The border between Umbrafell and Gloamspire existed as a physical impossibility—a membrane of shimmering twilight that separated shadow from light, darkness from luminescence, secrets from revelation. It stretched across the landscape like a curtain made of dusk itself, and crossing it required either official papers from both realms' governments or a willingness to risk the Between.
The Between was what travelers called the liminal space where two realms' edges met and neither's laws fully applied. Time moved strangely there. Gravity forgot which way was down. And sometimes, people who entered never came out, or came out wrong—speaking backward, aging in reverse, remembering futures that hadn't happened yet.
Corvin had neither official papers nor a death wish.
But he had something better: a shadow that remembered three hundred years of Thornevale border crossings.
He stood at the edge of Umbrafell three days after leaving the Athenaeum, having traveled through the outer districts where the Regnant's control grew thin and the old families still held sway. They'd sheltered him, these distant cousins and loyal servants, pressing supplies and warnings into his hands. The Regnant had locked down the city center, but the edges remained porous, and Corvin had slipped through like water through cracks.
Now he faced the border itself.
It rose before him like a wall of solidified sunset—oranges bleeding into purples, shot through with gold and shadow both. Through it, dimly, he could see Gloamspire's terrain: rolling hills studded with light-posts where Lumes gathered like luminous moths, their glow visible even through the dimensional barrier.
"Well," Corvin said to his shadow, "any ancestral memories about how to do this safely?"
His shadow rippled, then flowed forward to touch the barrier. The twilight curtain shivered. Rippled. Then parted like silk curtains being drawn aside.
"That's convenient," Corvin muttered, stepping through.
The sensation of crossing was indescribable—like being turned inside out while simultaneously being compressed and expanded. For one eternal instant, Corvin existed in both realms and neither, and he saw:
The woman from his visions, Ashreth Vesperna, standing at a loom in a tower, weaving threads of light and dark while tears streamed down her face. She was looking at something—no, someone—lying on the floor. A body. His body.
"I told you," she whispered to his corpse. "I told you fate was inevitable. Why didn't you listen?"
Then the vision shattered, and Corvin stumbled onto solid ground on the other side.
Gloamspire.
The air tasted different here—cleaner, sharper, with an electric tang like the moment before lightning strikes. The sky held more light than Umbrafell's perpetual dusk, though true daylight never came to any of the Ten Realms. This was twilight's brighter cousin, the blue hour stretched into infinity.
And everywhere—everywhere—there was light.
Lumes drifted through the air like sentient fireflies, each one a captured soul-light given independence after death. They communicated through flickers and color shifts: blue for curiosity, gold for joy, red for warning, purple for memory. They gathered around Corvin immediately, flickering excitedly.
His shadow recoiled. Not from fear, but from instinct—shadow and light were natural opposites, and having dozens of Lumes swirl around him made his shadow compress tightly against his body, as if trying to hide.
"It's alright," Corvin told it. "We're not in Umbrafell anymore. Different rules."
The Lumes seemed to find this amusing. Several flickered in a pattern that, if Corvin didn't know better, he'd interpret as laughter.
"Can you understand them?" a voice called.
Corvin turned to find a girl—no, a young woman, probably his age—approaching from a nearby light-post. She wore practical traveling clothes in shades of cream and gold, and her hair was an extraordinary silver-white that caught the ambient light and seemed to glow. But it was her eyes that caught his attention: one brown, one the same luminous gold as the Lumes themselves.
"I can't," Corvin admitted. "Should I be able to?"
"Most people can't. The Lumes speak their own language, and humans just see pretty lights." She stopped a few feet away, studying him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. "But you're not most people, are you? You're shadow-touched. Deep-touched. The kind that only happens when you've bonded with a Core."
"You're Lyrienne Gloamwright," Corvin said.
She smiled. "And you're Corvin Thornevale, last son of the murdered house, holder of Umbra, and the man I've been waiting six months to meet."
"The letters to the Athenaeum—"
"Were me, yes. I've been trying to reach you since the dreams started." She glanced at the Lumes surrounding them, and her expression grew troubled. "The Lumes have been showing me visions. Fragments of possible futures. In most of them, the ten realms end. Just... stop existing. Erased. But in a few—a very few—I see you gathering the Cores. Building a team. Fighting something that hasn't revealed itself yet."
