The sky was not supposed to break.
Yet tonight, it did.
The heavens above Velthra split open, spilling silver fire across the night. Stars — or what looked like them — shattered into glowing shards, each one slicing through the darkness like the blade of a god. The air smelled of burning metal and rain.
Elizabeth Wynthorne ran.
Her boots slammed against the cobblestone bridge, each step echoing over the roaring river below. Behind her, the capital burned. Towers once crowned with gold now crumbled under black smoke. The proud banners of the royal houses — her house — were ash.
Her breath came in ragged bursts, her cloak torn, streaked with soot. In her right hand, light flickered — warm, golden, alive. In her left, darkness coiled — cold, shifting like smoke. Two magics, opposite in every way, swirled in her veins.
And she could feel him behind her.
Michael.
His voice cut through the night, sharp as steel.
"Elizabeth Wynthorne!"
She didn't turn. She had seen what happened to those who looked at him too long — the way his eyes seemed to find your thread, your life itself, and pull.
The bridge trembled beneath her feet. She knew it wasn't from her running — it was him, his magic stretching through the stone. Fate magic. Dangerous. Unstoppable.
Her chest burned as she reached the far end of the bridge — but a figure stepped from the fog, blocking her path.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A sword strapped across his back. His dark hair fell just past his jaw, framing eyes the color of winter storms.
Hardin Scot.
She didn't know him, but she recognized the way he stood — balanced, ready. Dangerous in a different way.
"Move," she gasped.
"Not until you hand over the thread," he said calmly.
Her fingers tightened. "What thread?
His gaze flickered to her hands — one glowing gold, the other wrapped in shadow. "You know which one."
A scream pierced the air before she could answer.
Elizabeth turned sharply toward it — the sound came from the square beyond the bridge. Through the haze, she saw a child, no older than twelve, backed into a corner. Three cloaked men advanced on her, their palms burning with the crimson light of fatefire.
Elizabeth moved.
The golden magic in her right hand flared, striking the first man in the chest. He flew backward, crashing into a pillar. The other two turned toward her, snarling, their fatefire twisting into long, burning whips.
The shadow inside her stirred.
Dark smoke coiled from her left arm, forming into a jagged blade. Her vision shifted — the world dulled into silver and black, and above each attacker's head, she saw their threads of fate glimmering like spider silk.
Cut them, the shadow whispered. End them before they end you.
Her blade sliced through the first thread — the man crumpled instantly, lifeless, without a mark. The second hesitated, fear flickering in his eyes before he fled into the mist.
Elizabeth turned to the girl. "Go," she said softly. "Don't stop running."
The child's eyes shone with tears. "Thank you," she whispered before darting into the shadows.
Her name — she would later learn — was Blessing.
But the moment cost her.
The fog behind her shifted. Michael stepped forward.
His presence was heavy, like the air before a storm. A mask of shadow clung to his face, leaving only his mouth visible — curved in a smile that wasn't kind.
"You have both souls," he said, voice low, certain.
Elizabeth froze.
"It will tear you apart," Michael continued, stepping closer. "Unless you give one to me."
She forced herself to stand tall. "You'd have to kill me first."
"Oh," he said softly, "I intend to."
The ground split beneath her feet. Black tendrils erupted, wrapping around her legs. She slashed at them with her shadow blade, but for every one she cut, two more rose.
Michael lifted his hand. A single silver thread shimmered between his fingers.
Her thread.
Her life.
He tugged it, and pain exploded in her chest. Memories ripped through her — her family's laughter, her mother's soft voice, then fire, screaming, and the night sky tearing apart.
She couldn't breathe.
The shadow soul roared inside her, breaking free. Light and darkness burst from her in a violent storm, tearing the tendrils apart and forcing Michael back a step. His smile widened.
"You are exactly what I've been waiting for," he said.
The bridge crumbled beneath her.
She fell.
Cold swallowed her whole. The river's current dragged her under, the weight crushing her chest. The cloak tangled around her legs. Her lungs screamed.
Let go, the shadow urged. Let me take control.
No.
Light flickered weakly from her palm — not enough. Her body was failing. Her vision blurred… and then, just before darkness claimed her, she saw a shape diving toward her.
⸻
Elizabeth woke to the crackle of fire.
She lay on damp furs inside a wooden cabin. The scent of pine and smoke filled her nose. Her cloak was gone, replaced by a rough tunic.
"You should be dead."
She looked up. Hardin Scot sat in the corner, sharpening his sword.
"You pulled me from the river," she said.
"You made enough light to blind half the Hollow," he replied without looking at her.
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"Because Michael wants you alive," he said simply. "That means I want to know why."
"You work for him?"
"No. But I hear his threads move. And I know he's not the only one after you."
He stood, crossing the cabin until he was close enough for her to see the faint scar along his jaw. "Tell me what you are, Elizabeth Wynthorne."
She stayed silent.
"I've seen soul-bound before," Hardin said. "They burn out in weeks. Yet here you are."
Before she could answer, a high-pitched whistle sliced through the night.
"They've found us," he said.
The door exploded. Cloaked figures poured in, fatefire blazing. Elizabeth's golden magic struck the first down. Hardin's sword moved like lightning.
"Out the back!" he shouted.
They ran into the freezing night, through trees lit by the glow of fatefire. They stopped at a moss-covered stone arch. Symbols glowed faintly.
"What is this?"
"A way out," Hardin said, pressing his palm to the center stone. The air shimmered.
"Where does it lead?"
"Somewhere Michael's threads can't reach you."
She hesitated — then stepped through.
The Hollow Realms were nothing like Velthra. The sky was black glass, the rivers flowed silver, and in the distance, a tower rose into the stars.
And on the far bank, a tall figure stood watching.
"Who is that?" she whispered.
"The one person," Hardin said quietly, "you should never meet."
But she couldn't look away. Because deep inside her, both souls whispered the same word:
Remember