Saint Valerius smiled, a thin, cold curve of lips."Please, have a seat, Prince."
Astra inclined his head and settled onto the cushioned chair. He noticed Alistair seat himself between him and High Lord Vaelid, the positioning deliberate—a buffer, or perhaps a wall.
Three demi-gods against one mortal. Wonderful. What heroic deed did I commit in a past life to deserve such treatment?Astra mocked inwardly, though the flicker of unease at his ribs was very real.
Valerius took the lead, voice calm but carrying the weight of iron."Prince Astra, your position is… special, to say the least. You are mortal, yet you lay claim not only to Night's sovereignty but also to the Church of Night. Through this precarious and singular position, you have been granted a counselor's seat in the Council of Shadows. And yet, you stand before us as a mere Rank One. It is… unprecedented."
Astra's brows ticked upward. The word "unprecedented" always came with a hidden blade.
"You see, Prince," Valerius continued, tone shifting into something like a lecturer's cadence, "I have been assigned to relay the necessary knowledge and implications of such a seat."
He folded his hands with quiet precision."In the Council of Shadows there are ninety-one counselor seats. Seventy-two of these are held by Lower Counselors; the remaining twenty-seven belong to High Counselors. All High Counselors are Angels or Saints—excepting two cases: you, and the heir apparent, Lord Vesperion. I myself am a Lower Counselor."
Valerius spoke the last line with a note of pride, not shame. The weight behind it was obvious—he had clawed, bled, and endured for his position. Whether Astra technically sat higher in status mattered little; Valerius was no outsider in this world, and he never would be.
"The difference between the seats," Valerius continued, "is not symbolic, but practical. A Lower seat carries one vote; a High seat carries 3. Naturally, the High Duke, Patriarch of Shadow, wields the utmost authority as our lord patriarch, but in moments of decision, the council's votes will be called."
Astra nodded slowly, filing the details away. Beneath his calm mask, a ripple of excitement stirred. The Council of Shadows had always been a mystery to the public; now its gears were being laid bare before him.
High Lord Vaelid's voice cut in next, cool and deliberate."As a result of your special circumstances, you have been granted the privileges you sought: sovereignty of Night, asylum and training, and an equal alliance between yourself, as Caliph of the Church of Night, and your assets."
His gaze sharpened."We would, however, like you to define those assets, to finalize this contract."
Fair request, Astra thought, though the weight of it pressed against his chest. He was no lawyer, but even he knew missteps here could fracture everything before it even began.
He exhaled slowly. "My assets include… nine hundred and sixty-eight gold standards, five silver standards, and ten copper. A Rank One sword. A Rank Two armor set. The Church of Night. And the Kingdom of Stars."
He did not need to mention the godhoods. They weren't truly his—not yet. But the Kingdom of Stars was Astra had felt that deep connection.
Valerius's eyes flickered wider, the smallest crack in his composure. From coin-purse scraps, to relic armors, to a sacred church, and finally a realm? The scale was absurd, almost comical.
Astra pressed on."I will have an Archbishop reach out to Shadow soon, so we may discuss troop alignments and artifacts."
Valerius inclined his head, lips tight. A pawn giving orders to a Saint… what a spectacle. And yet, he reminded himself, this was no mere pawn. The boy wielded a sacred realm. Mortal or not, that alone placed him far beyond the ordinary.
After some chatter and needless pleasantries, Astra found his mind drifting. This was his fourth meeting with divinity in two days. Each one had been draining, dangerous, like walking a blade's edge while being watched by wolves. Yet this time felt… oddly normal. Almost calm.
Not that he lowered his guard. But the worst storms, he thought, might finally be behind him.
So he decided to push things forward.
He leaned in, voice steady. "So humor me, Saint—what is the plan moving forward?"
Valerius's eyes narrowed slightly. Direct. Very direct.
"Well, Prince," he said, deliberate as ever, "as I was instructed, we plan on declaring independence from the Royal Stewards of the Realm. In fact—your arrival has all but finalized those plans." His smile was thin, almost predatory.
Astra raised a brow. "Oh? How so?"
Valerius's tone shifted, sharp as drawn steel. The playful polish he often wore fell away, and the air itself seemed to lean closer.
