Chapter 3
Elira
The tunnel was tight, damp, and reeking of mould and old sewage and it went for about fifty metres. It was the kind of space that swallowed sound and hope alike. If I’d been even an inch taller—or better fed—there’s no way I would’ve fit. But for once, being small and half-starved was a blessing.
I scraped through on my elbows, each movement a slow, gritty crawl that smeared mud along my arms and soaked me to the skin.
The smell made me gag with each pull. I didn’t want to know what kind of filth I was lying in.
My breath fogged in the air, shallow and fast, and I tried not to think about what else might be slithering through the dark around me.
After what felt like hours—but was probably minutes—I dragged myself out of the tunnel’s mouth, emerging from a low, moss-choked bank that dripped with grimy water. I landed in a crouch, breath heaving, my palms stinging from the cold stone.
My clothes clung to me, soaked and freezing. Mud coated my knees, my sleeves, even a streak across my cheek. I was shaking—half from cold, half from adrenaline—but I was through.
I looked around, heart hammering, but the area was deserted.
The cat—my unexpected shadow guide—was gone.
No chirp. No flick of a tail. Just vanished, like he'd never existed in the first place.
I didn’t even get the chance to thank the little guy.
I could see the gates clearly from my low vantage point on the sodden grounds.
They had been thrown wide in honour of the king’s procession, and soldiers—so many soldiers—spilled through them in perfect formation around the first carriage.
A crimson tide, marching to the beat of the people’s fear.
The crowd lining the stone path leading up to that dark, twisted monstrosity of a castle clapped like their lives depended on it. Maybe they did.
At the rear of the procession, the first glimmer of the golden royal carriage shimmered through the trees, its high, gilded roof catching what small light remained.
In front of it, hundreds of soldiers marched in red, their armour polished to a mirror shine.
And walking in formation in front of the carriage itself were four men—tall, silent, and unmistakable in their charcoal-grey tunics.
Shades.
My blood went cold.
I ducked instantly, pressing myself into the damp earth, willing the shadows to swallow me whole. Four Shades. It may as well have been four hundred. If even one of them sensed me, it was over. No trial, no mercy. Just pain. And then silence.
I recognized all of them. You don’t survive in Varrowmere without knowing your enemies by sight.
The first was unmistakable: Leo Knight. A lion shifter of the highest order.
His golden hair was almost too bright for the world he walked through, but the sun stopped there.
His face was a map of old battles, the kind of scars that didn’t dull beauty but sharpened it to something dangerous.
His lips were full, his smile lazy and wide, and those cold golden eyes—always watching, always calculating.
He’d killed before. I’d heard the stories. I'd seen the aftermath once, in an alley not far from where I slept. I heard he didn’t just hunt people, he played with his prey.
The others weren’t as instantly recognizable, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous. I knew enough—enough to keep my head down, enough to pray I never crossed their paths.
The second in line was a fire mage, his fingertips glowing faintly even now, as if his magic lived just beneath his skin, always threatening to spill free.
They called him Phoenix, because no matter what was thrown at him—arrow, blade, spell—he always rose from the ashes, unburned.
Unstoppable. I’d heard whispers that he once walked out of a building mid-collapse, flames licking his coat, and had simply smiled.
The third moved like smoke given form. He was the tallest of the four, and the quietest—his steps were soundless even on gravel.
Two sleek swords were crossed at his back, their hilts dark and worn.
Several more daggers crossed his chest and arms. Around his wrist was a coil of steel.
They called him Slade, and not just because of the weapons.
Rumour said he could bend and meld metal with a thought, reshape iron and steel like clay.
Locks, armour, weapons—none of it safe if Slade was near.
His enemies never saw him coming. They just fell apart.
And then there was the last one. He scared me more than any of the others.
Even before I saw him clearly, I felt him. A chill ran through me like someone had dragged a knife down my spine. My heart pounded in my ears, and every instinct I had screamed at me to run—even though I knew running would only make it worse.
He had chestnut curls, cropped close to his head, and eyes the colour of polished emeralds.
His features were sharp, almost statuesque, his jaw clenched in a constant, unreadable expression.
Muscles strained beneath his tunic, his sheer presence larger than life.
He looked like he’d been carved for war—elegant, brutal, inescapable.
Thorne.
Raper of minds.
There was no power more feared than his.
He didn’t break bones. He broke thoughts.
He twisted truths. He dug into your memories and pulled the strings until you danced like a puppet to his will.
People said he could pull your secrets from your mouth with a whisper, tear apart your sanity with a look.
I dropped lower, forehead brushing the damp grass, hand splayed against the earth. I whispered to the shadows, begged them to hold me tighter.
Please. Don’t let him see me.