Page 5 of Shadebound (Dark Fantasy #1)

T he carriage glided in near silence. My heart thrummed against my ribs, half-daring the world beyond to give me worse than this taxi to my doom.

As we floated along the dirt road, a faint silver light crept along the treetops, turning the snow-dusted distant hills to muted grey and blue. Every so often, a breeze brushed against the windows, and I could just make out the delicate shapes of bare branches leaning toward the path.

It was too early for colour, too late for proper darkness. Just the right sort of time to make my breath fog up the glass as I eagerly stared at the landscape.

The sudden burst of static down my spine told me when we had arrived at our destination. Hours or minutes after I’d been stolen. I could not tell.

I pursed my lips as we moved through the invisible magic wards that kept New Salem hidden.

A second later, I felt my magic push against them.

Recoiling back to me almost immediately.

Not out of fear, but... unease .Which was comforting.

Nothing like your own power flinching away from a place to inspire confidence.

In all seriousness, Draven wouldn’t have been able to feel the magic in the air. He wouldn’t know what was safe or what required him to run far away.

I was instantly on guard duty, one hand twitching towards my thigh, even though I knew I had no dagger stashed away.

Not yet, at least. But I’d learned a long time ago that danger rarely announced itself.

It crept in quietly. Wore familiar faces.

Smiled first. Even without a weapon other than magic, I knew it was better to be ready for a fight that never came than to get caught off guard by the one that did.

Beyond the windows, New Salem unfolded. Rooftops sprawled on the hillsides beneath lantern-bright windows. Smoke curled from chimneys—its acrid bite stinging my nostrils—while a lone shop bell tolled somewhere below. The entire place locked in an older time, no hideously human modernities in sight.

The narrow streets wound upward toward Mors Academy, its jagged spires clawing at the grey sky.

A graveyard lay below, stretching across the hills in rows.

The sight pulled at me in a way that was hauntingly beautiful.

Solemn. But beautiful. My fingers tightened against the seat.

I’d always loved places like this. Shadows, graves, gothic spires.

.. they spoke a language I understood. Even here, on the cusp of something terrible, a part of me was strangely at ease.

This was a place built with the architecture of people who’d given up on pretending to be okay.

A place I could finally, perhaps, fit in.

I wasn’t looking for comfort. I’d stopped believing in that years ago.

But I could live with understanding. I could live with a place that didn’t expect me to soften my edges or keep my voice down.

Sure, I wasn’t here to be liked. I was here because there was nowhere else left to go for a shadebound monster.

Other than to Death’s embrace. But I still wanted a single place in the world that was. .. that was meant for me.

That accepted me as I was.

From the carriage window, I spotted a man outside a small building.

He was about my age, maybe a year or two older, a little taller than Draven.

His auburn hair caught the faint light, and his light blue eyes lifted briefly to meet mine as we passed.

His frame was solid—the kind shaped by years of manual labour, not just by chance.

I noticed him only because he was human.

Okay, a little because he was annoyingly handsome.

But mostly because he looked softly mortal.

Weak without magic, but not in the same way my brother was.

Draven’s weakness wasn’t his fault. The world just hadn’t built itself for people like him.

That guy, though? He’d chosen to be here.

Chose to live in a town that reeked of secrets and sorcery, completely unarmed.

That was either bravery or stupidity. I couldn’t tell which. Maybe both.

That felt strange here.

He stood for a moment, then knelt beside a pair of window boxes, rough fingers brushing the leaves and petals as if they were something precious.

Not bothered in the slightest when one thorn pricked his finger.

The plants clung stubbornly to life in this bleak place, their green and soft pinks a fragile rebellion against the grey stone and chill wind.

The pink was the same shade as my sister’s hair, and now the two strands I’d dyed in the front of my own, and my heart constricted at the sight of it.

As the carriage slid past, a dog appeared from behind the building next door—a rough-coated stray, ribs showing through patchy black fur, eyes wary but hopeful.

The man paused his work and reached into his dark shirt pocket, pulling out a small scrap of something meaty.

He offered it, calloused palm open and steady.

The dog approached cautiously, nose twitching in the cold air.

When it took the food, its tail gave a faint, tentative wag.

A small, quiet moment of trust in a place that seemed to offer so little.

The man’s light gaze softened as he watched the dog, a faint crease in his brow betraying a care that otherwise remained unreadable.

Our eyes met briefly—just a flicker when he glanced at the carriage—but in that instant, something unexpected stirred.He looked gentle. Kind . Possibly the worst kind of threat.The sort who’d hold your hand as he ruined your life. And stab you in the heart and then blame you for bleeding.

I could almost swear I heard my twin sister’s voice whispering in my mind—soft, warm, and full of wonder.

Bells had loved dogs, loved people, loved moments like this—fragile, gentle, and real.

Even here, even with her gone, it felt like a part of her still lived on, quietly reaching out through the smallest acts of kindness.

And with her sass in my ear promising that heartbreak was worth it if the ride was that pretty.

Easing back against my seat, my gaze lingered on the hills and the graveyard. This was all that remained of my people. A sanctuary next to the only portal left that would take us home. A pathetically small sanctuary. Filled with more woe than peace.

It was rather disappointing that this was our last noble attempt at heroism. I’d expected something grander. On the morbidly bright side, nothing said welcome like rows of dead people and an aura that screamed therapy is not an option here .

At least there was no pretence. Nobody here was pretending this was a place of joy or light or second chances. It was a graveyard with dorm rooms. A prison with a syllabus. And everyone inside probably deserved to be here just as much as I did.

Korrax , I thought, reaching for the dark shape in my mind as I glanced at the next row of buildings. Scout the grounds. Bring me back what you find .

