Page 21 of Beasts of Shadows #1

The God of Wisdom and the Goddess of Battle

(Where memory meets resistance, and love becomes legacy).

It was on the island of Hirta—windswept and wild—that Calea’s firstborn daughter, Bea, crossed paths with her mother’s final husband, Bran the Blessed.

Their meeting came on the eve of Samhain.

By then, over a century had passed since the deaths of Bran’s daughters.

He had witnessed his grandson Dare live a full life, fathering a new generation of demigods who would shape the future of witches across the Mortal Realm.

When the time came, Bran buried him beneath the stones of Skara Brae—the same land that had once called Bran into the Shadow Realm.

Bran’s arrival on Hirta wasn’t planned. Immortality afforded him a wandering existence, and he’d long dedicated himself to spreading knowledge wherever he traveled. But rumors of a Samhain ceremony pulled him west—across violent seas and darker memories.

And there she was.

Bea. The woman who had appeared in his earliest vision. The one who had unknowingly lured him to Ais Chrona all those years ago.

She didn’t recognize him, of course. Nor did she return his feelings. His declarations of destiny were met with suspicion. When he offered her a sapling from the ash apple tree—a symbol of his devotion—she laughed.

→ [Marginal note: Sound familiar? You pushing people away when they offer something sincere? Not everything that looks like prophecy is manipulation.]

Still, Bran was patient.

And over time, through careful conversation and quiet observation, their acquaintance deepened into something gentler. A friendship, hard-won. And eventually, a love—deep, deliberate, and rare among their kind.

→ [Note: Bea only let him in after he proved he wasn’t trying to claim or tame her. She needed someone who could see strength and not fear it. Sound like anyone you know?]

But gods are rarely afforded peace.

And that—loving one another—was the beginning of their end.

→ [Important: Bea’s story doesn’t end here. But this is the part people forget—she chose love. After everything. Not because she was soft, but because she finally could.]

—Reema

P.S. Keep reading. There’s more of her in you than you think. And no, that’s not a compliment or a warning. It’s just… context.

#

I’ve never been much of a strategist. I left scheming to Azalea, who plays manipulation like it’s an extreme sport.

Still, come Monday morning, I’m ready to pursue a hunch.

I set out at first light. I’d rather dress in something practical for what I have in mind, but that would just be suspicious.

So, I don my least restrictive maroon pantsuit, tucking my ascot in my backpack and leaving the cuff and top few buttons of my blouse undone.

Piling my frazzled hair in a messy bun, I toss my blazer over my wrist and creep into the still solemn courtyard.

Curfew has ended for kids working breakfast detail, and I hope anyone who spots me will assume that’s why I’m awake.

It takes about twenty minutes to make my way across the large campus, slipping into the Warfare College territory. This space is occupied by three training facilities, with the athletic compound at the far end, right by the fence.

I have one of my daggers on my hip, but I’ve replaced the other with a fine longsword. Obviously, I’m no match for a strategy expert, but I’m thinking that if I beat him to his office, I can at least catch Sumner off guard.

The hall outside the Warfare College is mostly empty—too early for lectures, too late for excuses. The lights flicker in that annoying way that screams “haunted,” and the temperature drops a full five degrees the moment I cross the threshold.

Classic.

His office is tucked behind the strategy lab, half-concealed by a twisting archway and a mural depicting some old battlefield—the kind where gods bleed like men and monsters wear mortal faces. The bronze nameplate reads: Sumner, Z.—Strategic Warfare and Ethics.

Ethics . Ha.

I twist the handle and let myself in.

A fireplace flickers to life the moment I step inside—of course it does—and along the walls are relics and framed maps of wars I’m pretty sure were fought eons ago.

I grip the hilt of my longsword like it’s going to steady the buzzing in my spine.

The room is otherwise deserted. I make my way to the desk, noting the unexpected collection of bobble heads along the wood. Not exactly something I’d expect to find in a god’s office, but I guess everyone has their own quirks.

There’s Samuel L. Jackson from Pulp Fiction , Will Smith in Independence Day , and a variety of popular other action heroes. I tap one finger over Lou Diamond Phillips’ head. It bounces in mockery.

I should stay focused and at the ready by the door, but my curiosity gets the better of me. There are books on his desk. An eclectic mix of Kant, and King, and Blade . I page the comic, frowning. I’ve read this one before. Actually, it was one of Ravi’s favorites.

It’s hardly a clue, but still, it makes me wonder.

I give the door another sideline, then succumb to the temptation to paw through his drawers.

The bottom consists of folders on students, analyzing fighting ability, planning, and leadership. Not recognizing any names, I pull free the middle drawer. Full of office supplies. How pathetically anticlimactic for a war god.

I slam the drawer harder than necessary. The top cabinet is equally disappointing, and I can’t fight the growing frustration at finding nothing I can use against the guy. I mean, I could try bullying him about his taste in comics, but something tells me it won’t do much.

Finally, I open the pencil drawer, shuffling through the papers. Invoices. Mock battle plans. A calendar.

Nari .

I nearly miss the folded paper tucked against the sliding mechanism.

Well, well. I gently wiggle the paper free from where it’s stuck, doing my best to keep from tearing it. I fail in a couple of spots, but nothing that compromises the integrity of whatever the note says.

Nari,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’m writing this for you, or my own sanity.

You didn’t just betray me. You killed me.

Not metaphorically. Not in some romantic, symbolic way that poets write about.

You killed me.

I stop reading, double lines forming between my brow.

What ? What is this? Something meant to scare me?

The words make little sense. Not in the logical way, and definitely not in the how-the-hell-could-he-possibly-know kind of way.

My fingers go numb at the edges. I grip the paper tighter, trying to work up the nerve to continue reading. There must be an explanation in here somewhere.

I keep trying to tell myself you had a reason. That you were scared. Cornered. Lied to. Anything that would explain why the girl I loved sent me out to sea t o die.

I can still feel where your hand trembled the last time you touched me.

Was any of it real?

How long had you been planning it? And who manipulated you into it?

Gods, I would’ve burned the world for you. How did I deserved what you did?

Maybe I’m not writing this for justice. Or even revenge.

Maybe I’m just writing it so you remember me.

Not the version you killed.

Me .

You made sure no one would ever know what happened. But I’ll find a way. Even if I have to crawl back from whatever pit you sent me to—I’ll find a way to remind you.

Because you didn’t just end a life.

You started something.

And it’s not finished.

“I was pretty angry when I wrote that.”

I squeal. The sound is foreign and unfamiliar. I don’t think I’ve ever made it before.

I jump around, dropping the letter at the familiar cadence.

It’s not possible.

It can’t be.

Yet there he is, leaning against the door—I don’t know how he snuck in without me noticing—and watching with his wide, green eyes.

Too green for his caramel complexion, but green, all the same.

His collar’s undone, blazer draped over his shoulder like he’s posing for a magazine. But it’s him.

Older. Sharper. Yet the curve of his mouth is the same as the boy who used to laugh against my neck.

Definitely not a figment of my imagination. Not an illusion. Flesh and blood.

Ravi .