"And in those futures where I gather the Cores, what happens to you?"
Lyrienne's smile faltered. "I haven't seen that part yet. The visions always cut off before the end. Which usually means—"
"That you don't survive to see it," Corvin finished grimly. He'd read enough prophecies in the Athenaeum to know how they worked. "I should warn you: I spoke with someone who can see fate-threads. She said that everyone who travels with me tends to die badly."
"Ashreth Vesperna," Lyrienne said. "I know. She sent me a letter too. Told me I'd die if I joined you, and I'd die if I didn't—the only difference is which death would mean something."
"That's cheerful."
"Fate-weavers aren't known for their optimism." Lyrienne gestured toward the hills. "There's an inn about two miles from here. The Luminous Rest. We should go there. I've secured rooms, and there's someone else waiting to meet you."
"Someone else?"
"A contact from Thornsveil. He arrived yesterday with urgent news about the Floros Core." She started walking, and the Lumes followed her like an entourage. "Also, you should know—the Umbral Regnant put out a bounty on you. Five thousand sovereign crowns for your capture, alive or dead. Every bounty hunter from here to Murkmire is probably already looking for you."
"Of course he did," Corvin muttered, falling into step beside her. "Because my life wasn't complicated enough."
They walked in silence for a while, following a dirt road that wound through the hills. Light-posts marked the way, each one topped with a cluster of Lumes that pulsed in greeting as they passed. In the distance, Corvin could see what had to be Gloamspire proper—a massive city built vertically, towers upon towers rising toward the twilight sky, each one connected by bridges that glowed with captured light.
It was beautiful. Nothing like Umbrafell's Gothic grandeur, but stunning in its own way.
"Can I ask you something?" Lyrienne said after a while.
"Sure."
"When you bonded with the Umbra Core, did it hurt?"
Corvin thought about it. "Yes and no. Physically, it was like being struck by lightning—intense but over quickly. Emotionally..." He paused. "It was like remembering everything I'd spent my whole life forgetting. Every loss. Every death. Three hundred years of my family's grief poured into me all at once."
"But you didn't break."
"I almost did. There was a moment when I could feel myself fragmenting—too many memories, too many lifetimes trying to exist in one head. But my shadow held me together. Literally wrapped around me and refused to let me shatter." He glanced at his shadow, which was still pressed close to his body, intimidated by the ambient light. "I think that's what shadows do for the Thornevale line. They're not just weapons or tools. They're anchors. Keeping us grounded in ourselves."
"That's beautiful," Lyrienne said softly.
"It's also terrifying. Because if the shadow ever failed—if it ever let go—I'd fragment into three centuries of different people. I'd stop being me and become them. All of them."
"Is that what happened to the Regnant? Is that why he's so..." She gestured vaguely. "Wrong?"
"Maybe. Or maybe he started wrong and got worse." Corvin kicked at a stone. "He implied he has more than one Core. That there are more than ten. But the cosmology says—"
"That the Heart of Night shattered into exactly ten pieces," Lyrienne finished. "Which means either he's lying, or the cosmology is wrong."
"Or there's a third option we haven't thought of yet."
They crested a hill, and the inn came into view—a sprawling structure of white stone and large windows, every one of them glowing with warm light. Lumes clustered around it like bees around a hive, and even from a distance, Corvin could hear music and laughter.
"The Luminous Rest," Lyrienne said. "One of the few places in Gloamspire where shadow-touched are welcome. The innkeeper is... sympathetic to our cause."
"Our cause?"
"Finding the Cores before someone dangerous does." She looked at him seriously. "You're not the only one who wants them, Corvin. There are others. Some want to restore the Primacy. Some want to destroy it forever. And some just want the power for themselves. We're in a race, and we're already behind."
"Who else is looking?"
"That's what my contact from Thornsveil needs to tell you. But I should warn you—his news isn't good."
They entered the inn.
The common room was exactly what Corvin expected from a Gloamspire establishment: bright, warm, and filled with Lumes that drifted among the patrons like floating candles. The clientele was mixed—locals in light-colored clothing, travelers in darker garb, and a few individuals who looked like they belonged to neither realm and both.
