Page 35 of Shadebound (Dark Fantasy #1)

To force a shadebound to sit inside their pain—to call it out, expose it, demand that they feel—is a cruelty few understand.

Because we do feel. We just don’t always come back from it.

Sadness sinks us. Loneliness hollows us out.

And the more we ache, the easier it is to let the shadows take the wheel.

To blur at the edges. To vanish into the quiet of ourselves.

The worst shadebound in history weren’t born monsters. They weren’t consumed by hatred or hunger or power. They fell because they were left alone in their sorrow. Because no one reached for them when it mattered most.

This magic doesn’t need rage to destroy us. Grief will do just fine.

T he East Grove beach stretched into a bleak expanse of black sand, cold wind dragging sea salt across the beach in stinging bursts.

Jagged cliffs loomed above, casting long shadows beneath the heavy afternoon sky.

The endless black sea churned beyond, slamming into the rocks on shore with violent rhythm.

This wasn’t a classroom. It was a punishment.

The kind designed to strip away comfort, one freezing breath at a time.

It seemed I was the only person who enjoyed our location. I couldn’t fathom why the rest of the class looked so miserable and bored. To me, the outside and the icy breeze were far more fun than the stuffy claustrophobia inside the halls of Mors.

I stood near the edge of a loose circle that had formed in a shallow dip in the sand. The wind clawed at my braid, and the salty air left my lips dry. Zayden stepped beside me, his voice low enough to almost be stolen by the breeze.

“Sometimes Professor Varl puts people in the cave over there,” he said, nodding toward the cliffs. “Only if you misbehave or don’t do what he wants. Hightower does the same.”

I followed his gaze. A hollow yawned open in the rock face—low and wide, like a mouth. Chisel marks scarred the stone, and faded runes curled around the arch. The entrance was a black void, untouched by light.

It was rather pretty. I wanted to go inside and see just what it looked like in the depths.

Zayden stepped closer to me, as though he could sense my thoughts. “Varl locks you in there. It’s... not good. Trust me.”

He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask. The way he said it made it worse than anything he could explain. Besides, I had more important things to worry about right now.

Like the lesson on feelings , I was being forced to endure.

I already hated this. I would’ve preferred every bone in my body shattered and left to set wrong than be dragged through it.

Physical pain was something I understood, even if I didn’t want it to occur again.

Now that I knew I would feel pain for real, without my shadows.

But this was psychological excavation. A forced dive through the filth of memory.

It made my skin crawl and my chest tighten, and I hated it more than I could articulate.

The instructor stepped into the circle. His expression could’ve curdled milk.

He looked like someone who’d banned smiling decades ago and never regretted it.

With his skin pale in that way people got when they lived near cold, dead things.

Dark brown hair streaked with copper was tied back at the nape of his neck.

His coat was buttoned to his throat, every edge rigid.

“For those who haven’t had the pleasure,” he said, voice cutting clean through the wind, “I am Professor Varl. I teach Psychological Conditioning. And I am a spirit witch, trained in trauma forging and emotional resilience theory.”

A few students shifted their weight. Most didn’t react at all. I stayed still, watching him, waiting for the part where he forced me to feel emotions I pretended didn’t exist.

Spirit witches didn’t conjure fire or bend the elements.

Their magic worked through emotional resonance.

They forced you to relive your worst memories, not as visions, but as full-body experiences.

Their power infiltrated your nervous system.

You lived what you experienced before—the exact temperature, the tightness in your lungs, the burn behind your eyes.

Every sound and smell returned with razor precision.

The pain wasn’t symbolic. It was literal.

They peeled your thoughts open like they were layers of skin and shoved you into the moment you never wanted to see again.

“This class does not exist to soothe you,” Varl said.

“The plague that tore through Mortavia infected grief, consumed trauma, and forced those who touched it to live in the darkest parts of their mind. And the only way to prevent it happening to soldiers, or to prepare them for it, is to force them to exist in their emotions. To force you to exist in your pain .”

His gaze swept across the circle, assessing. When it landed on me, the confirmation that I was going to have a miserable few hours settled in my gut.

“As we have someone new, we’ll begin with her. Step forward, Miss Draconis.”

Of course. Public spectacle. Always a favourite pastime.

I stepped into the centre. The wind pushed harder against me. Sand whipped at my face. I didn’t fight it. Fighting would only draw it out.

Varl lifted a hand and placed it on my arm. Much to my disgust. “Close your eyes. Let my magic into your mind.”

I obeyed, jaw clenched.

The moment his magic touched me, it flooded under my skin. It pushed through muscle and bone, cold and wet and invasive, like ice water laced with shards of glass. My spine locked. My knees wanted to buckle. My heart tried to climb into my throat.

The beach vanished.

Rain slammed into my face. The temperature dropped so fast it hurt to breathe. I stood in the forest behind the Draconis family estate, just beyond the edge of the clearing. Trees groaned under the weight of the wind. Every step through the mud sucked at my boots.

