Chapter 2 — The Road to Lanterns

Alright — let’s carry the momentum straight into Chapter 2 of Shadow Heir,

The journey began before dawn, the keep still cloaked in darkness when Eolan stepped into the courtyard. A thin mist hung low, curling around the hooves of the waiting horses like it feared to drift too far from stone walls. The air smelled of wet earth and pine, fresh from the night’s rain.

Arwyn stood beside a grey stallion, checking the straps of its saddlebags. She wore travel leathers under her cloak, and her hair was tied back in a braid that reached her shoulder. The sight of her like this—not the stern guardian of the keep’s halls, but the silent sentinel of the road—made something inside Eolan settle.

“You’ll ride behind me until we clear the valley,” she said without looking at him. “After that, you keep your own pace. But keep your eyes open. The road to the city isn’t as empty as it looks.”

Eolan swung into the saddle of his black mare, the leather creaking beneath him. He glanced back once, toward the keep’s looming silhouette on the cliff. Its towers rose like jagged teeth against the paling sky. For the first time in years, he was leaving its safety—if the keep could be called safe at all.

They rode in silence for hours, the path winding down from the high cliffs into the rolling moors. The wind was sharp but clean, tugging at his cloak. Occasionally, a hawk circled overhead, its cry fading into the emptiness.

By midmorning, the mist had burned away, revealing a scattering of stone cairns along the road—markers for those who had died on the way to or from the Twilight City. Eolan slowed his horse to look at them. Each was different: some crowned with bits of ribbon, others carved with simple sigils.

“Don’t linger,” Arwyn said, urging her stallion onward. “It’s not wise to count the dead before you meet the living.”

They stopped at midday beneath the boughs of a twisted yew tree. Arwyn tossed him a skin of water and a strip of dried meat.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, leaning against the saddle.

“There’s nothing to say,” Eolan replied.

“There’s always something to say before you walk into the Court of Lanterns,” she countered. “You just haven’t decided which lie to start with.”

He frowned. “You think I’ll have to lie?”

“I think you’ll have to survive.” She took a drink from her own waterskin, eyes never leaving his. “The city’s not like the keep. There, people smile while measuring the weight of your shadow. And once they know it, they’ll see if they can cut it free.”

They rode on. As the day wore into evening, the road narrowed, flanked by stands of black alder that seemed to swallow the last of the light. Then, as if the forest had opened a curtain, they crested a rise—and the Twilight City spread out before them.

It was unlike anything Eolan had imagined. Towers of pale stone rose from a labyrinth of streets, their windows glowing with amber light. Lanterns—some suspended from high wires, others floating as if on unseen strings—drifted through the air, casting the city in perpetual dusk. The light was warm, but the shadows it threw were deep, clinging in corners like secrets.

The gates were open, guarded by two silent figures in dark lacquered armor. Their helmets bore a single curved horn, and their faces were hidden behind mirrored masks. They watched the travelers pass but said nothing.

As Eolan and Arwyn rode through, the scents of the city rushed to meet them: spiced wine, burning oil, damp stone, and the faint sweetness of lotus smoke curling from street-side braziers. Merchants called from stalls draped in silks, their voices mixing with the ring of distant bells.

“Stay close,” Arwyn murmured.

They wound through the streets, lantern light sliding over their cloaks. Eolan tried to take everything in—the glint of jeweled masks, the quick hands of children darting between carts, the hollow-eyed beggars who said nothing but watched everything.

Their path led them to the heart of the city, where the Court of Lanterns rose like a beacon. It was a vast structure of white stone and glass, its facade lined with tiers of crimson lanterns that swayed gently in the night air. Beneath them, wide steps led to doors of carved obsidian.

At the foot of the steps, a herald in gold-trimmed robes stepped forward. His eyes flicked over Eolan, then to Arwyn.

“The heir is expected,” he said, his tone smooth but unreadable. “And the guardian as well.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and led them up the steps.

Inside, the air was cool and scented faintly with sandalwood. The hall was lit entirely by lanterns, their glow reflected in polished floors of black marble. People in masks of every shape and color moved through the space, their laughter like chimes in the stillness.

Eolan felt the weight of every glance. They didn’t need to see his face to know who he was.

At the far end of the hall, a dais rose, draped in silks the color of spilled wine. Upon it sat three figures, their masks wrought of hammered gold. The one in the center leaned forward, the metal face catching the lanternlight.

“Welcome, Shadow Heir,” the figure said, voice rich and slow. “We have waited a long time for you.”

The hall fell silent.

Eolan’s pulse thundered in his ears, but he stepped forward, the sound of his boots on marble echoing like a drumbeat.

If the keep had been his cage, the city would be his arena.