Lyrienne led him to a corner table where a man sat alone, nursing a drink that glowed faintly green.
He was striking—not handsome in a conventional sense, but compelling. Dark skin, darker hair pulled back in a tail, and eyes the color of fresh-turned earth. He wore clothes made of what looked like living vines, and when he moved, small flowers bloomed and died along his sleeves in rapid succession.
"Mirethorn Edevane," Lyrienne said by way of introduction. "Petal-mage from Thornsveil, strategic advisor to Queen Virelda, and currently in exile for reasons he'll explain."
Mirethorn stood and bowed with elegant precision. "Lord Thornevale. I've waited a long time to meet you."
"Just Corvin, please. I'm not a lord."
"You hold the Umbra Core. That makes you a lord whether you claim the title or not." Mirethorn gestured for them to sit. "But we can discuss nomenclature later. Right now, we have more pressing concerns."
"The Floros Core," Corvin said, sitting. "Lyrienne mentioned you had news."
"Queen Virelda has it," Mirethorn said bluntly. "She's had it for forty years, hidden in the heart of her garden palace. But three weeks ago, she started... changing."
"Changing how?"
"The Core corrupts those who aren't bloodbound to it. Slowly at first. It whispers. Offers power. Shows visions of what could be." Mirethorn's expression grew pained. "Virelda was always ambitious, but she was good. She cared about Thornsveil, about her people. But the Core has been showing her visions of a realm where death doesn't exist. Where everything blooms forever, and nothing ever decays."
"That sounds nice," Corvin said.
"It sounds like hell," Mirethorn corrected. "Life without death is stagnation. Plants that never die never make room for new growth. Forests become choked. Gardens become prisons. And Virelda has convinced herself that if she can bond with the Floros Core—if she can force the connection despite not being bloodbound—she can remake Thornsveil into her vision."
"Can she force the bond?" Lyrienne asked.
"No one knows. It's never been attempted. The Cores choose their bearers based on bloodline. But Virelda has been studying necroflora magic for decades. She's learned to blur the line between life and death. If anyone could force a Core to accept them..." He trailed off. "Three weeks ago, she started the ritual. Locked herself in the garden palace with the Core and hasn't emerged since."
"And you fled," Corvin said.
"I tried to stop her. I begged her to abandon this madness. She had me exiled under pain of death." Mirethorn met Corvin's eyes. "I loved her. Not romantically—she never felt that way for anyone. But I loved her like a sister, and I've watched the Core twist her into something I don't recognize."
"So you came to find me."
"I came to find the one person who might be able to save her. Or stop her, if she's too far gone." Mirethorn leaned forward. "The Floros bloodline died out a century ago. There's no one left who can claim that Core properly. But you have Umbra. Shadow and life-death are complementary forces. If you could reach the Core before Virelda completes her ritual—"
"I could bond with it?" Corvin shook his head. "I barely survived bonding with one Core. I don't think I can handle two."
"You might not have a choice," Lyrienne said quietly. "If Virelda successfully forces a bond with Floros, she'll become unstoppable. Necroflora mages can already blur life and death. Imagine what one could do with a Core's power behind them."
Corvin looked at his drink—something the innkeeper had brought without him ordering, a dark red wine that tasted of midnight berries. "This is moving too fast. Three days ago, I was a nobody archivist. Now I'm supposed to stop a queen from destroying her realm?"
"Not destroy," Mirethorn said. "Transform. Which might be worse."
"And you two expect me to just... what? Walk into Thornsveil, storm a palace, and take the Core from a mad queen?"
"No," Lyrienne said. "We expect you to build a team. Gather allies. Plan carefully. And yes, eventually, storm a palace and take the Core from a mad queen."
"Before the bounty hunters find us," Mirethorn added. "Before the Umbral Regnant recovers. Before whoever else is looking for the Cores gets there first. No pressure."
Corvin laughed—a slightly hysterical sound. "This is insane."
"Yes," Lyrienne agreed. "Welcome to the Ten Realms. Insanity is pretty much our default state."
A Lume drifted down to hover near Lyrienne's shoulder, flickering in rapid patterns. She watched it for a moment, then her expression changed.
"What?" Corvin asked.
