Page 27 of Shadebound (Dark Fantasy #1)

T he lift groaned to a stop, metal grinding against stone as the gate peeled open with an echoing clang.

We stepped out into the same sunken arena as the night before.

It hadn’t changed structurally: towering stone, the faint tang of iron in the air, and high walls etched with old sigils.

But now, instead of a crowd or chaos, it was arranged like a training ground.

The sandy floor was scattered with dark stains, some fresh enough to gleam.

Around the edge of the pit were uneven piles of weapons—curved swords, slender spears, axes that looked like they belonged on a battlefield, and an alarming number of things with spikes.

Some glowed faintly with enchantments. A few crackled with frost or radiated heat.

Others just looked delightfully menacing.

A row of practice dummies lined one side of the arena. Some were straw-stuffed; others were made from bleached bones and twisted wire. They shifted ever so slightly, twitching almost. Every movement made a quiet creak.

Draven stood across the pit with a handful of other students, and I caught Luna explaining what the arena was for.

He was nodding eagerly, paying attention.

He was also smiling too much for my liking as I came to a stop beside him with my friends.

Clearly, any residual fear from the day before had vanished.

My brother was back to prime Draconis stupidity mode.

Alessandro and his dragon horde were here too, lurking near a group of other shifter types.

He kept glaring at me every time I glanced in his direction.

The same hatred simmered in his eyes that I knew was burning in mine, and it took all my self-control not to find something sharp to stab him with.

Draven nudged my side before he signed, What’s his deal?

He’s a Fiore. I shrugged as I looked around to see if anyone was getting too close to my brother. Or looking like they were interested in testing their combat skills on him.

Oh. Ew. That explains it. He cocked his head, brow furrowing. I swear I’ve seen him before. He looks familiar.

I was conscious of the fact that Alessandro had used sign language the day before, so angled my body away from him so he couldn’t be nosy. He looks like his father. Renar was the judge begging for me to be executed in my trial. But he had brown eyes, not blue.

Draven stared over my head, eyes narrowed even though he nodded and signed, Oh, yeah. Maybe that’s it.

A hush fell on the arena as a tall woman emerged from a shadowed alcove, her gait slow. Crimson robes swished with every step—high-collared, split at the thigh, and dusted with sand at the hem. Her hair was iron grey and braided down her back, and a long scar ran from her cheekbone to her jaw.

She stopped in the centre of the arena and looked directly at me.

“I’m Professor Vadren,” she said. Her voice was raspy and blunt. “For those of you who need an introduction—this class isn’t for fun. This is survival.”

She paced slowly, circling us as if we were prey worth studying.

“In Mortavia, magic will do most of the heavy lifting. You’ll use it to win. To escape. To kill . And most of the time, it’ll be enough. But not always.”

She stopped near a spear and lifted it in one hand.

“There are monsters in the wild hills that don’t just hurt you—they drain you. Every last drop of magic sucked right out. You’ll feel it go. You’ll feel hollow. Human . And when that happens, magic won’t save you. Only muscle. Reflex. Instinct . That’s why you’re here.”

She slammed the spear down. The sound echoed. Even my brother flinched.

“Even at your weakest, you should still be better. Still dangerous. Still skilled enough to survive.” She said.

I swallowed. My magic was part of me—stitched into my bones. The thought of losing it made my stomach twist. I didn’t just use shadows. I was them. The cuff was bad enough, but to have them gone entirely?

I’d rather have died.

“Get into groups of three and pick a weapon to practise with against the dummies and each other,” Vadren said sharply. “Now.”

Maya raised a brow and nudged me. “Looks like we’re a dream team, then.”

“Wouldn’t go that far,” I deadpanned. “If this were a dream, I’d be dead.”

“That’s because you have no good dreams, you beautifully gothic freak,” she replied, all cheer and no remorse.

Even Death chuckled inside my head at her.

Eris drifted closer to us, silent as ever. “Hightower moved me up to this class today.” She muttered, cheeks red. “Do you mind if I join you guys?”

“Of course not.” Maya beamed as she squeezed the smaller girl’s arm. “I’d rather be a girl squad and leave Zayden to play with the other hideous boys.”

Zayden caught the tail end of our conversation and shot us a grin like he’d just been complimented and threatened in the same breath.

“Well,” he smirked, “if I’m not invited to the girl gang murder circle, I guess I’ll go find other company where my talents are desired.”