"We had intended to make our declaration after the Spring Advent Tournament," he began, every syllable deliberate. "A symbolic gesture—victory followed by sovereignty. But with you? The last heir of Night, standing in the finals, wielding the stars themselves before the entire realm as he proclaims his existence…" He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering, almost reverent. "The image alone would ignite the spark we need. The faith of the Night God still persists, festering in silence. Millions would flood to the battlefields, eager for his return. Dawn and Dusk would be forced into open war. And our cause, with you at its heart, would be undeniable."
Astra blinked. The words nearly knocked the air from his lungs. Finals? Stars? Did they think he was some chosen myth, sculpted to stride across battlefields and break empires? He almost choked on his own breath, forcing himself to cover it with a cough.
Finals? I'm barely learning to survive my own nights, and they already see me as some messianic figure? Do they not realize? I'm flesh, blood, flawed—nothing like the vision they're weaving. Or perhaps that's the trick…
He cleared his throat, mustering composure. "Your Grace, I must say you overestimate me. I am no great warrior. What says I'll even make it that far?"
Valerius's dismissal came swift, his hand flicking through the air as though swatting at smoke."Whether you reach the finals or not is irrelevant. You must be seen in the arena. After independence is declared, secrecy will no longer be possible—in truth, it barely exists now. The divine already know the anomaly erupted in Duskfall. Their envoys scour the land. And few men alive carry your bearing, your weight of fate. You shine too heavily to be mistaken for another."
Astra found that reasonable he had always looked unique.
Valerius's gaze locked onto him, sharp and unyielding. "You are being watched, Prince. Closely. And when they find you, you will not be approached as a boy—they will see you as prize, as threat, as claim."
Astra exhaled slowly, a tightness coiling in his chest. He was on the board already, whether he wanted to be or not. Every step forward tugged strings he could not see.
Valerius pressed on, his voice steady, implacable."You are to compete either way, we will prepare you as we had promised to train you, this is something for your benefit. Public tournaments will soon be impossible. But now? They are opportunities. Crucibles that forge advancement, strength, and renown. Remember the words of Atlas: 'Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.'"
His smile deepened—not warm, but cold, the kind that made the skin crawl. "Which brings me to the next topic of discussion, a deal or exchange... Training, of sorts, if you dare to hear it."
Despite himself, Astra leaned forward. Curiosity betrayed him. "An exchange? Speak."
Valerius's voice lowered, solemn as though he were speaking not to Astra, but to the shadows themselves."In House Shadow, there exists a rite held above all others. Each initiate must face their shadow—a perfect reflection of themselves, stripped of soul, mindless but merciless. It is not a duel of skill alone, but of will. One must conquer their own darkness… or be consumed."
The words filled the room, heavy, unshakable. The air seemed to still.
"All beings have shadows—this is divine law. But those of us born to shadow magic? We are tethered more intimately to them. That is why our wielders stand unmatched among the realms. The rite reveals every weakness, every flaw, every hidden crack within the soul. Only those who triumph may ascend. Those who fail vanish into the darkness they could not master. This… is the crucible of our path."
Astra's jaw tightened. He had heard whispers of the infamous rite. Half-myth, half-nightmare. A trial few dared speak of, and fewer still survived. A battle against myself. Not against swords or sorcery—but the naked, merciless truth of who I am. Can I stand before that reflection and not falter?
He forced himself to ask, voice careful. "And what does this exchange grant?"
Valerius's lips curled, subtle, almost predatory, his gaze locked on Astra as though weighing him soul by soul. "If you prevail," he said, deliberate, each word sinking into the air like lead, "I will ensure your reward personally. Your magic will not merely sharpen—it will deepen, transfigure, becoming something far greater than you wield now. Your shadows… will take on a unique quality, one a normal shadow mage would only hope to achieve at late-stage Rank Two or Three. A mastery beyond what most dare dream."
He paused, letting the weight of that promise—and its implication—hang heavy.
"If you fail…then consider the exchange null and we shall continue as normal." The words slowed, stretched, pressing against Astra like a vice. "But shall you suceed.…you will owe me a small favor once you reach divinity. That is, if you reach divinity. Injury. Perhaps death will follow. But you will not be abandoned. I will oversee the rite myself… no one leaves unfinished business."
