Mitu

The roses were waxy white. The air was heavy with the sweetness of petals and the coldness of damp earth.

Pushing through the thorny branches, she scratched her legs and arms on the sharp gravel but didn’t stop.

The door was unlocked. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She stepped inside — and froze.

“Ava. I brought you your favorite flowers. Every time I look at them, they remind me of your eyes. You know, today I dreamed that you woke up. You were laughing. I wanted to erase everything around us and leave only that moment. But then I woke up…” A pause. “More and more thoughts are eating at me. Bad thoughts. I don’t want you to hear them.”

In the center of the small, dim room, on a stone altar, lay a girl. Many would have called her perfect — and they would probably be right. Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight filtering through the stained-glass window. Golden hair spilled over the stone.

To Azara, she seemed too beautiful — beautiful in the way a monument was. Frozen in eternal reproach to the living. She wanted to look away, not to defile something so sacred.

Her gaze shifted to the man. His irises glowed faintly in the moonlight — thin silver lines. But that wasn’t what caught her attention. It was the tears on his cheeks — tears he didn’t even seem to notice — as he touched the sleeping angel’s face with a trembling hand.

Not a demon, she thought with sudden certainty. Something ancient.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

The voice echoed off the walls — clearly not meant for the sleeping girl.

Azara flinched and bolted for the exit, scraping her hands against the stone walls. She tried to catch her breath, but her throat was tight, clogged with something thick.

A shadow fell over her before she heard the footsteps.

“Had your fill?”

Fingers dug into her wounded shoulder.

She grabbed his hand in return — to keep herself grounded.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to —”

“You’re all the same, you chosen ones.” He cut her off. “Sticking your noses where they don’t belong. Thinking everything is allowed. Thinking you understand. That you can heal. But no. You just leave filth behind you everywhere you go. Just like your king.”

In that moment, she saw it in him. The same deep, incurable fracture she carried in herself.

The next words came out before she could stop them.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like?” She laughed — and there was nothing holy in it. “Pretending to be alive? I do it every day. It doesn’t help, does it?” Her eyes, clouded with pain, suddenly became piercingly clear.

His grip on her shoulder tightened. Then, as if burned, he jerked away. His face twisted — revulsion, panic, and something else. That he had been understood.

Into the silence, thick with the stench of rotting roses, the Lord of Shadows stepped soundlessly.

From the Archivist’s notes

There are wounds that don’t heal.

There are wounds that become home.

And I’ve learned that the only difference between a man and a beast

is that a man can choose which shit to live in.

Chapter 3

Kris

Darl emerged from the trees like a ghost, his cold gaze fixed on Kris — deliberately sliding past the pale building behind him. Even though it held their shared guilt.

The Lord stepped toward the girl and helped her up without a word. Had he heard their argument? Kris didn’t care. All he wanted was to run.

He turned and fled, leaving the garden and its questioning stares behind.

It’s going to be my fault again, flashed through his mind. In Darl’s eyes, it’s always my fault.

The road twisted and turned until the sound of the ocean drowned out the voices in his head — voices that only fell silent at the water’s edge. It was easier to breathe, at least for a while. But those moments were painfully rare.

The shore met him with slippery boulders that immediately stained his clothes. Not that it mattered anymore. Now, the outside matched the inside: salt biting into the scratches left by the garden roses. Burning.

Kris clenched his teeth, inhaling the scent of seaweed — the same smell that had hung in the air the last time Ava opened her eyes.

The abscess in his chest wasn’t a metaphor. It scratched at him from within, like a living thing desperate to break free.

Avalita. A name forbidden within these castle walls. The moment he’d seen her in the Citadel, Kris had known: there was no going back to his old life. An angel. Something he hadn’t known how to value in time.

A pure creature who had become his everything — and then shattered into pieces the day Darl first used his beast’s power. Every new conflict between the Light and the Shadows left thin, web-like cracks on her heart. Kris had begged Darl to stop, but the Lord — consumed by his hunger for freedom and power — hadn’t listened. Now, he pretended she had never existed.

Her skin, once shimmering like mother-of-pearl in the sun, now resembled pale, smooth wax. In the moonlight, Kris sometimes thought he saw a tear rolling down her cheek — but it was only moisture seeping through a crack in the ceiling. She couldn’t cry anymore. She could only be preserved — like an ideal they had all poisoned together.

Kris came to her every day, trying to reach her, to beg for forgiveness. She faded slowly. And he kept remembering that day: waiting for her at the altar, watching her walk toward him in her silk dress — and then the snap. Quiet. Dry. The moment the world stopped being what it had been.

Kris kicked a stone, watching it disappear into the raging waves.

“Forgive us,” he said, clutching her pendant — the one he always carried with him. Proof that something inside him was still alive.