"The Lumes are warning us. Bounty hunters just entered Gloamspire through the southern gate. Three of them. Tracking shadow-traces." She met Corvin's eyes. "They're following you."
"Already?"
"The Regnant's reach is long," Mirethorn said, standing. "We should move. This inn is safe, but if they track you here, they'll surround it."
"Where can we go?" Corvin asked.
"I have a safe house in the city proper," Lyrienne said. "In the tower district. It's warded against tracking magic, and the Lumes keep watch. We'll be safe there long enough to plan our next move."
They gathered their things quickly. The innkeeper—an elderly woman with Lumes literally woven into her hair—pressed a package into Lyrienne's hands.
"For the road," she said. "And tell the shadow-boy: the old paths still remember Thornevale. The light-posts will guide him true if he asks politely."
Outside, night had fallen—or what passed for night in Gloamspire. The sky had darkened to deep blue, and the Lumes' glow had intensified, turning the landscape into something from a dream.
"Can you ask them?" Corvin said to Lyrienne. "The Lumes. Can you ask them to help hide us?"
Lyrienne's expression shifted—became distant, focused. She spoke in a language that wasn't quite words, more like musical tones that rose and fell in patterns that hurt Corvin's ears to follow.
The Lumes around them suddenly went dark.
Not extinguished—dark. They were still there, still present, but giving off shadow instead of light.
Corvin's shadow perked up immediately, spreading out from his feet like it was stretching after a long confinement.
"They'll mask us," Lyrienne said. "As long as we stay on the old paths—the ones the Thornevales used when they visited Gloamspire centuries ago. The Lumes remember. They remember everything."
They ran.
Through hills and over bridges, following roads that seemed to appear only when they needed them. The dark-Lumes flew ahead, creating a corridor of shadow through Gloamspire's eternal twilight.
Behind them, Corvin could hear shouts. The bounty hunters had picked up their trail.
"How much further?" he called to Lyrienne.
"Two more miles. The city walls. Once we're inside, we'll be safer."
"Will we?" Mirethorn panted. He was graceful but clearly not used to running. "The High-Luminar controls the city. She's neutral, but she doesn't love shadow-touched."
"She owes me a favor," Lyrienne said. "She'll look the other way."
They crested a final hill, and Gloamspire proper rose before them—towers upon towers, connected by glowing bridges, reaching toward the darkened sky like a forest of luminous trees.
It was the most beautiful thing Corvin had ever seen.
It was also surrounded by walls thirty feet high, patrolled by guards, and had exactly four gates—all of which would require identification papers he didn't have.
"Now what?" he asked.
Lyrienne smiled. "Now we use the secret entrance."
She led them to what looked like a simple light-post at the base of the city walls. But when she touched it and spoke in that musical Lume-language, the ground beneath them shifted.
They fell.
Not far—maybe ten feet—but it was enough to make Corvin's stomach lurch. They landed in a tunnel lit by more dark-Lumes, ancient stone walls pressing close on either side.
"Smuggler's tunnel," Mirethorn said, brushing dust from his vine-clothes. "Clever."
"The Thornevales built it four hundred years ago," Lyrienne said. "For exactly this purpose. Queen Virelda isn't the first ruler to go mad with Core-lust."
They moved through the tunnel, which sloped upward and twisted like a snake. Corvin could hear the bounty hunters above, confused shouts as they lost the trail.
"They'll figure it out eventually," he said.
"By then, we'll be gone. The tunnel has a dozen exits." Lyrienne paused at an intersection. "But first, we need to see the High-Luminar. If we're going to Thornsveil, we'll need her blessing. And her resources."
"I thought you said she doesn't love shadow-touched," Corvin said.
"She doesn't. But she loves the realms staying stable more than she dislikes us." Lyrienne chose a path and continued walking. "And if Virelda succeeds in transforming Thornsveil into an eternal garden, the balance between the realms will shatter. Death-magic will flood into the other realms. Murkmire will become overwhelmed. Shadowhart will wake up. And that's just the beginning."
"Shadowhart will wake up?" Corvin repeated. "The realm built on a sleeping god?"
"If death stops existing in Thornsveil, the god will wake. And if a god that's been asleep since before the Primacy shattered suddenly wakes up..." Mirethorn shook his head. "Nothing good comes from that. Trust me."