He looked right at me when he said it, all mock-offended and smug.

“You can join us, Alpha . We’d never turn you away.” A voice nearby chirped. I didn’t need to look up to know it was Saphira. My brother was shooting me a look and gagging behind his hand obvious enough that Kalamity and Luna were almost laughing.

“Cool, thanks.” Zayden shot me a wink, not bothering to look at Saphira. “It hurts my feelings, Heartache, that you’d rather play with objects than me.”

I cocked my head. “You say that as if the two are different.”

He gave a mock-wounded sigh and walked off, chuckling.

Saphira lit up instantly, as if someone had handed her a crown and a spotlight. Practically floated into Zayden’s orbit, her laugh high and too loud at nothing, her hand snaking around his arm. She leant in, smiling as if she already owned him.

Maya made a noise beside me like she was trying not to vomit. “I need to strangle her.”

“Why?” I asked, my eyes still pinned to the scene across the field. Zayden’s group was slowly assembling, but he wasn’t making any effort to focus—he was dragging this out, and we both knew it.

“Because she bounces from person to person like it’s a goddamn strategy game,” Maya muttered, arms crossed.

“Tyler the Douche was bad enough. Now she’s eyeing Zayden like he’s her next power-up.

I don’t care if she wants to sleep around; that’s her choice.

Even if I’m firmly into the notion that fated mates will come back again for us.

But it’s not just sex to her. All she wants is power, and that’s hideous.

She broke Nerida’s heart barely two weeks ago and couldn’t care less. ”

Fated mates hadn’t been a thing since Mortavia fell. Those who’d found their mated before still had them. But there had been nobody new since. I was fairly sure the rise in hookup culture, as opposed to waiting for your fated, was a firm sign that none of us thought they would ever come back.

If any of us thought it would come back, the thought of touching anyone but our fated would have been enough to make us sick.

Or the idea of them touching anyone else but us, would fill us with such a violent rage that we could barely ignore.

But most people my age didn’t feel that wrongness.

They didn’t feel like they were losing a part of themselves, or making themselves ruined for their fated by allowing anyone to touch them as they pleased.

I often wondered if any of us had any hope left. I knew I didn’t.

“She’s always mean to me, too,” Eris said quietly, not looking up. “I don’t like her.”

“J, kill her for us. Pretty please.” Maya fluttered her lashes at me, entirely unbothered at how loud her voice was. “I need to see a good petty revenge murder. It will bring me joy.”

“I wouldn’t say no to her being knocked down a peg,” Eris whispered, like she wasn’t sure she could say it.

I sighed, dragging my attention away from Zayden—and his new decorative limb—to glance at them both. “You forget I have no magic right now.”

And also, it was not my business if Saphira liked Zayden.

She was allowed to have feelings, and it was a compliment to him if anything, that someone found him attractive.

It really wasn’t a problem. She could flirt, bat her lashes, drape herself all over him like a cape.

So long as she didn’t make him uncomfortable , I wouldn’t feel the need to carve her face off.

Plus, I was not insecure. I wasn’t at all picturing what it would be like to set her on fire, and toast marshmallows over her burning corpse for touching what belonged to me. I was fine with it.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Maya choked on her laugh as my necklace burned bright green. A colour I pretended didn’t mean jealousy.

Eris giggled, hand flying to her mouth like I’d just said a swear in church.

I blinked. “Did I say that out loud?”

They both nodded, then Maya snickered, “The marshmallow thing sounds inventive.”

“Oh,” I said. Then, without missing a beat: “So. This lesson? Let’s do it, shall we?”

As Maya carried on laughing, we approached the weapon piles. Pretending not to be shooting sideways glances, I picked out twin curved blades—shorter than longswords but heavier than daggers, with wicked angles and hilts that sat comfortably in my hands. They weren’t pretty, but they were efficient.

I spun one, testing it. Smooth. Balanced enough for murdering. I liked them. I instantly decided they were going to be my weapon of choice in this death pit with extra steps.

My father may have trained Draven with a sword, but I’d been given everything else that took my fancy. I liked pointy things. Not just for torture or maiming. They made sense to me. It felt natural to walk around with a dagger or two on my body, usually more for décor than use.

Though now that I was without my magic, they would actually serve a purpose, and I made a note to steal one if I could.