Chapter 6: Trust in Shadows
The Moonspire slept beneath a sky freckled with stars, but in the lower cloisters where magic warped the air and time forgot to pass, darkness stirred.
Far from the regal halls of training and prophecy, Ravelle rested alone, her breathing shallow. Her sigil the constellation newly etched into her back flickered softly beneath her skin, echoing the stars above.
Outside her chamber, the halls were dim. Silver lanterns glowed low with lunar essence. Azrael sat against a cold pillar nearby, one knee drawn up, red eyes fixed on the shadows that clung too eagerly to the corners of the hallway.
He wasn't on guard duty.
He just didn't sleep.
Not anymore.
His thoughts twisted like chains old vows, burning images, blood on his hands. Her blood. The Sovereign's scream still echoed in the back of his mind from the vision she'd seen.
And if that vision was true…
Azrael clenched his fist.
"Something stirs in her," Lysander's voice came softly from the hall as he approached.
Azrael didn't look up. "You feel it too."
Lysander nodded. "More than just a sigil change. Her presence… it's unraveling the barriers between realms. I've never seen the stars answer like that."
"I saw the stars bleed once," Azrael murmured. "Right before the Sovereign fell."
Lysander hesitated, gaze flicking to the door where Ravelle slept.
"She's not the same Sovereign."
"No," Azrael said, finally standing. "But something remembers."
Inside the chamber, Ravelle tossed under the silken covers.
Silver light spilled from the window, bathing her bed in a soft glow.
Her dreamscape twisted. She stood in a field of broken moons, their shattered pieces drifting in slow motion around her like celestial ruins. Shadow tendrils whispered through the mist, curling around her ankles, licking her skin with cold fire.
A voice echoed through the void:
"He will betray you again. Just as he did before."
She turned, heart hammering. "Who's there?"
Another voice, sultry and deep, like smoke on a winter wind: "One of them lies. One of them dies. Choose wrong, and the world burns."
A third voice childlike, ancient, layered with echoes hummed gently:
"Your fate is not your own, Ravelle Moonshadow. You wear the stars, but the shadow wears you."
She opened her mouth to scream, but her voice fractured. Light spilled from her throat, and the field around her vanished in a spiral of runes.
Elsewhere, within the Spire's southern wing, a fire crackled quietly.
Marcus and Titan sat opposite each other near an outdoor balcony, the chill wind dancing with the flames.
"She's drawing power faster than we expected," Titan said, running a hand through his hair.
Marcus threw a rock into the fire. "She's not just drawing it. She's becoming it."
"She needs to trust us. All of us."
Marcus tilted his head. "You think she ever will?"
Titan didn't answer immediately. "If she doesn't… prophecy fails."
"And what if Azrael's part in the vision is true?" Marcus's voice was cold for once.
Titan exhaled slowly. "Then one of us dies."
Neither man said anything after that.
The fire crackled, and overhead, the stars dimmed.
---
By the third night, Ravelle had pushed her training further. The bond between her and the others deepened. She could feel their emotions Titan's constant watchfulness, Marcus's flickering warmth, Lysander's silent longing.
And Azrael…
Azrael burned like ice.
He avoided touching her. Spoke little. But his presence haunted her more than the others combined.
She sought solitude that evening, slipping through the corridors until she reached the old observation garden wild and half-forgotten, with ivy-covered statues of past Sovereigns.
She didn't notice the footsteps behind her until the statue's shadow shifted.
Azrael stepped forward.
"You shouldn't be here alone," he said.
"I'm not afraid."
"Not yet."
She turned to him. "What do you see when you look at me?"
"A future I may have to end."
Their eyes locked. Energy crackled between them.
Ravelle stepped forward. "Then why haven't you?"
Azrael reached out, fingers trembling but stopped just short of her skin.
"Because even the blade fears the heart."
She shivered.
"Then be the blade that protects it," she whispered.
His breath hitched but he stepped back. "If I get too close… the shadow will use me."
She nodded once. "Then stay close enough that it doesn't have to."
That night, the sigil pulsed brighter.
The stars outside realigned once more. A black arc passed through them, like a shadow eclipsing their light.
In the southern wing, Ravelle's room glowed faintly with power. She lay in bed, unmoving but her hands twitched, and from her fingers, trails of darkness leaked.
Shadowfire.
Invisible to most eyes, it snaked along the ceiling, humming with an ancient hunger.
Lysander, sensing it, ran to her room but was stopped by a voice not her own.
"Don't wake her," it whispered from the air itself.
"Who are you?" Lysander demanded.
But the voice only laughed.
Inside the room, the shadow curled back into Ravelle's open palm and then lifted her body upright. Her eyes snapped open, but they glowed not silver
but black.
Her voice was not her own.
"One must die for the world to live."
The sigil along her spine flared again, shifting. New stars were added. One blinked out.
Azrael burst into the room, red eyes blazing. "Get back!"
But Ravelle turned to him slowly, her head tilting in an unnatural, eerie arc.
"You think you can change it?" the shadow-voice said through her lips. "It was written long before your first howl. You were the one who failed her before."
Azrael growled, stepping forward. "Let her go."
"She is already mine."
Lysander began chanting, summoning a glyph in the air, but the room warped. A pulse of dark energy exploded from Ravelle's chest, knocking them both to the ground.
She stepped forward, barefoot, eyes empty. Her mouth smiled, but it wasn't hers.
Then suddenly
Titan roared in from the hallway, slamming into her and pinning her to the floor.
"Marcus!" he yelled.
Marcus was already there, flipping through spell-scrolls, burning sigils into the floor with his blades.
The spell circle ignited.
And Ravelle screamed.
Not with pain.
But with dual voices.
One terrified.
One ancient.
Then silence.
She collapsed.
Titan caught her before she hit the ground.
Lysander moved quickly, checking her pulse. "She's unconscious. The entity has retreated."
Azrael stood over her, fists clenched. "But it's not gone."
Marcus looked around. "We need to talk. Now. In the war room."
Titan carried Ravelle in his arms, gently, as if she might shatter.
They didn't see the trail of shadow seeping under the bed.
Or the single rune etched into the stone floor.
Obrithal.