The Saint leaned back, the faintest glint of amusement tracing his lips, yet it carried the weight of inevitability, of a predator calculating its hunt. "So tell me, Prince—will you accept?"
Astra's pulse roared in his ears, each beat echoing against the cold walls. Silence stretched between them like the space between worlds. He could feel the air thicken, the shadows in the corners of the room coiling, almost sentient, as if they too were waiting for his answer.
A small favor once I reach Demi-god status, for a boon of this level… The thought prickled at his mind. A small favor? What does that even mean? A word? A command? A shadow task to haunt me decades from now? Saints do not ask trifles. Even a "small" request could tilt the balance of my life.
He clenched his fists under the table, the polished stone biting his skin. And yet… power waits on the other side of risk. My shadows—my strength—could become something beyond mortal reckoning. If I falter, yes… I could break. But if I triumph… gods, the edge it would give me… the leverage. The way House Shadow would regard me… the way the Church would bend.
I wonder what game he's playing, this rite is definitely something sacred to shadows lineage, to let me an outsider even attempt it...
Astras thoughts churned. He is a Saint, not an Angel. meaning he has backing, someone behind him approved of this? a test of sorts? failure of this can have many a outcome. Most importantly potential backing from an angel at shadow, this can give me an edge in the council. I see some have already started to politically maneuver.
His gaze drifted to the ceiling, tracing the carvings in the high vaults, but his thoughts were elsewhere—sharp, calculating. Pressure. Fear. Opportunity. Shadow is testing me, gauging my ambition, my daring… and I will not appear weak. They already underestimate the depths of my cunning. Let them wonder what I am capable of. Let them tremble quietly. And let this favor… whatever it is… be debt I control.
To decline would be safe, rational. To accept… madness. Yet strength never comes from safety. And more than that—fear is currency in Shadow. If I make them flinch, even slightly, I gain ground.
He weighed the silence. His throat felt dry. If I die to my own shadow, then how in the gods' names do I expect to challenge angels, devils, or the gods themselves? A trial is a trial. And all trials are ladders, or snakes depending on how you climb them.
Astra drew in a slow breath, his spine stiffening as though bracing against an unseen gale. The word left him like tempered steel, unbending, unyielding.
"I accept."
The chamber seemed to flinch. Iron rang in his voice, and for an instant the lanternlight guttered as if the shadows themselves recoiled. Cold seeped into the air; the pulse of mana around them stilled, every strand pausing mid-current, as though creation itself bent its ear to listen.
Saint Valerius's smile unfurled wider, its edges honed to a razor's curve. He had waited for this. "Very well. The rite is prepared already. It shall be held this second."
The darkness answered before Astra could move. It surged like a tide unchained, curling up from the floor, spilling across the walls. Not his shadows—these were hostile, ancient, loyal to another will. They lunged, swallowing him whole. The ground fractured beneath his feet, reality buckling and collapsing inward, and Astra fell through the crack of the world.
When the wrenching stopped, silence reigned.
He stood upon a plain without horizon, an endless expanse of black stretched taut across eternity. The air was thick, heavy with an ancient hush that pressed into his lungs, smothering each breath. Even with his affinity, this darkness was not his ally—it weighed upon him like judgment. Shadows here were no longer absence, but presence, each one alive, aware, and waiting.
It was a realm of eternal night. The silence gnawed. The vast emptiness whispered of exile. For the first time, Astra felt a raw truth tighten in his chest: isolation. Here, he was not heir, nor prince, nor wielder of shadow. Here, he was a trespasser.
Then a voice thundered, not carried by air but born of the void itself.
"Welcome, Prince, to a fragment of the Shadow Realm—the fallen kingdom of Umbra. Here you rise reborn… or vanish. Good luck, Heir of Night."
Valerius's tone reverberated through the marrow of the land, each syllable burning like a brand.
Astra panicked inwardly "Can he detect the cloak of secrecy?" But as Astra tried to feel his godhood, he froze. It was utterly suppressed, its shielding presence weakened and negated, his connection the crown of stars was weakened significantly and he couldn't even try to reach out to the Kingdom of Stars. Astra felt chills, he really was alone here. This is the effect of a fragmented Sacred realm! Especially from the goddess of secrets and shadows.