They emerged from the tunnel into a basement that smelled of old wine and older secrets. Stone stairs led upward, and at the top, Corvin could hear music and voices—a tavern, maybe, or a meeting hall.
"Stay close," Lyrienne said. "And let me do the talking. The High-Luminar is... particular."
They climbed the stairs and stepped into chaos.
The room above was filled with people arguing, gesturing, shouting over each other. Maps covered the walls, marked with pins and string connecting different locations. At the center of it all stood a woman who could only be the High-Luminar.
She was tall—taller than anyone Corvin had ever seen, easily seven feet—and her skin had a faint luminous quality, as if she'd been dipped in starlight. Her hair floated around her head like she was underwater, and her eyes were pure gold, no whites, no pupils, just gold.
"The Floros situation is escalating," she was saying to someone. "I've had three reports of necroflora breaching into southern Gloamspire. Flowers that shouldn't exist. Plants that sing. We need to—"
She stopped mid-sentence and turned to look directly at Corvin.
"You," she said, and her voice resonated like a bell. "You're the shadow-touched the Regnant wants so badly."
Every person in the room turned to stare.
Corvin's hand instinctively went to his side, where he'd strapped the one weapon he'd brought from Umbrafell—a knife made of solidified shadow. Not much, but it would have to do.
"High-Luminar Kaelith," Lyrienne said, stepping forward. "I'm calling in my favor. The one you owe me for saving your daughter from the mirror-wraiths last year."
Kaelith's expression didn't change. "That favor buys him one hour of sanctuary. After that, he's the Regnant's problem, not mine."
"One hour is all we need. We have a proposal."
"I'm listening."
Lyrienne gestured to Corvin. "He's going to stop Queen Virelda from destroying Thornsveil. Which will prevent death-magic from flooding the realms. Which will keep your precious Gloamspire stable. All we need is supplies, information, and a way into Thornsveil that won't get us killed immediately."
"That's a tall order," Kaelith said. But she was looking at Corvin with new interest. "You really think you can stop Virelda? She's one of the most powerful necroflora mages in history."
"I have to try," Corvin said. "Because if I don't, she's not the only one who'll use the Cores for madness. There are others looking. Others worse than her."
"Who?"
"I don't know yet. But I've seen visions. Fragments of futures where the realms end. Where everything stops." He met her golden eyes. "I'm trying to prevent that."
Kaelith studied him for a long moment. Then she smiled—a sharp, predatory expression.
"You're either very brave or very stupid," she said. "I haven't decided which. But I'll help you. Not because I like you. Not because I trust you. But because I've seen the same futures you have, and I'd prefer they not come to pass."
She turned to the room at large. "Clear out. All of you. This is High Council business now."
The crowd dispersed reluctantly, leaving only Kaelith, Corvin, Lyrienne, and Mirethorn.
"Here's what I know," Kaelith said, spreading a map of Thornsveil across a table. "Virelda locked herself in the Garden Palace three weeks ago. The palace is located here—" She pointed to a spot in the realm's heart. "—surrounded by the Necroflora Gardens. Thousands of acres of living, semi-sentient plants that respond to Virelda's will. Getting through them without being killed or driven mad will be nearly impossible."
"Nearly?" Corvin asked.
"There's a path. The Thorn Road. It runs straight through the gardens to the palace. But it only appears for those with..." She looked at Mirethorn. "You tell him."
"Royal blood," Mirethorn said quietly. "Or the blood of someone the gardens love. And I've been exiled. The gardens will kill me on sight now."
"So we need someone with royal blood," Corvin said. "Where do we find that?"
"You don't," Kaelith said. "Because everyone with Thornsveil royal blood is either dead or loyal to Virelda. Except..." She frowned. "There's one person. A disgraced prince from House Thornveil. Draven Midnight. He was exiled fifteen years ago for murdering his brother, but rumor says the gardens still remember him. Still love him."
"And where do we find this murderous prince?" Lyrienne asked.
"Murkmire Dominion," Kaelith said. "Hiding in the swamps, running from his past. If you can convince him to help you, you might have a chance."
"So we need to go to Murkmire first," Corvin said. "Great. The realm of drowned secrets and hostile ghosts. Nothing could possibly go wrong."