“Bells!”

No answer.

Branches tore at my sleeves as I ran. My breathing turned ragged.

The clearing opened ahead. Moss-covered stone, soaked with rain. She was already there.

Already dead.

My sister lay crumpled at the base of a great tree, pink hair fanned out across the ground like some cruel parody of sleep.

Blood stained the soil in wide, slick pools.

Her throat had been slashed, the skin flayed in a jagged tear.

Carved wounds punctured her chest—six, maybe seven, deep enough to expose the white glint of bone beneath torn flesh.

Her skin had gone pale and blue. Her lips were gray. Her eyes, half-lidded and unseeing, looked past me.

I fell to my knees. Reached for her. My fingers brushed the skin of her neck—it was cold, not cooling. Cold . My hands shook as I pressed against her wounds as if pressure could reverse time.

With each panting breath, I tried to call her name, but the sound stuck in my throat.

And then my magic answered.

Shadows erupted from me in violent waves.

They poured from my chest and limbs, carving black lines through the clearing.

The grass curled in on itself, crumbling into ash.

Trees twisted as bark split open, revealing decay.

Even the stone beneath her body cracked and groaned under the weight of the death leaking from me.

And as the world turned dark, I pulled her to my chest, cradled her against the only warmth left in the world. I whispered her name, again and again, until my voice collapsed.

I begged Death to take me instead.

Nothing answered.

He didn’t come.

And then she moved.

Her lips parted. Her mouth formed words.

“You let me die.”

The voice wasn’t hers. It was warped, like it had been dragged from the bottom of a well.

“You were too slow. You’re always too slow.”

Her face contorted. Blood rose like water, climbing up my arms. Her eyes opened, pitch black instead of grey, glassy and wrong with darkness. Her mouth widened into a cruel approximation of a smile.

“You’re broken. A monster. The reason I’m dead.” She snarled at me. “I hate you.”

I didn’t scream. I couldn’t even move. My magic lashed in every direction, drowning us in shadow as I listened to her words.

Then came another voice. One I hated for how well I knew it.

You are not broken .

I stayed still, clinging to my sister’s corpse. Clinging to the mirror image of me that had been created with joy and life, instead of darkness and decay.

Death’s voice pushed harder into my head. You are what remains. What they couldn’t destroy. You are not to blame for any of this; only the monsters who caused it are .

The memory twisted again, darkness pressing against every part of me. But the more it tried to pull me under, the more forceful Death’s voice in my head got.

You are not the plague, Jinx. You are the darkness gifted form, and no shadow can break you. This plague will bring you no harm. Neither should anyone else.

You just have to hold on.

Hold on to the nightmares and remember that you control them . That you are more powerful than they will ever be.

I held on. With every ounce of self-control I could muster.

And then suddenly I was back.

Cold punched into my chest like it had claws.

My lungs spasmed, dragging in air thick with salt and spite.

The beach snapped back into view, bleak and grey beneath an overcast sky that was more like a lid than a ceiling.

My hands stung, and when I looked down, blood welled from crescent moons torn into my palms by my own nails.

I’d clawed myself trying to hold on. Or maybe to let go.

Either way, I was back. Unfortunately. Fortunately. It was hard to decide which.

Professor Varl didn’t blink as I stumbled back to my feet. “Acceptable. You got out of that rather fast, Miss Draconis. I’m almost impressed.”

He turned away without another word. I took a few steps back, forcing my body to move like it wasn’t trembling, like I hadn’t just crawled through the worst day of my life all over again.

Zayden caught my hand as I returned to the edge of the circle and gave it a brief squeeze—reassurance in the only form he seemed capable of offering.

My shoulders trembled, and a single tear escaped, hot against the wind-chilled skin of my cheek. I didn’t wipe it away. Even when I caught eyes with Alessandro, who was watching me from the other side of the circle.

I didn’t even care when he smirked at me. As though my pain brought him joy. I just turned my head.

Maya stepped closer. Her eyes met mine with quiet understanding. She didn’t smile, didn’t speak. Just gave me that look, soft and open like she saw the cracks in my ribs and decided not to reach in and fix them. She knew she couldn’t.

Eris didn’t say anything. She stared, calm and still, but there was something there—a shadow flickering in her gaze that said same .

That said I know . That said she’d been down the same slope, scraping her hands bloody trying to claw her way back up.

For the first time since Bells died, I saw something in someone else that resembled my own agony.

A kindred rot. A mirror without the shine.

And I hated that it helped. Hated that she knew how losing loved ones felt.

Still trembling, still aching, still half-buried in that ruined memory, I heard the voice again as the lesson carried on.

You can endure this . Death said. You have to. Worse will come, and you will have no choice but to prepare .

For some reason, that didn’t soothe me.

At all.