” he says. “They appreciate a…personal touch.”
Rather him than me.
“Your kind of touch,” I mutter.
Riven’s head snaps up, pulled from his fantasies. “What was that, boy?”
“Nothing, sir.”
He rises, circling me with that same warped fascination he showed her. “You’re pale, Kael. Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time in the shadows.”
I press my lips into a thin line. “As I said, sir. I’m tired.”
“Ah.” He stops in front of me, tilting his head. “Tell me—when she screams, what do you feel? Disgust? Pity? Or does she sound like a hymn?”
My breath hitches into short, shallow gasps. “I feel—” I say, measuring every syllable, “what any scholar should: curiosity and restraint.”
“Curiosity without restraint built Auria,” he replies. “And it will build the next age with her resonance—if she is truly the chosen one.” He leans close enough that the wine on his breath burns. “Don’t let sentiment spoil your gift. You were chosen for your mind, not your mercy.”
He pats the gold tube, his smile thin, the skin around his eyes drawn taut. “I’ll see the Triarch tonight. Prepare the girl for transport at first light. They will want to see her miracle up close.”
As I turn to leave, he calls after me, almost jovial. “And Kael?” I pause, my body already poised for the door. “Make sure she’s clean again. The Triarch prefer their relics polished.”
The door closes, muffling Riven’s laughter. I stand in the hall until my heartbeat stops ringing in my ears.
Clean. As if purity were anything but the residue of blood scrubbed from marble.
The lamps burn low, their glass casings etched with runes that shimmer faintly. Through them, Auria gleams—flawless, endless, false. The city calls itself the crown of creation, but every jewel hides a crack.
Seren enters my thoughts again, her wrists raw, her eyes bright even under the weight of her fear. Light and shadow—siblings pretending to be enemies.
Riven isn’t wrong about that part.
Tomorrow, I’ll bring her before the Triarch.
Tomorrow, the goddess they fear might finally look back.