Before Astra can even think of the implications. The void behind him stirred. From its depths a figure emerged, first no more than a ripple in the dark, then gathering shape, until Astra's heart clenched.
It was himself.
Not a reflection, not a trick of light, but something colder—an effigy of all he might become if hollowed out, if consumed. Its movements mirrored his with a terrible precision, as though tethered to his bones by unseen strings. Its eyes gleamed pale, soulless, a hollow light with no warmth.
Astra's breath caught. So this is the measure of me. Not what I dream to be—but what I might decay into.
The figure stood, patient, watching, eternal.
And again the saint's voice rolled through the black, lower now, infused with a weight that seemed to draw the realm tighter around him.
"Defeat yourself, Astra of Night. Prove that Umbra's ichor runs just as thick, oh heir of Night.
The decree sank into the stillness, and even the shadows seemed to lean closer, hungry for the outcome.
Astra steadied his breath, though his heart hammered. Myself. My truest enemy. There's no retreat in this place. No bluff. If I falter, I don't merely fail—I dissolve. Power. I need Power. Astra felt an ever familiar indescribable yearning.
The shadow of himself took a single step forward. And the silence of the Shadow Realm became unbearable.
The shadows pulsed around Astra, growing heavier and more oppressive as Valerius' words settled into his mind. Astra's heart raced, his hands trembling slightly as his body tensed. The dark version of himself—the shadow—stepped closer, its form moving with an unnatural fluidity, each step bringing it closer to Astra.
Astra could feel it now—the weight of the power it held. It wasn't just a reflection of himself; it was something else, something that bore down on him with the force of a thousand unspeakable horrors.
The shadows had become tangible, corporeal, and the being before him, an extension of the darkness, held no mercy.
Astra locked eyes with the shadow-self, the gaze of his own twisted reflection holding a malevolent energy.
He could feel the presence of it, the malice seeping into him as he realized that this wasn't just a test of physical strength or skill—it was a test of his very resolve, his ability to face what he feared the most.
This was no simple battle. This was a battle against himself.
His mind raced as the shadow version of him took another step forward. It was relentless, unblinking, unfeeling—everything Astra was afraid to confront about himself, embodied in darkness.
His breath hitched again as a cold sweat began to bead on his forehead, the suffocating darkness pressing in on him from all sides. His mind flashed through every possible strategy he could think of, but none seemed to fit. How could he fight something that was a part of him?
The figure's mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, a terrible pressure built in the air as the shadow lunged at him, its form shifting into something monstrous. Astra's instinct kicked in.
He dodged to the side, his heart hammering in his chest. He had to win this. He had to survive this.
But deep down, he knew it wasn't just about surviving this test. It was about understanding who he was—and what he would become.
Astra's heart pounded in his chest as he stood opposite the shadowy figure of himself, a twisted reflection that mirrored his every movement with unnerving precision.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his longsword, but his grip felt unsure, trembling as his own shadow raised its blade in perfect synchrony.
The air felt thick with the weight of the moment. His shadow stood before him, its presence a darkened silhouette, one that was far more menacing than any adversary Astra had faced before. It was an imitation, yet it carried the terrifying aura of something far greater than himself.
Powerful rank two! Astra's breath caught in his throat. How the hell am I supposed to beat this?
Summoning his Nightshroud armor, Astra felt the familiar weight of the darkened steel encasing his body. It clung to him, tight and strong, but there was no comfort in its embrace tonight. His shadow did the same, its armor forming with an eerie grace, and Astra's heart skipped in dread. The shadows moved with it, as if in reverence to the being before him, the shadows themselves more solid and material in the presence of his reflection.
"Relax," Astra hissed under his breath, though his chest was tight and his limbs heavy. The Shadow Realm pressed in from every side, an ocean of unseen weight. Each thought dragged like it was wading through tar, every movement slowed as though he had sunk to the deepest trenches of the sea.
He reached for the shadows instinctively, commanding them to bend, to obey. But they ignored him—alien, silent, almost hostile.
"Gods…" he muttered.
