Page 3 of Shadebound (Dark Fantasy #1)

My bones won’t stop itching.

A s snow flurried, I stepped into the garden beyond my living room. The hinges gave a soft creak before thetall iron-framed doorsclicked shut behind me. Taking away the last bit of warmth from my home.

Silver moonlight cast dark shadows across the flagstones, illuminating my family’s woodland estate.

Bleeding hearts and nightshade lined the paths, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze.

Multi-coloured raspberry bushes ripe with fruit climbed up the wall to my left.

All of it magicked with my mother’s care, to ensure they never died.

Overgrown hedgerows, trimmed with precision, framed the garden path that wound ahead.

With a firm jaw, I snatched a handful of blue raspberries; ones designed to kill with a single bite.

Just in case. Then I followed the path into the dark forest.I did not look back.

At my stone castle home. My uncertain father, missing mother, or my brother, who I couldn’t even think about saying goodbye to.

I simply moved towards the only thing I cared about tonight, my hand rubbing my necklace and wondering what horrid colour it would turn next. Yellow was my least favourite. It meant love.

And love was a treacherous thing.

As I ventured deeper, gnarled roots broke through the earth, forcing my steps to slow.

The trees above were bare, their thin limbs clicking softly in the storm.

An owl hooted once, its call swallowed quickly by the thickening quiet.

Unnatural fog crept across the ground, gathering in shallow dips and skimming over frozen leaves.

It was all delightfully macabre for the start of my escape. Not that it was much of an escape.

The Draconis family graveyard lay just beyond the final hedge, hidden in the quiet fold of the estate. The trees there thinned more, pale and stripped of bark. Moonlight cast them in silver and blue. One of the few times I found colour almost appealing.

If I were truly running, I wouldn’t have stopped—not to admire colours or take in the night. But I also knew without question that I could never have left without saying goodbye.

Not to her .

To the reason I became the monster that all shadebound were supposedly born to become.

The mausoleums were crumbling; their white stones streaked with time. They’d stood flawlessly in Mortavia for centuries. But started breaking down when my mother had magicked them here.

The wrought-iron gates were hung askew, surrendered to rust. I liked it here—the stillness, the slow unravelling of what once was.

There was a quiet dignity in the decay, a kind of truth that didn’t need polishing.

No one lied here. Nothing pretended to be whole.

Everything was exactly as it was—fading, forgotten, and at peace.

Most people feared places like this. Flinched at the idea of death. But I had always found comfort in it. The air was colder, yes, but also clearer . It let me breathe.

Sometimes, when I stopped pretending to be dead myself, I enjoyed breathing.

I knew the grave I needed—tucked in the furthest corner, half-swallowed by ivy and sorrow. Its headstone slouched beneath its own weight, a jagged crack splitting it down the centre from a lightning storm that had hit it. The inscription had faded, but I didn’t need to read it to know what it said.

Here lies one who bloomed in spring’s embrace. A wildflower kissed by sun and storm. Twin flames severed, yet never broken.

Forever bound beyond this mortal form .

My knees met the snow-laced earth. The bitter sting was a welcome feeling as I reached out, fingertips brushing the stone, and the mountain of pink flowers spelled never to wither.

And the pile of black roses with the heads cut off, that made me smile in the worst sorts of ways.

But even the warm presence of the gift left for me by a stranger could not stop the chill that seeped into my bones. I just held fast.

Relying on my enjoyment of the cold instead, my breath caught. My magic stirred. And for a moment, I let the grief wash over me.

I stopped masking my true thoughts and feelings and let them all come through.

“I’m not giving up,” I whispered to the dirt and the wind. “I’ll find the one who took you from me, Bells. And I promise that this doesn’t mean I’m letting you go.”

As the words left me, my magic stirred again—deeper this time, coiling in my gut like it had heard the oath and intended to hold me to it.

A few shadow-creatures flickered to life around me, faint wisps of living darkness slipping across the edges of the headstone.

I didn’t summon them—they came anyway. Most drifted and faded within seconds, but some lingered as I grabbed one of the rose stems and put it in my pocket.

Just in case I never got any again, from the monster who’d climbed out of my nightmares and into a delightful reality.

