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It has always been about love.

The love I have for Hadrian, and the one I have for my people.

I cannot save them both. But I shall die trying.

Tabitha Wysteria

Daku’s wings sliced through the ink-black sky, the great beast landing in a swirl of dust between the towering obsidian castle and the temple that had haunted Mal’s dreams in her absence.

Home.

And yet, she was no longer the same wyverian princess who had ridden away with murder burning in her heart, the weight of an ancient curse pressing against her ribs.

Now, she returned with uncertainty gnawing at her soul.

How could she save him?

‘Mal!’

She barely had time to brace herself before Kai was there, sprinting across the darkened earth, his movements quick, sharp—desperate. He reached her in a blur, lifting her clear off the ground, his arms crushing her against him in a grip she never wanted to leave.

The scent of ash and steel and home surrounded her .

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, his voice rough with emotion.

Mal swallowed, letting herself bask in the warmth of his embrace for one moment more before reality pulled her back into its cruel grasp.

‘I came to retrieve the dagger,’ she answered as he set her back down.

Kai’s eyes darkened. Something lurched in them—something wary.

‘Haven left yesterday.’

Mal’s stomach lurched. ‘What?’

‘She wanted to attend the engagement celebration.’ There was an edge to his tone, his jaw tightening as he spoke the words.

Mal did not ask more. There was no time.

‘Well, as soon as I have the dagger I shall be returning.’ She turned from him, her gaze lifting to the castle carved into the very heart of the mountain, the spires jagged like the teeth of a beast.

After spending so much time in the vivid warmth of the Kingdom of Fire, it felt almost unnatural to return to a world bathed in black, white, and grey. The only colour left to them was the bleeding crimson of the deadly moon, staining the heavens like a wound that refused to heal.

‘I cannot stay, Kai,’ she said, stepping away from the shadowed path that wound towards the towering gates. ‘Please give our parents a kiss.’

Before he could protest, Mal rose onto the tips of her toes, pressing a swift kiss to his cheek. And then she ran.

Her grey riding dress billowed behind her as her boots pounded against the rocky path, guiding her away from the castle and towards the edge of the world itself.

Towards the Forest of Silent Cries.

She reached its border, heart hammering against her ribs as she stilled. And listened.

The dead trees loomed over her like ancient sentinels, their blackened limbs reaching out, the skeletal leaves rustling in an eerie symphony—but none fell.

Mal clenched her fists, fighting against the pull of grief, but her thoughts betrayed her.

Nyx.

Was her wyvern here? Did she wait for her in the restless embrace of the forest, caught between life and death, longing to soar once more?

Before she could lose herself in the question, the air shifted.

One moment, there was only emptiness.

The next—she was there.

The Seer stood before her, materialising from nothing and everything all at once, her golden owl-like eyes unblinking, inhuman. The feathers adorning her elongated skull rippled in the stillness.

Her head cocked to the side, as if assessing a puzzle she had already solved.

‘Why are you here, Mal Blackburn?’ the Seer rasped, her voice both ancient and eternal, as if the wind itself had spoken.

Mal did not hesitate. She could not.

Her eyes flicked down—to the dagger.

It gleamed against the darkness, the hilt carved from bone, ancient runes burnt into its length like whispers of the past.

‘Because you have something I need.’ Mal’s voice did not waver, though she felt the weight of the words lodge deep in her chest.

Her hand lifted, pointing at the cursed blade.

‘I’ve come to break the curse you cast upon us, Tabitha Wysteria.’

A slow, wicked smile spread across the Seer’s lips.

‘Have you, now?’

…

Mal’s breath was steady, measured, despite the pulse of unease rippling beneath her skin.

The dead had begun to gather, their hollow faces peering from behind the blackened trees, their whispers rustling through the skeletal branches like wind through a graveyard.

The silence was alive, pressing in, watching.

‘You were here, this entire time,’ Mal said, stepping deeper into the cursed forest. The air thickened around her, heavy with waiting souls. ‘Why?’

The Seer lifted a hand, slow, deliberate, and dragged her fingers down her face. The transformation was seamless—as if she were shedding one reality for another.