The refusal stung more than the silence, but then—something shifted. The suffocating pressure lightened, just slightly, like a hand easing its grip on his throat. A breath of vigor slipped into him. And in that release, he felt it: all the mana here resonated only with shadow. His affinity. His birthright.
But before relief could settle, steel sang.
A blade hissed through the air and scraped across his breastplate. Pain blossomed shallow but sharp. Astra staggered back, barely raising his longsword before another strike came. Reflex roared in him—he summoned a torrent of shadows, a storming veil of black—
And in the blink of an eye, it collapsed.
The world buckled. Darkness shattered, reforming into a new shape. Astra blinked hard, his breath torn from him as he found himself not in void, but in a vast desert of black sand, the dunes endless, the sky above twisting with torrents of concepts so abstract they burned his mind to look upon. Truths, lies, time, hunger, infinity—shapes he could not name bled across the heavens like broken scripture.
He barely had time to think before his shadow was upon him.
It lunged—his mirror-self, but darker, heavier, wrapped in malice—and Astra tumbled down a dune, sand burning his skin as black appendages lashed where his spine had been. Rolling, scrambling, he stole a glance up the slope.
The figure was changing. Deepening. Its presence had thickened until it pressed against him like the weight of a mountain. Its smirk gleamed pale in the unreal sky as more appendages clawed upward from the sand, writhing serpentine, striking with merciless precision.
Astra's body screamed as one slammed into his sword, the impact sending him tumbling upward, then smashing him down again like a ragdoll. He hit the sand with a bone-jarring crack. The world whited out for a breath.
"Get up, get up, get up!" he roared inwardly, but his lungs convulsed, his ribs throbbed, and his body felt like broken glass. Only the armor of Nightshroud held him together. Without it, he'd already be a corpse.
Through the haze he saw his shadow approaching. Slow. Confident. Mocking. Its grin widened as laughter spilled, jagged and cruel.
"Oh my, this is me?" it sneered, voice a venomous echo of his own. "The heir to Night and Shadow? The child meant to claim the stars, to lead a church, to revive a house?"
Its laughter broke into a shriek of mirth, the sound slicing through Astra like razors.
"What a joke. You can't even defeat me. Your shadow. Your flaw. Your failure." Its words dripped with venom, each syllable tightening like a garrote. "You think yourself divine? You can't even best a rank above your own. Bargain with gods, when you can't even master yourself? Pitiful."
Spirals of shadow spun into being behind it, curling into vortexes that howled with killing intent.
Astra coughed, blood hot in his throat. For a moment, despair gnawed at the edges of him. And then—he laughed. Bitter, sharp, but real.
"Gods," he rasped. "I really am an arrogant prick, aren't I?"
The realization struck like a blade of clarity. He had been fighting wrong. The weakness he felt, the pressure, the mutiny of the shadows—it was not the realm, not the weight of Umbra's kingdom pressing him down. It was his own shadow. His own will turned against him.
This wasn't a battle of might. It was a crucible of ownership. His shadow was not his enemy—it was his disobedient half. His will, fractured.
And he had been trying to fight it like any other opponent. Foolish. Suicidal. It had grown into something far beyond him, a pinnacle-tier Rank Two monstrosity, while he was still little more than a fledgling. To duel it was hopeless. To command it was the only path.
Astra drew in a breath, steadying the fire in his chest. He closed his eyes, reaching—not pleading, not requesting, but demanding. Demanding that all shadows in his vicinity obey.
His will was daunting. I am your master. Your Lord. I bear the blood of Umbra herself. You will not resist me. You will not refuse. Obey—or be annihilated.
His will surged, steady, relentless. He offered no compromise. No fear. Only dominion.
The desert trembled. Shadows coiled. The realm surged. His cloaks presences roared.
And his reflection faltered.
The darker Astra staggered, knees buckling, its smirk vanishing into a grimace as if invisible chains had wrapped tight around it. Its breath hitched, shoulders trembling. The mountain presence cracked, shrank.
It dropped to a knee.
The endless sands stilled, as though holding their breath.
Astra opened his eyes. His shadow was kneeling before him.
He dragged himself free of the choking sand, stumbling to his feet. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, spattering against the ground. His helmet hung cracked and battered, and sweat streamed down his face in streaks, stinging his wounds. His chest heaved, every breath like broken glass scraping through his ribs.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it. His shadow—rising with him. Mirroring his every motion. Just as bloodied, just as ragged, but not weakened. No. It was smiling.
