Page 26

Ada

I liked being in the gardens, even when he forbade me from exploring the grounds. Here, among the strange, luminescent flowers that bloomed only in darkness, I could almost forget I was a prisoner. Almost.

My thoughts drifted to Kiraz, as they always did when I had a moment’s peace. A bittersweet smile tugged at my lips when I remembered our last morning together, just three weeks ago, though it felt like a lifetime.

I had woken to find my five-year-old daughter missing from her bed, which usually meant only one thing: culinary disaster.

Sure enough, I’d found her in Nadine’s kitchen, standing on a wobbling chair, flour coating every surface within a three-foot radius.

Her dark curls were dusted white, and she had somehow managed to get egg yolk on her nose.

“Mama!” she’d announced proudly, gesturing to what appeared to be pancake batter mixed with enough cinnamon to spice a feast. “I made breakfast for everyone!”

The “everyone” in question—a family of field mice that had taken up residence in the cottage walls—peeked out cautiously from their hiding spots, whiskers twitching at the overwhelming scent of cinnamon.

“I see that, little light,” I’d said, and tried not to laugh at the sheer chaos one child had managed to create. “Did you perhaps use the entire spice jar?”

Kiraz nodded solemnly. The mice like cinnamon. Uncle Tolga told me.” She’d pointed to the largest mouse, which had indeed crept closer to investigate her offering. “That one’s name is Whiskers, and he has three babies.”

“Of course he does,” I’d murmured, and kneeled to survey the damage. Flour handprints decorated the lower cabinets like tiny ghost prints, and something that might have once been milk had created a small lake on the floor.

“Are you angry?” Kiraz had asked, her chin trembling slightly—the same stubborn tilt I’d seen in her father’s jaw a thousand times.

“No, sweetheart.” I pulled her flour-covered form into my arms despite the mess. “But next time, maybe we could cook together? Before the mice wake up for breakfast?”

She’d giggled then, pressing her sticky hands to my cheeks. “You’re silly, Mama. Mice don’t sleep. They’re always busy.”

We’d spent the rest of the morning cleaning flour from impossible places while Kiraz chatted about her mouse friends and demonstrated how her light magic could make the flour sparkle into snow.

She’d been so proud of her magic, so innocent of the power that coursed through her veins—power that made her a target to those who would use her.

I’d treasured every moment of that chaos, knowing even then that our time together was borrowed.

The memory faded while I focused on the present garden, the ache in my chest sharper now.

Three weeks since I’d held her, since I’d heard her laugh, since I’d wiped flour from her impossibly sweet face.

How was she managing without me? Was she still feeding the mice her creative breakfast attempts?

Did she understand why I couldn’t come home?

Soon , I promised myself, the word feeling hollow even in my thoughts. Somehow, I’ll find a way back to you, little light.

The guards Hakan usually posted maintained their distant positions, but something felt wrong about their positioning today.

An urgent message had arrived for them an hour ago, something about a security breach in the eastern wing that required immediate investigation.

The timing made my skin prickle with unease, but the guards had seemed convinced of its legitimacy.

“You’re brooding again,” Melo observed, her fox form padding alongside me on the stone path.

As she moved, I noticed her reflection in a puddle seemed to ripple strangely—for just a heartbeat, the image showed something taller, more humanoid, before snapping back to her familiar fox shape.

She paused, staring at the water with a frown that looked far too complex for a fox's features.

“I’m thinking,” I corrected, and trailed my fingers along a bloom that shimmered as captured moonlight. “There’s a difference.”

“Not when you do it.” Melo nudged my ankle with her nose. “Your face gets all pinched, and you look like you’re plotting someone’s demise.”

“Maybe I am.”

The ghost of my conversation with Midas yesterday still haunted me. His words, each one carefully chosen to become parasites burrowing under my skin. Does your husband tell you everything, I wonder? Has he shared with you the true nature of the ritual that binds you here?

I’d dismissed him, of course. Midas was Erlik’s creature, and everything he said was designed to sow discord. And yet…the satisfaction in his eyes when I’d rebuffed him suggested I’d somehow played into his hands anyway.

“What’s wrong?” Melo asked. She sensed my darkening mood.

“Just remembering an unpleasant conversation.”

“With that fucking shadow lord?”

