Chapter 10: Shadows That Answer

~Aeron

I woke to regret.

It clung to my skin, heavier than the night before, thicker than the sweat cooling on my back. Lyric was beside me—naked, asleep, her dark hair tangled over my pillow like a snare I’d walked into willingly.

What the hell have I done?

My jaw clenched. I moved slowly, carefully, making sure not to wake her. Her leg twitched at the loss of heat as I slipped from beneath the sheets. I stood by the window for a moment, staring into the grey morning beyond the castle walls. Ashen clouds choked the sky. Even the light here had no comfort in it.

I didn’t belong in this room.

I put on my robes—dark obsidian wool with the silver emblem of the Lupinar Throne stitched over my chest—and slipped out.

The hallways were cold, vast veins of ancient stone veined with moss and memory. Tapestries whispered with each gust of wind. A servant passed me, bowed low, said something polite. I didn’t hear it. My mind was drowning in silence that sounded like her.

Eira.

I could still feel her name in the pit of my chest, where it refused to be exiled.

I made my way down the marble staircase toward the dining hall. The great doors were already open. Sunlight spilled across the polished floors like a lazy betrayal of how much the world had changed.

Then I heard it.

Laughter.

Not just any laughter. Hers. A melody I knew better than my own heartbeat—soft, wild, filled with wind and defiance.

I turned so fast my robe nearly tripped me.

But it wasn’t her.

It was a goat. Bleating as it was dragged away from the hallway by a stableboy.

I slapped a palm to my forehead. “Pull yourself together, Aeron.”

Inside the dining hall, I sat alone at the end of the obsidianwood table. The same place I always did. The chairs were carved like thrones, high-backed and cold, their legs etched with scenes from the Moonborne War—our ancestors, howling and bloodstained.

I picked at the bread.

Then I saw her.

Eira. Sitting at the other end of the table, her hood low, her eyes locked on mine. No accusation. No hate. Just her.

I stood. “Eira—”

She vanished.

The chair was empty. Dust motes floated where she’d been.

I sank back into my seat, face in my hands.

“I can’t keep doing this,” I whispered. “She’s not here. You made sure of that, remember?”

I pushed the food away.

I needed distraction. Something that demanded blood and duty. Something to dull the ache.

I called for the council.

The Obsidian Throne’s council chamber was a circular vault of black granite. Tall windows let in spears of light that cut across the long table in its center. Twelve seats. Twelve elders. Each draped in the grey-and-silver robes of our office, each marked with the ceremonial moon sigils inked along their forearms.

“Alpha,” said Elion, oldest of the Twelve, rising with a bow. “You summoned us swiftly. What troubles your peace this morning?”

I folded my hands before me. “The realm is not at peace. Neither am I.”

A few murmurs of agreement. I noticed Vaelin frown, the second youngest. He was always quick to speak.

“There are complaints from the farmlands,” said Mirelle, the only woman among them. “The drought has worsened. Livestock are dying. The soil cracks like broken pottery. If it does not rain in three weeks, we will face a famine unlike anything seen since the Pale Age.”

“We’ve tried summoning the Sky Circle,” Vaelin added. “The druids haven’t responded.”

“Because they no longer answer to us,” Elion said. “They’ve gone silent since the last eclipse.”

“So we’re alone,” I said, more to myself than them. “And our people starve.”

“There’s more,” Mirelle said. “The blood traders from the East sent word. Several of their livestock were found drained. Throats torn open. Puncture wounds like twin needles.”

“Vampires,” I growled.

“Rogue ones,” Vaelin confirmed. “We suspect a clan hidden in the Verdant Cradle. The village of Ravenspire has reported three deaths. Livestock vanish by the dozens.”

I stood.

“I’ll handle it.”

The room stilled.

“You’ll send a party, surely,” Elion said. “You can’t mean—”

“No,” I interrupted. “I’m going. Myself. With a handpicked unit.”

“Alpha, you are the spine of Obsidian. If you fall—”

“Then another will rise. That’s how our bloodlines work.”

Mirelle stood, hands clasped. “You must forgive our insistence, but the vampires—though fewer in number—are cunning. They strike in silence and shadow. You cannot predict them like you can beasts. Send warriors. Let the risk fall on them.”

“I need the risk,” I said quietly. “I need to move. Sitting here is… not helping.”

They were silent.

And eventually, they bowed. “As you command, Alpha.”

Later, I summoned Lyric.

She entered in a rush, her hair in disarray, robe tied hastily. “You called for me?”

“I’m leaving,” I said, fastening the last of my armor. “I’ll be gone two nights. Three, if the rogue nest is buried deep.”

Her face paled. “You’re leaving? Why? What happened?”

“Vampires in the east. I’m handling it personally.”

Her jaw twitched. “You’re running.”

“Don’t.”

“You are. From this. From me. From the throne.”

I didn’t reply. I just handed her the scroll.

“You’ll be regent until I return. The council will obey you.”

She took it with trembling hands. “Aeron, please. Don’t go. Not now. I had a vision last night—a fire. Blood on snow. You were—”

“I’ve faced worse than a vision.”

She reached for my hand.

I pulled away.

That night, I assembled them—ten of the fiercest blades I knew. Reynold, my second-in-command. Jareth, who once slew a wyvern with his bare hands. Lena of the Iron Fangs. Calder, Thorne, Vess, Mila, Rom. Every one of them loyal, battle-hardened, bound by oath.

We rode in silence under the twin moons, our cloaks billowing behind us, the scent of pine and frost thick in the air. The village of Ravenspire was small—stone cottages roofed with straw, fences laced with garlic and glyphs.

They bowed when they saw me.

“Alpha,” an elder whispered. “We did not think—”

“I came because you matter,” I said. “All of you.”

They showed us the fields, the pens, the clawed fences. Livestock bones picked clean. Patterns of ash. Tracks that ended abruptly like the creatures had vanished into the mist.

We took notes. Measured wind direction. Checked for magic residues.

And then, we waited.

Hid among the brambles. Cloaked in scent-hiding salve. Fangs and claws ready.

I crouched beside a thornbush, breath even. The moonlight fell like milk through the trees. Cold. Absolute.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.

Then I turned.

“Reynold,” I whispered. “What’s the status report at your end?”

No answer.

“Reynold?” I said louder, frowning.

I rose and turned fully—expecting to see him lying in the brush, maybe asleep.

There was no one.

No Reynold.

No Jareth.

No Lena. No Mila.

No one.

The bushes rustled with wind. Nothing more.

I was alone.

Utterly, impossibly alone.

And I hadn’t heard a single sound.