Gone was the owl-eyed creature with her feathered crown, her twisted elegance of half-human, half-otherworldly.

Now, in her place, stood a witch.

A woman with long, white hair cascading like moonlight over her tattooed hands. Dark skin inked with symbols older than the very soil beneath them. And eyes—purple, deep and endless, mirroring Mal’s own.

‘After Hadrian was murdered, I vanished from the world,’ the witch said, her voice steeped in old grief, as if time had never softened the wound. ‘I cursed the kingdoms for what they had done to him, but I stayed here in the land where he was from to be close to our child. ’

‘Your child?’

Tabitha’s expression was unreadable. A carved mask of a woman who had lived too long.

‘Do you know the tale of the two brothers, Mal Blackburn?’

‘Of course,’ Mal replied cautiously. ‘My parents told us the tale every night before we slept.’

‘Then tell it to me.’

Mal clenched her jaw. ‘I do not have time for this, Tabitha.’

The witch hissed, her power thrumming through the air like the first warning of a storm. ‘You want the dagger?’ She touched the hilt at her side, her voice curling with venom. ‘Then you must understand first.’

Mal exhaled sharply, her frustration curling into a thin mist in the cold air. But she began, her voice a practiced cadence from childhood.

‘Once upon a time, during the Great War, two brothers were found. One was drakonian, the other wyverian. They were raised in secrecy, hidden from the world by their adoptive parents, secluded from all eyes. But as they grew, they were discovered—and each was sent back to their own kind. The drakonian was revealed to be the lost son of Princess Aithne and Prince Sorin, while the wyverian boy became one of the fiercest witch hunters in the seven kingdoms. So fierce was he that the king himself married him to his daughter—’

Mal stopped.

Tabitha’s laughter was a slow, rich thing, like the breaking of an ancient spell.

‘The wyverian boy,’ she murmured, ‘was Hadrian’s son. Our son. We were being hunted, so I hid him away, but by the time I returned, he was gone. Years passed before I found him again—by then, he had become a king, married off to his… aunt .’

Mal winced. A cruel twist of fate.

‘They did not know,’ Tabitha continued, a shrug rolling over her shoulders. ‘Or they never would have arranged it. But what does it matter now?’

‘How are you still alive?’ Mal asked, her voice quieter, unsure if she truly wished for the answer.

Tabitha’s purple eyes gleamed, something sharp and unyielding burning in their depths. ‘The curse has kept me alive. When it is broken, I will finally rest here, in the Forest of Silent Cries.’

‘Why did you curse everyone?’ Mal’s voice was soft, but the question was laced with accusation.

Tabitha’s face twisted.

‘Because I was angry.’

‘But you killed Hadrian,’ Mal pressed, ‘you cast a love spell over him and—’

‘I did no such thing!’ Tabitha snapped, her voice dark with rage. ‘Hadrian and I loved each other. It was the Fire King who came for us. They murdered Hadrian and blamed me for it. So when I cursed them, I made certain they would suffer for what they had done.’

‘What do you mean?’

Tabitha smirked. It was not the smirk of a woman amused, but of a woman who held all the pieces to a game no one else had realised they were playing.

‘To break the curse, you must kill the Fire Prince,’ she purred. ‘But for it to work, he must love you.’

Mal felt the blood drain from her face.

‘I made it so,’ Tabitha continued, ‘because a drakonian will never love a witch. Or a wyverian. And so the curse will remain. Everyone will fall into an eternal sleep, their bodies turning to dust, while the Fire Prince lives on—cursed to watch the world wither around him, never to die, never to sleep, always alone.’

Mal could barely breathe.

‘Ash Acheron wasn’t even alive when this happened to you!’ she choked out. ‘None of us were! You have cursed people who had no part in your suffering!’

Tabitha tilted her head, considering.

She did not care.

The realisation made Mal’s stomach churn.

She forced herself to shift the conversation, her mind screaming as she blurted, ‘Do you know why I have purple eyes? Why I have… powers?’

