Shadow Heir

Chapter 1

The storm had broken hours ago, but the keep still smelled of rain—wet stone, damp banners, and the faint metallic tang of lightning lingering in the air. The wind hissed softly through the narrow arrow slits, setting the torches to sway and spit. Shadows lunged and recoiled along the walls as if they feared being caught still.

Eolan moved through the corridor as one who knew every uneven stone beneath his boots, yet each step felt heavier tonight. The weight wasn’t from fatigue—it was the quiet certainty that before the moon waned again, his life would change. The keep had a way of pressing on him like that, whispering through its stones, reminding him that he was its heir not in name only, but in the marrow of his bones.

He paused at the intersection of two corridors, the hem of his cloak brushing the cold flagstones. A torch guttered beside him, its light trembling over the carved wall—a parade of sigils and beasts etched centuries before his birth. His fingers hovered over the stonework, tracing the curve of a serpent’s scale. The carvings hummed faintly beneath his skin, as if aware of him.

Beyond these halls, in the sanctum at the keep’s heart, waited the relics of his bloodline. Some whispered that they were nothing but symbols—dusty, inert. Others claimed they were alive in some quiet, deliberate way. Eolan had never seen them for himself. Until tonight.

The great oaken door to the sanctum stood at the end of the hall, blackened by age but unbowed. A lattice of iron bands crossed its surface, every joint etched with runes. He approached slowly, hearing his own breath in the silence.

He pressed his palm to the center of the door. The runes beneath his hand flared a dim gold, pulsed once, and faded. Something inside the door clicked—not like the mechanical turn of a lock, but like a held breath finally released.

The hinges groaned, and the sanctum yawned open.

Inside, the air was cooler, tasting faintly of old vellum and cedar oil. Tall shelves circled the chamber, heavy with scrolls bound in velvet cords. In the center stood a pedestal of obsidian, upon which rested a crescent blade sheathed in lacquered black wood. Behind it, in a glass case that seemed untouched by dust, hung a small silver locket. Its surface was plain—too plain to warrant a place of such honor—but as Eolan drew near, he saw it throb faintly, like a heartbeat.

He reached for it, fingers brushing the glass. The locket’s rhythm quickened.

“Don’t.”

The voice came from behind him—low, steady, and without room for argument. Eolan turned.

Arwyn stood framed in the doorway, her dark hair braided close against the rain, her cloak beaded with droplets. Her eyes—steel-grey and unblinking—rested on him with the measured weight of someone who had raised him and scolded him in equal measure.

“It’s not yours. Not yet.” She stepped into the room, her boots whispering over the stone. “And if you’re wise, you’ll pray it never is.”

Eolan frowned. “You’ve kept me from this room my entire life. Tonight, you brought me here yourself. Why? To tell me not to touch what’s mine?”

Arwyn’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You think inheritance is the same as possession? That blood gives you the right to wield what it binds? You’ve been sheltered here because out there—” she jerked her chin toward the storm beyond the keep—“your name is worth a knife in the ribs. And in here, because these relics will take from you as much as they give.”

He glanced at the locket again. Its glow was dimming now, as if sulking. “You think I’m not ready.”

“I think readiness doesn’t matter.” Her voice softened, just enough to cut deeper. “What comes will come, whether you want it or not.”

Eolan turned away from her and wandered the edge of the chamber, eyes lingering on the scrolls, the weapons, the glimmering scraps of history tucked into niches. The air felt heavy, charged, as if each artifact recognized him—or measured him.

“What comes?” he asked finally.

Arwyn didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a folded parchment, sealed in black wax stamped with the keep’s sigil.

“This arrived this morning,” she said. “From the Twilight City.”

Eolan took it, feeling the faint warmth of her hand lingering in the paper. He broke the seal and read. The script was elegant, the words sharp. An invitation—to a gathering at the Court of Lanterns. The letter spoke of trade and alliances, but the last line cut through the politeness like a blade:

The heir will present himself, or the matter will be settled without him.

Eolan looked up. “They know.”

“They’ve always known,” Arwyn said quietly. “They were only waiting until they thought you were ripe for plucking.”

Outside, the wind rose again, rattling the narrow windows. Eolan folded the letter and slid it inside his cloak.

“Then we go,” he said.

Arwyn studied him for a long moment, her eyes narrowing as if measuring the shape of his resolve. At last, she nodded.

“You’ll see the city for yourself. But remember, Eolan—shadows don’t just hide you. They follow you. And they remember.”