I shook my head. “With one of his father’s lackeys. Midas.”

Melo’s hackles rose immediately. “The one who reeks of oil and decay? He was creepier than Hakan. I don’t like him.”

“Nobody likes him. That’s rather the point of?—”

The arrow whistled past my ear before I registered the sound of its release, embedding itself in the trunk of a tree behind me. I froze, instinct warring with disbelief. Here? In Hakan’s palace?

"Ada, move!" Melo snarled, her form already shifting, growing.

But this wasn't just her guardian magic expanding her size—something deeper was happening.

Golden light poured from her fur as her body stretched and changed, and for a terrifying moment I thought she might be dying.

Her face contorted with what looked like remembered pain, as if this transformation was awakening something that had been forcibly buried.

Too late. They emerged from the shadows between the trees, materializing as if born from the darkness itself. Five figures dressed in black, faces obscured by featureless masks, weapons glinting in the pale garden light.

Assassins. In the heart of the shadow realm.

I didn’t waste breath on questions. My hand found the blade I’d taken hiding in my sleeve—a letter opener stolen from Hakan’s study, pathetically inadequate against proper weapons, but better than nothing.

The first attacker moved with deadly precision, his curved dagger aimed not at my throat but at my shoulder—a disabling strike, not a killing blow.

Years of diplomatic training kicked in, but these weren't ordinary assassins.

As I sidestepped, he adjusted smoothly, the blade scoring along my arm instead of missing entirely.

When I drove my makeshift weapon toward his armor gap, he caught my wrist with his free hand, applying just enough pressure to make me drop the letter opener.

His movements were controlled, professional—this was about capture, not execution.

These weren’t ordinary killers.

Melo launched herself at another, her guardian magic flaring as her fox form expanded to the size of a wolf—an ability she rarely used except in dire circumstances, teeth bared and glowing with ancient power.

She tore into him, but the man seemed to dissolve around her attack, reforming a few feet away.

Shadow magic. But not Hakan’s refined power. This was cruder, more elemental. How were they using shadow magic in Hakan’s domain without his knowledge? Something was interfering with his connection to the shadows here.

“Light-bearer,” one of them hissed, his tone distorted and hollow. “Your time ends now.”

My power erupted beyond my usual careful control, weeks of suppressed rage and desperation overwhelming the disciplined techniques I'd spent years perfecting.

The emotional intensity amplified my magic beyond anything I'd achieved before—light lashed out in every direction, shattering glass cases, toppling bookshelves, scattering papers that ignited mid-air.

Golden tendrils extended from my fingertips, and I lashed out, catching one assassin across the chest. Where my light touched, his shadow armor sizzled and smoked.

He screamed, the sound inhuman.

But there were too many, and I was still recovering from whatever Hakan had done to bind my powers. One broke through my guard, blade slicing along my forearm. Pain flared, hot and immediate, but I pushed through it, driving my elbow into his masked face.

“Ada, behind you!” Melo warned.

I spun, but too slowly. Something slammed into my back—not a blade, but a spell that burned like ice where it struck. My legs buckled when numbness spread outward from the impact. I couldn’t breathe, and the pain paralyzed me from head to toe. Shadow magic, corrupting my light from within.

“Melo!” I called, my words already weakening.

My guardian fought viciously, but they had prepared for her, too. A net of shadow-stuff enveloped her, constricting around her thrashing form. Her fox-fire flickered against its bindings, but the shadows only tightened in response.

A booted foot pressed to my shoulder, rolling me onto my back. Above me, one of the masked figures loomed, taller than the others, silver eyes gleaming through the eyeholes of his mask.

“Nothing personal,” he said, response distorted but somehow familiar. “Just business.”

The dagger in his hand was black as night, its blade drinking in what little light reached us.

But instead of raising it for a killing blow, he angled it carefully—not for my heart or throat, but for my side, just below the ribs.

A precise strike meant to incapacitate, not kill.

"Orders are orders," he muttered, almost apologetically.

I felt the sudden, terrible pressure as the blade sank into my abdomen, deliberately missing vital organs.

The shadow poison on the blade would weaken me, make me compliant, but it wasn't meant to be fatal. Not yet.

Something about his stance, the way he held the weapon, tugged at my memory. Had I seen this assassin before? The thought flickered and died while pain overwhelmed everything else.