Kaelith's smile widened. "You're learning. That's good. You'll need cynicism to survive what's coming."
She provided them with supplies—traveling papers, coins from multiple realms, maps, and a sealed letter of introduction to an ally in Murkmire.
"One more thing," she said as they prepared to leave. "The bounty hunters who tracked you here? They're not the real threat. The Regnant sent someone else. Someone dangerous."
"Who?" Corvin asked.
"A shadow-knight named Sevrin Ebonhal. From the war-realm. He's one of the few people who can match a Core-bearer in combat. And he's been tasked with bringing you back alive or in pieces—the Regnant apparently doesn't care which."
"Comforting," Corvin muttered.
"Be careful," Kaelith said. "And Thornevale? When you gather all the Cores—if you gather them—remember that power doesn't just corrupt. It reveals. Whatever you truly are, deep down, the Cores will draw it out. Make sure it's something you can live with."
They left through a different exit—one that led directly to Gloamspire's commercial district. The city was alive with night-markets and light-festivals, Lumes dancing overhead like artificial stars.
"Murkmire," Lyrienne said as they navigated the crowds. "I've never been."
"I have," Mirethorn said grimly. "It's exactly as terrible as you've heard. Worse, actually. The swamp doesn't just try to kill you. It tries to make you forget why you wanted to live in the first place."
"You're really selling this," Corvin said.
"I believe in informed consent. You should know what you're walking into."
They found an inn—a real one this time, not a safe house—and secured rooms for the night. Tomorrow, they'd book passage to Murkmire. Tonight, they needed rest.
Corvin couldn't sleep. He lay in his small room, staring at the ceiling while his shadow moved restlessly across the walls, as anxious as he was.
A knock at his door.
He opened it to find Lyrienne standing there, wrapped in a sleeping robe, her silver hair loose around her shoulders.
"Can't sleep either?" she asked.
"Too much to process. You?"
"The Lumes are showing me visions. Not good ones." She hesitated. "Can I come in?"
He stepped aside.
She entered and sat on the edge of his bed, drawing her knees up. "I keep seeing Thornsveil. The gardens. And I keep seeing you walking into them alone. Every vision ends the same way—with you disappearing into the flowers and not coming out."
"Maybe I don't go into the gardens," Corvin said. "Maybe we find another way."
"There is no other way. The Garden Palace is sealed except through the Thorn Road. And the Thorn Road goes through the gardens." She looked at him. "I'm scared. Not for me. For you."
"I'm scared too," Corvin admitted. He sat beside her. "I keep thinking about what the Regnant said. About everyone who travels with me dying. About some fates being inevitable."
"Do you believe that? In fate?"
"I didn't. But after bonding with Umbra, after seeing three hundred years of memory... I don't know anymore. Some things seem to repeat. Pattern themselves. Like the universe has preferences."
"Then we'll have to be the exception," Lyrienne said. "We'll have to want to survive more than the universe wants us dead."
She leaned against him, and Corvin found himself putting an arm around her shoulders. It felt natural. Easy. Like something they'd done a thousand times before.
"In the visions the Lumes show me," Lyrienne said quietly, "we're always together at the end. Even when everything else changes, that stays constant. You and me, standing against something huge and terrible and world-ending."
"Do we win?"
"I can't see that far. But we're still standing. That has to count for something."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the Lumes outside the window drift past like lazy fireflies.
"Thank you," Corvin said eventually. "For waiting for me. For tracking me down. I'd still be cataloging dead people's memories if you hadn't sent those letters."
"I didn't do it for you," Lyrienne said. "I did it for the realms. For everyone who'll die if we fail."
"But also a little bit for me?"
She smiled. "Maybe a little bit."
When she finally left, returning to her own room, Corvin lay back down. His shadow had settled, spreading across the floor like a dark carpet.
Tomorrow, Murkmire. Tomorrow, a murderous exiled prince and hostile swamps.
But tonight, he had allies. He had purpose. He had hope.
It was enough.
It had to be enough.
Outside, Lumes danced against the twilight sky, and somewhere in the city, a shadow-knight named Sevrin Ebonhal sharpened his blade and planned his approach.
The gathering of the Cores had truly begun.
And nothing would ever be simple again.