A figure flickered at the edge of the slope. Red hair tossing in the wind, a dress clinging to thin shoulders. She was staring at the water, motionless. Unaware of him.

His first thought was of Darl. Of course, he was somewhere nearby. Watching. Not interfering. The Lord of Shadows, motherfucker, standing there while his prisoner admired the cliff.

Screw it, Kris thought. I’m not just going to sit here. What if she actually jumps?

Stones crumbled beneath his feet. Wind whistled in his ears as he made his way up. When he finally reached her, he sat down beside her without asking permission.

“If you’re thinking of throwing yourself off,” he said, staring at the horizon, “better do it from the tower. Here, you’ll just scratch your face.”

Her mismatched eyes showed no surprise. No anger. Only silence — the same silence as the sea.

“You first. I’ll follow.”

A smile tugged at his lips. Not offended. Understanding.

“Is no one looking for you?” he asked casually. “No one at all?”

“I fed them all to the monsters. So, the position for a friend is open. Interested?”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t leave.

“First time by the sea?” He could see the way she watched the waves. With something like reverence.

“This close,” Azara whispered. “Yes.”

Her gaze was fixed on the horizon — where the sky met the water. It looked like the end of the world. Or maybe the beginning.

“I watch it every time,” Kris said. “And I feel like a speck of something bigger. Like nothing matters anymore. And I just want to dissolve into it.”

“So I’m not the only one without friends?”

He just shook his head, then stood, brushing off his pants. He looked down at her — no pity, no mockery. He still didn’t understand what he felt for this girl.

“Now I see why,” he said. Then, after a pause: “Don’t stay out too long. Dinner will be ready soon.”

He walked down without looking back. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw her silhouette still there. In the bushes above, a shadow stirred.

Kris smirked into his collar.

Keep watching, Lord. Keep watching.

Three moons flickered in the sky, lighting his way. Somewhere in the castle, new lights were kindling. But his mind was fixed on only one thing: what kind of story did this girl have, that she could understand him?

Trying to avoid both Darl and the garden — where Azara had now become a frequent visitor — Kris started spending his days in the archives of the main tower.

One day, he discovered to his dismay that he wasn’t alone there. Darl had given Azara access — supposedly out of boredom. But Kris knew the truth: he wanted to study the nature of her powers. To show her that here, she could be accepted.

Used.

Kris sat on a bench in the dusty hall, where centuries of history reeked of decay. On the shelves, like dried organs in jars, stood tomes bound in leather — the origins of which he preferred not to think about.

The girl ran her fingers over the lines with a morbid fascination, and Kris watched her gaze move across the letters. A familiar revulsion stirred inside him. Reading made him think. Made him return to Ava. To that day when the light had gone out in her eyes, and the words in the books had blurred, losing their meaning.

But he noticed something interesting: Darl had started checking reports in the library instead of in his own wing. And always at the same time the girl was studying the scrolls. Coincidence? Of course. Or maybe he just happened to be in the corridor whenever Azara returned from her walks. He watched her back far too long as she disappeared into the darkness of the archives. A hungry, almost animal gaze.

His thoughts were interrupted by the girl’s surprised exclamation. He stood and walked over.

“Did you find something like The Goddess of Balance is ancient evil and must be destroyed’? ” He leaned over and read the entry she was pointing at.

The Codex of Silent Pages. The Soul as a Mirror — and a Connection to the Abyss.

Azara looked at him, her mismatched eyes narrowing.

“Confiscated from the Citadel’s library. Which means it’s somewhere here. Sounds impressive. Shall we look for it?”

Kris ran a hand thoughtfully over his silver braid and shook his head.

“I don’t remember having a book like that.”

He walked deeper into the archives, pressed a seal in the center of the wall, connected to the system, and scanned the space for the book.

“No. That codex isn’t in the catalog.”

“Allow me to help.”

The sound came from the darkness — like claws scraping against glass. On the wall where a moment ago there had been only a shadow from the candelabra, a shape now stirred. A long-eared fox, woven from darkness.

They had seen this creature in the archives before — a ghost of knowledge, a silent guardian. But it had never spoken to them.

It pointed an almost transparent paw at the book’s title.

“You’re looking for the Silent Pages,” the fox stated — didn’t ask. Its hollow eye sockets were fixed on Azara. “But you’re not asking about the book. You’re asking about yourselves. Why you feel what others don’t. Why darkness reaches for you — and you for it. The book won’t give you answers. It will only show you the questions you’re afraid to ask.”

Kris crumpled the corner of a paper in his fingers, staring at the fox.

“What kind of riddles are these?”

