Chapter 60 Raven’s Sight
Raven’s Sight
Caramyn
Caramyn watched Asterious and Sinevia in the snowy glade, a strange, silent moment between them as they faced each other, appearing more like broken siblings yearning to find peace with one another rather than two enemies fighting for a kingdom.
She kept a wary eye on the prince, refusing to feel comfortable leaving his mind vulnerable at the hands of his sister. He stared into nothingness, trance-like, his body still there but his mind very much somewhere else.
And she stood there, alone in a sense, left with only the scene around her to absorb— the Lightborn Prince and the dark Queen standing like statues, locked in their trance in the midst of a circle of corpses.
And behind them, the great black void that was the Veil, churning and groaning as though it was angry it had been disturbed, as the massive tree that guarded it like a gate seemed to twist and sway.
She studied it carefully, noticing the streaks of dried blood that ran down its bark and seeped into the base of its roots.
And she noticed how the sigil on her arm bore a strong resemblance to the shape of the tree itself.
Then her eyes followed the twisting roots upward, the veiny lines reminding her of her own vine-like markings—the same one etched into the Shadowblood’s Blade—and a shudder trickled down her spine.
If she was the true weapon, what did that mean she had to do to wield herself?
Where was her power, and how was she supposed to know how to access it?
And then, as her mind swarmed with these thoughts like a panicked flock of birds, her gaze snagged on the curves of the tree’s trunk, tracing it with her eyes up midway to notice the ridges in the bark that were barely there, but clear enough to be seen by someone looking for them.
A vaguely familiar mark.
Not a mark. Not a rune. But a signature—one she swore she’d seen before, in coarse black ink at the bottom of a letter never meant to be found.
Shaped with the same curving lines as the branching roots winding through her veins.
A precise “M,” formed in sweeping strokes like the outstretched wings of a raven—the seal of Morveth.
The chilling realization stole her breath as she considered that her father and Morveth were one and the same.
The Shadowblood who warned the Lightborn of their downfall was the very same who, at Daemar’s command, sealed them behind the Veil. The same Shadowblood forced to bind all magic—even his own—away from the realm. The same Shadowblood whose mark lay hidden within her own.
And at last, she understood.
The prison was just a facade on the surface—a literal veil, hiding the truth deep within these vicious Woods—and guarding the Light locked behind it.
It was Morveth’s last stand before his destruction—not against the Lightborn, but against Daemar, and those like him with truly darkened hearts, by sealing away all magic here to protect it from those who would seek to twist it for evil, locking it beyond reach in a world being stripped of Light.
Shadowbloods were never the enemies. They were never the real evil—they were the ones holding it back.
The guardians of darkness. The balancers between Light and Shadow.
They bore the darkness where others could not.
And since the Shattering, they had been driven into solitude, feared and reviled for the very power that defined them—just as she had been.
The world believed Shadowbloods and their power were a danger. But perhaps the true danger was in their absence.
The realization struck like mist lifting from her eyes, and it became all too clear what she was meant to do.
She had spent so long believing her connection and immunity to the Shadows made her something less, something worse than even them.
But now she was more sure than ever that it was her strength, guarding what little Light still burned within her.
As she watched Sinevia invade Asterious’ mind with power never meant for her, Caramyn saw the future she would become if she failed. Sinevia was not born a monster. And neither was she.
She would guard her heart. She would resist. With power or without it. Even when the path forward wasn't clear. Even when it seemed too small to matter. Even when it felt futile or insignificant to fight back, she would not let the darkness win.
And as she looked back at Asterious, something in her understood where her next steps must lead, and what she must do in that moment.
The prince stood stiff, tensed, his back arched and his body trembling, tears pouring from his eyes. Helpless, unable to move. Unable to escape whatever horrors Sinevia was putting before him.
She knew he’d asked for this. But something was wrong.
Sinevia had shown him the truth, and now she was not letting go.
He’d shown her he was strong enough to tame the beast, and now she was going to try and awaken it by force.
And as Asterious’ body quaked and shivered, Caramyn reached for the sword in his hand.
Nocthar screeched above, battering his wings and circling with his warning call. And the moment she reached for the sword, he dove down in front of her as a crossbolt fired from somewhere in the Woods.
In a burst of black feathers, Nocthar dropped to the ground, his body pierced through by an arrow. Gone as quickly as one beat of his wings, he’d taken the shot meant for her without hesitation.
From the direction of the arrow, Wryan crawled out of the forest, his blood trailing across the shallow snow, just enough life remaining in him to have been lurking in the shadows, waiting for the moment to strike.
He held the crossbolt tucked beneath his arm, dragging himself along the ground with the other before he collapsed from the effort.
Of course he’d found Asterious, and of course Asterious had no other choice but to leave him alive. But she was not bound to grant him the same mercy. And at the sight of her beloved raven, impaled, gasping and flailing at her feet, she drew her own arrow and stormed over to Wyran.
With the tip of her boot, she nudged the underside of his jaw, forcing him to look upward.
Wyran spat blood as he glanced past her at Asterious still trapped within Sinevia’s trance. “Looks like the dog will not be able to save his bitch after all.”
“Now I know why the Shadows let you get this far,” Caramyn hissed, bowstring pulled taut and aimed at his head. “So I could put you down myself.”
“You can end me, but you and your kind will always be remembered as the villains of the story.” A cold smile crept across Wyran’s pale lips.
“Perhaps, but you will never again have the chance to help rewrite it.” She’d barely finished the words before she released the arrow. Directly into the space between his eyes.
She turned, ran, and dropped to her dying raven’s side, overwhelmed at the disasters unfolding from every angle.
“No…no! Nocthar…no,” she stammered through tears, pulling the gasping bird into her lap.
His frantic breaths slowed. And she swore she could almost feel the small, waning patter of his heart.
His movements stilled, as though her touch calmed him in his final moments.
He turned his head, his glassy black eye reflecting the swirling void around them, and made an effort to curl his talons around her finger just before his body went limp.
She couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t see through the tears.
Her raven was dead. Her guardian, her watchdog, her very eyes.
He’d guided her through every turn of the seasons for the past five years.
He’d led her to fresh water, to prey, and warned her of danger more times than she could count.
And now he’d given his life for hers in one final, ultimate act of loyalty.
And now failing the Shadows, leaving the Veil vulnerable, were no longer options.
Nocthar’s sacrifice would not be in vain.
Some power in her was awakening, and she no longer feared the consequences of using it.
And if Sinevia thought she could hold Asterious captive in his own mind and force him to succumb to his curse, she would face the wrath of the last Shadowblood.
She would find a way to break him free before the beast did.
And that’s when she noticed it. Nocthar’s body in her lap became weightless.
His night-black feathers faded like smoke, dissolving into the air as it coiled upward into nothing—into the Veil.
She grasped at his vanishing form, desperate to keep him with her, but within mere seconds he had become mist, drifting past her, past Asterious and Sinevia, and toward the great Shadow abyss before them.
Before his last feather fizzled out, she reached out in one last attempt to secure a piece of him.
The feather became a ribbon of shadow, wrapping itself around her hand as it twisted to reveal the faintest shimmering pulse of some amethyst and onyx magic for the length of a heartbeat before it snaked its way across her eyes and slithered down into the mark on her arm. And then she blinked.
“I created Nocthar,” she whispered under her breath.