Astra knew instantly. He hadn't won. Not even close. What had just transpired was nothing more than the opening move, the first layer peeled back. This was only the beginning of the trial.
To win… I must destroy it. I must make this shadow as tangible a thing as my own heart or lungs, something I can break.
For the first time, true understanding stirred in him. Shadow magic was not clean, nor orderly. It was elusive, treacherous, alive. It did not obey—it slithered. To master it, he had to be just as unpredictable, just as merciless.
His grip tightened on his sword. Behind him, the darkness quivered like a sea awaiting the storm. Across the battlefield, his shadow lifted its blade, its gaze dark and violent—his own eyes reflected back, stripped of hope.
The clash was immediate. His shadow surged forward, sprouting appendages that twisted into spears, arrows, blades—an arsenal born of nightmare. Astra answered in kind, summoning his own shadows to intercept them. The air rang with a constant, metallic din as sword struck sword, steel clashing amid a symphony of conjured weapons.
A spear of shadow lashed out, whistling toward Astra's heart. He twisted aside, but already two more javelins burst from the ground, forcing him to leap backward. His shadow was relentless—while Astra was dodging, it had already lunged, blade descending in a savage arc.
Steel screamed as Astra caught the strike on his own sword, sparks bursting between them. But from behind, three arrows of pure darkness cut through the air. Instinct surged. His own shadows ripped upward, forming a jagged wall. The arrows shattered against it, but the effort split his focus, his guard faltering for an instant.
His shadow capitalized, slipping a dagger—its dagger—toward his ribs. Astra barely twisted in time, feeling the blade kiss his armor.
He cursed, forcing his mind into rhythm. Two battles. One with steel, one with shadow. I can't afford to lose either.
He slashed low, and with the same motion, commanded a whip of darkness to curl from the ground, aiming to bind his double's legs. For a breath, it worked—the false Astra staggered, its balance broken. Astra struck for the neck.
But the shadow dissolved. Its body bled into smoke, reforming a step behind him. The blade came whistling down again, and Astra had to whirl, barely catching the strike.
The clang rang in his skull, and he realized something bitter. It knows everything I know. Every feint. Every trick.
The battlefield became chaos. Spears rained from above. Snares of shadow coiled at his ankles, forcing him to cut free with bursts of mana. Every thrust from his double was accompanied by feints from the periphery, shadows slashing from blind spots, arrows slicing at his head.
He was drowning. His sword grew heavier, his responses slower, his coordination stretched thin. It felt like trying to draw a circle with one hand and a square with the other while balancing on fire.
Every time he survived, every time he countered even sloppily, his own shadows answered more swiftly. They bent to him—not just resisting but learning.
Every strike demanded more than just muscle. He had to fight with two halves of himself: blade in one hand, shadows in the other. It was like drawing a square with his left hand and a circle with his right—while balancing on a knife's edge. He faltered often, forced to tank blows with his body, his swordplay faltering whenever his mana slipped. Yet, step by step, he began to adapt.
The shadows grew sharper, more responsive. They curved to his will with less resistance, as though recognizing him. Meanwhile, his darker self began to stumble, its attacks losing rhythm.
Then Astra pressed harder. He feinted with his sword high, but his shadows lashed low, forcing his opponent back. He twisted left and summoned a wall of spears right, boxing the double in. He struck downward, and with the same command, every shadow in reach converged in jagged formation.
Here, the laws of the world no longer applied. Shadows were not bound by light, nor tethered to walls—they were infinite. Inexhaustible.
The realm obeyed.
Shadows impaled the false Astra from all sides, skewering it in grotesque display.
His shadow was caught in the maelstrom, pinned and impaled by countless blades, a grotesque statue bleeding wisps of black mist. The battlefield stilled. Astra's vision blurred as agony tore through his skull, splitting his thoughts apart.
Astra staggered, breath ragged, head splitting with the strain. But he did not stop. Sword in hand, he approached.
Step by step, he walked toward his bound reflection. The sword trembled in his hands, but he lifted it anyway.
"This is the end, my dear shadow."