“They’re not riddles,” the fox tilted its head. “Just the truth. You’re searching outside for something that’s likely already inside you. Kris, you’re asking about a book — but what you really want to hear about is the soul trapped between ‘was’ and ‘is.’ Her soul isn’t dead — it’s lost. Tainted. And to cleanse a soul, you must reflect it back to its original purity. Perhaps your guest can help you. Who knows?”

The corners of its ethereal mouth twitched in what might have been a smile — exactly like an old actor playing a well-rehearsed role. Satisfied with the effect, the ghost dissolved into the darkness between the shelves, leaving behind only the faint scent of old parchment.

Kris stared at the wall where the fox had been, barely hearing the girl’s thoughts.

And then — a thought.

Too convenient. Too timely. As if…

Paranoia? No. It was his last attempt to cling to the familiar, safe emptiness he was so tired of. He wanted to believe in the deceptive light of the chance flickering in the strange shadow’s words, even though his mind screamed danger.

After so many years — a sign at last. Fate hadn’t brought them together on that damned clearing by accident. It had extended a bridge across the abyss.

Kris stepped forward, forbidding himself to look back.

From the Archivist’s notes

Freedom is when no one writes you down in the records.

But the worst thing is to be left alone with the one who watches from inside.

I know. Because I am that watcher.

Chapter 4

Azara

She woke from a nightmare and sat up, gasping for air. In the sanctuary, she used to light a small lamp — a tiny island of light in a sea of rules. Here, there was no lamp. No rules. Only darkness, breathing in time with her fear.

Her body curled into a ball on its own. She wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to calm her heartbeat. It was at night that something inside seemed to call to her — trying to reach her. The Abyss, unlike the girl, never slept.

Gradually, her pulse steadied. She opened her eyes and watched the three moons light up the room. Another difference: in the Shadow lands, the sun never shone. And strangely, that was calming. Nothing could cast a shadow here anymore.

There was a knock at the door. The Lord was inviting her for a walk — and she couldn’t refuse.

He was constantly busy at the border, where an already unstable world was cracking at the seams. As a result, they rarely crossed paths — which was something of a relief. His presence shifted the air in the castle, made it thicker. Heavier.

To her surprise, Darl and Kris had thrown themselves into the search for the book. Kris’s motives were clear enough, even if she didn’t know the full story of the girl in the crypt. But Darl… she could only guess about his goals. None of her guesses were particularly bright. One thing was clear: here, just as in the Citadel, she was trapped. Only now, at least she had a choice about which trap to sit in.

Her first time out in the Shadow city. She was curious. She smoothed down her black velvet dress — so different from what she usually wore — and smiled with satisfaction as she let her hair down. It streamed over her shoulders like fiery serpents, giving her an illusion of freedom.

The moment she stepped out the door, she ran straight into him. She winced — her shoulder twinged — and muttered, meeting his eyes:

“Lord.”

He stepped back abruptly and looked away. Darl had changed since the day they first met. No matter how hard she studied him, she couldn’t find any external differences. But what struck her most was this: even though he held power, he never wore any insignia. Simple black coats and a cloak. It contrasted sharply with the King of the Light, Smolder — whom Azara had rarely seen but distinctly remembered as dripping with gold.

“I thought you might refuse,” he said. “There’s a celebration in the city today — Liberation Day. I wanted to show you the fair.”

His behavior and his invitation — which had seemed strange from the start — now made sense. He wanted to show her a celebration of her own defeat. To show her what the world she’d been fighting against had become.

The city hit them like a wave of real life — unpolished, arrhythmic, almost aggressive in its diversity. Antaris was carved from dark stone, but its streets teemed with colors, sounds, and creatures.

The air smelled of ocean and honey. Fragments of colored glass — leftovers from fireworks — crunched underfoot.

Azara stopped at the edge of the main square. A sylph glided past, its wings shimmering like an oil slick. Nearby, a gnome haggled with a kobold — a small, foul-furred creature with burning eyes. A flock of lumenites flew overhead, trailing silver ash.

“There are… so many of them,” she whispered, her voice lost in the hum of laughter and noise.

“You wouldn’t see this in the Citadel,” came a voice close to her ear.

“They believe magic should be pure. Without… impurities.”

“Magic is impurity, Azara.” He stepped forward, parting the crowd with a single glance. Everyone recognized him — but to her surprise, they didn’t bow or tremble. They nodded quietly, respectfully. Gratefully. “It’s in the blood. In the earth. In your breath. Your Keepers try to castrate it, pack it into rituals. But it always breaks free. Doesn’t it?”

He nodded toward two young half-elves who were launching sparkling bursts of energy into the air by the fountain. Useless. Beautiful.

Her hand shot up instinctively to stop them — then she forced her fingers to relax. She lowered her arm, feeling the spasm inside her fade.

So this is what it could be like.

She was used to magic being a burden. A duty. A weapon. Here, it was simply life.