Something hovered behind me—silent, shadow-born, drawn close by the pulse of my grief. I didn’t see her. But I didn’t need to. I knew the presence of my creatures when they gathered, knew each one as if they were a piece of my soul given almost-life.

A phantom hand hovered near my shoulder, its absence forming the echo of a gesture meant to soothe.

I didn’t quiver. I just closed my eyes for a breath and let it settle around me—because I knew it was her .

Of all the shadows that haunted me, she was the one I welcomed most. Her presence brushed against me like a memory made of magic.

She didn’t speak, but for a moment, the knot in my chest eased.

A feat considering we were in a place where nothing soft should have existed.

My most beloved monster and loyal ghost. Giving me a reprieve from the despair for just a second. Until she vanished. Her touch no more.

Then the world went stiller, as her whispered moan on the wind said, “Run, Jinx.”

In the blink of an eye, the darkness thickened around me, creeping in at the corners like something alive.

Wind swept through the trees, stronger now, scattering piles of snow.

The fog moved with it, pulled across the ground in thin waves that clung to my combat boots and rose in ribbons up my legs.

I inhaled, trying to work out the source of the magic.

Shadebounds could sense other’s magic; could feel it in their bones and know just what type of creature was nearby.

But the air only tasted of frost, decaying wood, and something older than I could name.

And as it spread, the forest held its breath.

I joined it as everything pulled taut. Not waiting. Bracing .

With a racing heartbeat, I steadied myself, weight balanced, listening. The ground shifted faintly beneath me—not a tremor, but a warning . The air pressed close, dense and alert as the trees seemed to listen too.

And when I turned towards the place with the strongest feeling, I saw it .

The carriage stood at the edge of the graveyard on the little stone path. Its frame was entirely made of seamless bones. Pale ribs curved upward and overhead like a spine bowed in prayer. It had no wheels. No reins. No visible means of travel. Only blackened smoke.

The smoke drifted from beneath the chassis in slow coils, curling across the snow. It gave off no heat, just the steady pulse of a muted light from within—a glow that beat in rhythm with something I couldn’t see.

It wasn’t shadebound smoke. Mine was tactile, warm, full of intention and tethered to me like a second skin. This was weightless and detached and yet somehow aware.

And it was beautiful . Not in any way that sought admiration, but in the manner of ancient things left undisturbed. Like ruins swallowed by time—quiet, solemn, and meant to inspire fear. But I didn’t fear it. I understood it.

This was a death carriage. A vessel of forced passage, stitched from bones and bound to the will of something ancient. It was a sentence on wheels. My body registered its purpose even before my mind could name it.

This was my transport to my demise. My ride to my future as a soldier in a war I cared nothing for.

The soundless magic surged toward me. It swept through the graveyard at a speed that nobody could ever avoid.

My skin prickled as the wind worsened under my coat. Smoke threaded around my boots, slipping along my legs. I was too enthralled to fight. Too busy being curious to have sense. Instead, I just watched it as the magic came to claim me.

The pull hit like tight bands closing around my arms and legs. Pinning across my ribs. The pressure was absolute, as if the magic knew exactly where to find the edges of me. There was no sting, no pain —only the sensation of being claimed.

My coat stretched as the force dragged at my limbs, stiff fabric tugged toward something I couldn’t yet see.

I braced, breath shallow, as the invisible pull pressed harder, moving me inch by inch without a sound.

Taking my case too, purely because it had an inkling of my magic on it from my leftover touch.

It wasn’t so pretty anymore. Not when I could feel how dangerous it was. Or when all I could think about was how Mondays sucked even without getting dragged to my delayed death by a cosmic leash.

Shaking free of the wonder, I stumbled as I fought against the force.

My legs ached from resisting, muscles locking in place.

I bent low, trying to find leverage, fingers grasping at the tendrils winding up my arms. They were solid now, like cords of frozen air, and they didn’t give.

The pressure at my joints increased, locking around my wrists and ankles with unnatural precision.

Despite everything, the magic dragged me forward with cold, unrelenting force. Each step closer to the carriage peeled parts of me away—my sense of direction, my will, the breath in my lungs.

My desire to ever go to a place I knew would force me into things I could not handle.

Not death. Or violence. Or fighting.

But feelings. Always fucking feelings .