shadows kiss

Back at the inn*

The dreams came every night now—relentless, vivid, and bone-deep. Nathaniel no longer questioned them. He didn't have to. He knew what they meant. In the depths of sleep, he saw her—Zalria.

She was bound in chains, her wrists raw, her once-radiant eyes dimmed beneath layers of dust and despair. Shadows clung to her skin like bruises, and her breath came in shallow bursts. She never spoke in the dream. But her eyes did. They screamed. They begged. They reached for him.

He would always wake gasping. His room, dimly lit by flickering candlelight, offered no comfort. Because the pain in his chest didn't vanish. It grew.

Zalria was alive. And she needed him.

For days, Nathaniel stayed silent. Not even Lyrien, caught in his obsession with Lyra, noticed the shift in his gaze, the haunted way he paced, or how he rarely slept. The vision had become a compass, and Nathaniel followed it.

Although he was scared about his growing powers and magic which was forbidden but for now what mattered more was zalria.

He began tracking the House of the Fallen—quietly. Through whispers bought with gold and maps stolen under moonlight, he traced their location. The House was buried in the deep black valley, surrounded by thorns of cursed magic and protected by the remnants of an ancient army—men twisted by darkness, loyal to no one but chaos.

Nathaniel didn't flinch. Each layer of danger only confirmed one thing—Zalria was there.

By the fifth day, he had mapped the surrounding terrain, marked the change in patrols, and studied the magic sigils that pulsed across the valley floor. At night, he'd sit alone, head bowed in silence, sharpening the same blade over and over, whispering her name like a promise.

"Zalria," he breathed under the weight of twilight, "I'm coming."

He avoided Lyrien entirely. The prince was too lost in Lyra's spell, eyes glazed over with blind desire. Nathaniel could sense it now—how Lyra's aura reeked of enchantment. It sickened him. Lyrien was no longer himself. He had no place in this mission.

This wasn't a rescue. It was a war. And Nathaniel would face it alone.

On the seventh night, the dream returned—but different. This time, he saw her break.

He was scared going alone, he knew deep down he needed lyrien, a demon warrior, but he wasn't willing to waste any more time trying to convince him while his sister breaks before his very own eyes.

Zalria, once defiant, screamed as a whip cracked across her back. Her knees buckled. Blood ran in trails down her arms. A Fallen stood over her, laughing, and when he leaned in close, Zalria spat in his face.

Nathaniel's fists clenched in sleep. He woke with fire in his lungs.

It was time.

—

Draped in black robes laced with protective runes, Nathaniel stood at the edge of the cursed forest. Fog clung to the trees like fingers, and the scent of rot choked the air. But he was calm.

The plan had crystallized in his mind. There would be no retreat. Only Zalria.

He moved swiftly, memorized routes guiding his every step. The sigils shimmered, sensing his presence, but he had studied them well. With a flick of his hand and whispered incantations, he bent the magic just enough to pass through.

The first guards fell before they even saw him—silent slashes across the throat, a blade coated in sleeping venom. He spared no emotion. Each fallen enemy was a brick removed from the prison that held his sister.

At the heart of the fortress, behind a rusted iron door and ancient seals, Nathaniel found her.

Zalria was barely conscious, chained to the wall like an animal. Her silver-white hair hung in clumps over her face, and her body trembled with each breath. But even in that broken state, she was radiant—still alive, still fierce.

"Zalria…" he whispered, voice cracking as he stepped into the room.

Her eyes fluttered open, dazed. "Na…thaniel?"

"Yes. It's me. I'm here."

Tears welled in her eyes, and her lips parted in disbelief. "I knew you'd come."

He dropped to his knees before her, hands trembling as he worked on the chains. "I should've come sooner. I'm sorry."

"No… you came," she breathed, smiling despite the pain. Where lyrien did he come too. Nathaniel couldn't reply as he bent his head down not knowing what to do.

Just then, the torches in the hall flared to life. Footsteps. Voices. The Fallen were coming.

Nathaniel rose, blade drawn. "We're leaving. Now."

And as the door burst open, his eyes glowed with the ancient power stirring in his blood—wild, unshaped, and dangerous.

He wasn't just a brother anymore.

He was a storm.

—