He answered without sound, my shadow raven.

He rose from my shoulder in a rush of inky shadow-born feathers.

Black eyes met mine for the briefest moment before he bled through the carriage wall as if it weren’t there.

I felt him winging upward into the mist and away, already obeying and hunting.

My pulse spiked. I needed him to secure the area, but alone he was vulnerable.

I hated any part of me being vulnerable. Especially the extensions of my soul.

I’d had Korrax since I was nine.

I’d got lost in the woods near our house—too deep to call back, too far to retrace my steps in a place that had been new to me.

It had started raining. I remembered slipping in the mud, yelling for my mother even though I knew she wouldn’t hear.

I’d panicked, like any child would. But instead of crying, I called to the shadows.

They came.

He came.

He appeared from the treeline and perched beside me like he’d always meant to. He looked like a raven because I liked ravens. They were beautiful. Smart. A little cruel.But Korrax wasn’t a pet. He was a pact. A tether. A tiny sliver of shadow that chose me when no one else had.

Since that day, he’d never left me. He was always nearby, watching.

I used him to scout places I couldn’t reach.

To find things that didn’t want to be found.

And when I closed my eyes, I could see through his.

And because staring through a bird’s beady little murder-eyes was marginally better than facing my feelings, I did that now.

The world sharpened as mine went dark, my heart hammering against my ribs.

His wings cut through the mist as he climbed higher, tilting with the wind.

Below, the hills unrolled in soft curves, dotted with the dark outlines of trees.

He flew low for a moment, skimming rooftops and sharp chimneys, scanning the quiet town below.

The streets were empty. Windows shuttered.

A curtain twitched, but no one came out.

And then—he stopped.

Something shimmered in the distance. Another magical barrier, just outside the gates of Mors. It wasn’t just a wall. It was laced with something sick. Not evil, exactly. But close. Like a trembling veil echoing whispered tales of those who’d tried—and failed—to breach these ancient wards.

He hovered there, waiting.

I felt his question in the back of my mind. He would keep trying if I asked him to. Stay until he found a way through. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t sacrifice what belonged to me.

Come back , I thought. That’s enough for today .

He turned. The tether drew tighter as he dissolved into shadow, slipping back toward me. The moment he returned, he settled behind my eyes again—quiet, and blissfully safe.

I opened my eyes just as Draven tapped my shoulder. Shaking away the oddness of seeing through another, I turned to face him, blinking away the last of my shadow adventure.

Why does this place look like Mortavia? he asked.

I lifted my hands. New Salem was built to look like our old home.

Father told me that we had to have a reminder of what we fight for, and this was it.

I didn’t bother to voice my disagreement with the notion.

Not just because it was a foolish one, but because I thought it did the opposite.

This was a macabre prison—other than me, who would want to be in a place just like it?

Why did they do it near a prison? My brother’s brows furrowed as he stared out the window for a moment. And it doesn’t look the exact same. Mortavia is burned but before that, it was beautiful. This is just... creepy.

I shrugged when he faced me again. I presume they liked the atmosphere. Or it’s easier to send soldiers to death when the last portal is right there. I pointed to the farthest hill with old ruins on the top.

Beyond those crumbled pillars stood the last remaining portal to Mortavia: a white tree shaped like an arch, etched with faint silver runes that seemed to shift when you blinked.

Step through, and the air hummed with wild magic—colours sharpened, your heartbeat synced with the land’s pulse, and memories you never knew you had floated to the surface.

Only the determined ever made it across, or so the stories said.

Only a handful of those ever returned.

Even then, their souls were often left behind.

My brother seemed satisfied with that, but I could still see the tension in his shoulders. And the way he leant closer to me without really thinking about it.

I nudged his boot with mine.

When he looked at me, I dragged my flat fingertips up my chest a little before giving him a half-hearted double thumbs-up.

I wanted to know how he was, but in a fake casual way.

So I could get an answer without him thinking I was making a scene.

Only I wasn’t sure it did a good job, seeing as I realised my necklace was missing when I did it.

As I worried about my gift rotting away in the family graveyard, he rolled his eyes and signed, I’m fine. You worry too much, J.

I glared at him, forcing myself not to get upset over a piece of jewellery even as my hands shook when I raised them. Only because you make it a full-time job.

He smirked, and the tension eased a little from his jaw and mine. Enough so that we both returned to our sightseeing as we cruised onward, and I made a mental note to ask my parents to look for the necklace when I got in touch with them about Draven.

For a while we existed in a peaceful silence. At least we did until the carriage shuddered to a halt, and I struggled to decide whether I was feeling excitement or dread the most.

I braced myself as the carriage resisted the stop. Draven did the same. I doubted it was for the same reason.

I remembered the whispers—no one ever left Mors whole. No one ever left alive. They said the walls listened. That the staff were not entirely normal. That the worst monsters weren’t the ones locked away, but the ones given keys. Of course, no one said it too loudly. And no one ever said it twice.

I didn’t believe in rumours. Not really. But that didn’t stop one specific memory from biting at the edge of my thoughts—one night, one mistake, one person already swallowed by this place.

I’d never said goodbye. But he hadn’t asked for one, either.

Reaching into my pocket, I gripped the rose stem until the thorns pierced my skin. As blood trickled, I swallowed all my thoughts.

Feelings of embarrassment were for children, and I was no longer a child. I was three emotionally stunted raccoons in a faux fur coat, held together by eyeliner and spite. Perhaps a sprinkle of malice thrown in for good luck.

Even if I would never admit it, a faint ember of concern pulsed beneath that patched-up armour.

Not that I had to be honest. Especially when facing the monstrous reality of the next hundred years of my life.