Tabitha’s purple eyes flashed with worry.

‘You have purple eyes because I gave them to you, Mal Blackburn.’

Mal took a step back.

‘Your mother suffered from terrible pains after her third birth. I slipped some of my magic into her tea. She was already pregnant with you—but she did not yet know. And so, my magic laced itself into your blood, altering you before you ever took your first breath.’

‘You… you created me?’ Her voice barely held together. ‘Does that make us… related?’

The thought burnt through her, corrosive, unbearable.

‘Yes and no.’ Tabitha’s tone was almost sad. ‘I was a little late in the creation process, but my magic gave you your eyes. Someone else created you.’

Mal’s nails bit into her palms.

‘Who?’ The frustration crackled through her words like a storm waiting to break.

Tabitha only sighed. ‘If you wish to know what created you, then end the curse.’

And then, she lifted the dagger.

The bone-white hilt glowed in the darkness, its serpentine markings whispering of ancient blood spilt upon its edge. The white gemstone embedded at its centre seemed to watch her.

If she took the dagger, she would have to face the truth of what must come next. But if she refused… Ash would be doomed. Doomed to wander the kingdoms alone, watching the world fall into decay while he remained, untouched and cursed.

‘Why will the curse tell me what created me?’ she whispered. ‘What am I?’

Tabitha smiled, slow and knowing.

‘You, Mal Blackburn,’ she said, ‘are the Princess of Shadows.’

The moment the words left her lips, something inside Mal unlocked.

It was like a key slipping into place, like a door long sealed suddenly thrown open. Her entire body hummed with energy, with power, with something ancient and waiting.

A memory slammed into her, unbidden.

Something watched her from the forest, lurking in the silence.

And it had been waiting.

Waiting for her.

Mal turned, her breath catching as the darkness before her began to twist and churn, pulling together like ink dissolving in water. The shadows bled into form, shaping themselves with an elegance both ethereal and wild.

And then—wings.

A long, serpentine tail. The sinuous arc of a neck that had once curled protectively around her as a child.

A wyvern, but not of flesh and bone—no, this creature was wreathed in mist, its translucent body casting no true shadow of its own, revealing glimpses of the skeletal black trees behind it.

Mal's lips parted, her heart aching with something she could not name. Loss. Longing. Relief.

‘Hello, Nyx,’ she said, raising her hand towards the spectral wyvern. ‘Did you miss me, old friend?’

The beast roared, a sound that seemed to shake the very air around her. It was not the cry of a creature among the living—it was something else entirely. A lament. A greeting. A promise.

‘You once wondered why you were not blessed with a shadow like your siblings,’ Tabitha’s voice drifted through the hush of the forest, her words weaving through the mist that coiled between the trees.

Mal swallowed hard. She remembered. The nights spent chasing her own reflection, searching for something that was not there. The whispered questions to the Seer, the sleepless hours spent staring into darkness, wondering why she alone among her kin was missing a piece of herself.

‘You were always blessed by the gods,’ Tabitha continued, her voice thick with meaning. ‘That is why you were never given a single shadow, Mal. Because you were born with all of them.’

Mal’s throat tightened, her voice barely a whisper. ‘What does that mean?’

Tabitha smiled—a knowing, wicked thing. ‘It means you are their master. Every shadow, every whisper of darkness—it bends to your will. You can summon them. Command them. You, Mal Blackburn, are a shadow-walker. And if you desired, you could raise an army of darkness itself.’

Mal glanced sharply about, her skin tightening as she realised just how many of them were there now. The dead had drawn closer.

Not just close.

They surrounded her.

She felt them—cold, weightless presences pressing against the edges of her awareness. But they did not reach for her, did not lash out. They knelt.

Mal’s stomach curled in on itself. ‘What are they doing?’ she whispered, her fingers trembling as she resisted the urge to step back. ‘Why are they bowing?’

Tabitha’s grin sharpened, her purple eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

‘Because, Mal,’ the witch said, ‘you are their princess. And your true father—’

The air around them thickened, darkened, pulsed. The dead did not rise. They waited.

‘—is their King.’