The bound figure raised its head, lips curling into a grin too wide to be human.
"Arrogant, lonely bastard. You think yourself some mythical prince reborn?" It laughed—a cruel, mocking sound that echoed through the void. "We know the truth, rat. Your luck will rot. One day, your stupid smile will fade, and you'll see your fate was never your own. Orchestrated. Decided long before you were born. You will die by your own arrogance. By your own ego."
The words cut deeper than any blade. They were his own thoughts, his own fears, made venom.
He let out a slow sigh. Perhaps it's right.
His violet eyes narrowed, soft with amusement. And he smiled.
"Perhaps. But not today."
The blade fell, swift and merciless. His shadow's head rolled free, dissolving into mist before it struck the ground.
The grotesque prison of weapons shattered, unraveling into a rushing river of darkness that surged toward Astra. He barely had time to gasp as the torrent engulfed him.
The realm shuddered. Shadows poured into his body like liquid fire, filling every nerve, every corner of his soul.
Then—blackness. His body gave way, crumpling as consciousness fled.
...
Saint Valerius Umbra moved slowly across the churned sands of the shadow realm, each step sinking into a depth that felt endless. The air itself was heavy with reverence, every wisp of darkness an unfathomable ocean of memory and power. His expression was grim as he raised a hand, summoning vast currents of shadow to coil beneath Astra's battered body and lift him from the sand.
For a moment, Valerius let his gaze wander. The fragments of the sacred realm stretched before him in jagged majesty—fractured dunes of black glass, skies alive with impossible geometries of lightless flame. Even for him, who had walked these places many times, the sight inspired both awe and unease.
He exhaled, the sound low and dark. This outcome had not been one he expected. The bargain he had made with the realm, the silent wager he had struck with its watching presence, had been little more than a formality. He had fully anticipated Astra's failure. And yet here was the boy—the street-born vagrant turned heir, the reluctant prince and caliph—still breathing. Still victorious.
And not just victorious. The child had endured one of the harshest trials imaginable.
Valerius's eyes sharpened as he considered it. There were three forms of the Sacred Shadow Rite, each dictated not by bloodline or entitlement, but by the realm itself—by the measure of one's inner potential.
The first, and most common, was the duel of equals: one's shadow at the same rank, wielding the same abilities. No small feat to overcome, yet it left survivors stronger and marked by power. He had personally faced this one when he was a mere young pawn centuries ago.
The second was a harsher mirror, the same duel but with the shadow raised to its pinnacle—every advantage pressed against the supplicant. This was the trial given to the prominent scions of the inner houses, and even they faltered before it.
And then there was the third. Rarest. Cruelest. To face not a fixed shadow but a reflection that grew with every clash, a replica that rose in strength the longer one resisted. The attrition broke even the strongest candidates. To be granted such a rite was considered both an honor and a death sentence. Few endured. Fewer still triumphed.
And yet this child had.
Valerius's lips parted, his voice a whisper that seemed to vanish into the abyss around him. "What monstrous potential…"
But behind the awe came a tightening of suspicion. The Angel of Shadows had allowed this exchange, had sanctioned it and even encouraged and suggested it. Astra had not simply survived—he had been chosen. He was, whether he realized it or not, an investment now.
Valerius's gaze lingered on the unconscious youth. One day, if this boy climbed the path to godhood, he would owe a debt to those who had watched, to those who had let him pass. He would owe him.
The saint's mouth curved in something that was not quite a smile. "A mortal bound by favor to a demigod…" He scoffed, though there was weight in his tone. "Perhaps… a foolish gamble. Or perhaps the one of the greatest investment of my life."
The shadows shuddered once, like the last breath of some vast, sleeping beast, before they surged upward and swallowed the pair whole. Their forms dissolved into the endless black, vanishing without trace.
In the wake of their departure, the realm exhaled. The dunes of black sand stilled. The broken sky sealed its fractures. The air grew heavy and motionless, as though even sound itself had been buried beneath its veil.
Silence reclaimed the fragment. A silence so ancient, so absolute, it felt as though no footstep had ever marred this place, no battle had ever been waged. The sacred realm lay pristine once more—untouched, inviolate, as if the clash of wills that had shaken it moments ago was nothing but a mere fantasy.