The locals kept glancing at her. As if they could sense she didn’t deserve to be here. They couldn’t possibly know her, but that didn’t make her feel any less disgusted with herself. The executioner of the ones they loved.

Azara had never taken part in the war directly. She channeled her power from afar. And every time, she felt shame at her role in the nightmare.

A furry hamster with a lizard’s face shot past her. She jumped back, instinctively grabbing Darl’s arm. She felt heat in her palm — and realized she was still holding his hand. His fingers were calloused, rough with old scars.

He pulled back reluctantly — but not before squeezing her hand a little tighter.

“I thought they’d all been destroyed!”

“No. In our city, everyone has the right to exist. To be free.”

Azara tilted her head, narrowing her eyes.

“Even a Keeper from the Citadel?”

Darl shook his head.

“Beasts don’t belong here.”

“So freedom is only for your kind?”

He didn’t answer. His reaction told her she’d touched something much more raw and painful.

In the middle of the square, a blade sharpener was at work — sparks flying in every direction. Children shrieked and dodged, only to dart back in again. Azara couldn’t help but smile.

“We don’t have this,” she said quietly.

“Have what?”

“Children who just play. In the Citadel, discipline is strict. Especially in the orphanage. You’re either a future Keeper or a servant. No time to play.”

He didn’t respond. But when a boy ran past and nearly knocked her off her feet, Darl caught her elbow out of instinct. He only let go when she had steadied herself.

“Thank you,” she said, watching the boy run off.

“It’s nothing.”

The farther they walked, the denser the space between them became. The silence grew tangible. She kept catching his gaze — as if he were trying to decode her. And she… she could feel his magic. It coiled around him like a quiet wake, reminding her of the scent of a thunderstorm.

She had always loved thunderstorms.

“You never asked me why I agreed to stay.”

“Go back to them? Or find out why you felt recognition in that Abyss creature.” He paused. “Azara, you’re looking for answers, even if you’re afraid of the truth. Your magic isn’t ‘pure.’ We both know that. It’s like a scar you wear with pride — forgetting what kind of pain gave it to you.”

Everything that evening felt like a reflection of her own rotten reality. A dream in which she could simply be accepted.

She knew for sure: she couldn’t.

They stood there, inches apart, separated by the abyss of their positions. She wanted to step back — but couldn’t. He wanted to touch her — but didn’t dare.

Then the bell tower struck, announcing the start of the celebration. The sound shattered the moment. They both flinched, and the spell was broken.

“Come on,” Darl said, his voice cold and level again. “Let me show you how the Shadows celebrate their right to live.”

He handed her a warm cloak.

“It’s getting chilly. Put this on.”

Did he bring this for me?

Every gesture. Every glance. A thin thread he was weaving around her. This must be how a fly felt before the black spider caught it. But flies didn’t ask why the spider wove its web.

When the street performance ended, they left the square. The noise faded into the occasional call of merchants and the laughter of stragglers. Ahead, in the shadow of an old elm, stood a stone fountain — long unused, its basin full of rainwater and floating petals.

Darl stopped first. He leaned back against the rim, pulled something from his pocket — a simple, smooth, sea-worn pebble — and tossed it silently into the water. Ripples spread, breaking the reflections of the three moons.

Azara stood a step away. She didn’t know if she could sit, if she could stay, if she could even breathe next to him when he was so… calm.

“Sit,” he said without looking. “I won’t bite.”

The fountain’s edge was cold through her dress, but she didn’t move. Next to him, it didn’t seem to matter.

Somewhere in the distance, a drunken group was singing. A dog barked lazily in response. But here by the fountain, it was quiet. Almost like the sanctuary at night — but without the crushing walls.

“I thought everyone in Antaris just fought and hated.”

“We trade — loudly. We fight — when we have to.” Darl smirked. “We celebrate… rarely. That’s why we value it.”

In the half-darkness, his face looked like a stone sculpture — sharp shadows, sharp cheekbones, and only his green eyes alive.

“And you?” she asked. “Do you celebrate?”

He didn’t answer at first. He stared into the darkness, at the city lights below. Then he turned to her — and she felt as though he wasn’t looking at her face, but at something deeper. Where even she was afraid to look.

“Right now,” he said. “I think I do.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She dropped her gaze immediately.

They walked back to the tower in silence. Just outside the city, Darl was drawn to a weapons stall and stepped away from her. At that moment, a boy — the same one who had been hovering near her all day — darted up to Azara, shoved a note into her hands, and sprinted toward the gates, disappearing into the streets.

The Citadel is waiting.

She exhaled with relief.

She was still needed.

From the Archivist’s notes

Excessive strictness eats away at the soul faster than any acid.

In its place, a lump of rage grows where the heart used to be.