Page 29

Becoming a Shadow Warrior

T here he is again.

I watch him from the shadows, hidden by the stones beneath the waterfall.

The water crashes loudly, and the birdsong fills the distance.

My arms are soaked in sunlight, and the sweet scent of grass fills the air.

The world is alive with butterflies, dragonflies, bees, and small birds.

I can’t hear their conversation, but I can see.

He stands with another man by a row of grand dwarf statues, their conversation tense and heated.

They gesture wildly, exchanging sharp, intense glances.

Why did he stare at me like that yesterday?

Maybe he was having a bad day or was lost in thought and unintentionally looked my way. Maybe it was just a coincidence that our eyes met. But he seems to be in the same bitter mood today.

The sun highlights his skin, but it barely shines, too dull, too matte.

Jet black. As black as the Hollow at night.

His arms are covered in tattoos of various kinds, including ancient symbols, inscriptions, and intricate patterns.

All pale, all white. Most star elves seem to have a mixture of shades, with different tones in their skin, hair, and eyes.

But his are all the same. And it isn’t just the irises and pupils of his eyes that are black, his eyes have almost no white because they’re so wide.

Like a demon. A true star elf. Of the darkest kind.

The other man walks away, leaving him alone. Instantly, he turns and meets my gaze as though he senses my presence.

I start to feel a chill under the shifting sunlight.

Other elves are nearby: three laughing women by the entrance, two men walking along the forest’s edge, a woman reading a book alone, and two men kissing beneath a tree.

Yet, it feels like we’re the only two here.

He glares at me as if he wants to drive me off Sarador’s surface. I return his gaze, matching his intensity, as if I wish the same for him. If he stares like that, I’ll do the same.

I settle back, thick and sticky air clinging to my skin. I brace myself for a slow, silent contest. Who’ll look away first?

He sits on a bench in the shade, turning his head, trying to look away. But I can tell he’s still watching from the corner of his eye, pretending he isn’t.

What’s his deal? What in the fires is his problem?

I rise abruptly, leaving the waterfall behind.

My strides are long and determined as I march toward him.

The sound of the rushing water fades with each step I take.

The warm grass presses between my toes, crunching beneath my feet as I move forward.

I reach the statues rising twice my height.

They stand imposing and formidable, their forms ancient, as though they’ve endured thousands of sun cycles.

Moss clings to the granite in patches, covering their faces, arms, and axes, worn away long ago, now crumbling and fragmented.

At first, he pretends not to notice, perhaps hoping or assuming I’ll pass by. But when I’m two elf-lengths away, he stands up, his arms crossed.

“What’s your problem?” I snap, halting between two of the statues. Close enough I could push him, so close the impulse to act surges in my fingers. But I hold back, fully aware that I’m their guest.

He towers over me, broad-shouldered. His horns curve like half-moon-shaped goat horns embedded in his thick, soot-black hair. It’s difficult, almost impossible, not to stare. He gives me a look as if I’ve lost my mind.

“What’s my problem?”

“You have one, don’t you? Stop staring at me!”

He snorts, speaking slowly with his deep, rough voice, marked by the same strange accent as all the other star elves. “Of course, I haven’t been staring at you.”

“Don’t even try. It’s fiery uncomfortable.”

“You don’t think I could’ve been admiring the waterfall?” He juts out his chin, looking down at me as if I’m an ant and he’s a moose.

“If you’d had an admiring look, maybe. But right now, you look like you want to strangle someone.”

“You certainly know how to make friends, pale elf.” He snorts again. “If this is your first day, I wonder how many enemies you’ll have in a mooncrescent.”

“Staring at others doesn’t exactly help you make friends either.”

The giggling women’s laughter grows louder. Are they laughing at us? The surrounding area feels suspiciously quiet, as if everyone’s eavesdropping. As if everyone’s holding their breath.

“I’m not looking for friends,” he says sharply, running a hand through his hair and flicking two leaves off his horns. They’re large. Some part of me wants to touch them. To see how sharp they are.

“Neither am I,” I reply.

“Perfect.”

“Fantastic.” I shoot him a cutting look. “And since I won’t even be here in a mooncrescent, you won’t have to lose any sleep worrying about my circle of friends.”

He smirks, a lopsided grin that sends a rush through me, one I hope is irritation. “And where exactly do you think you’ll go?”

“Why should I tell you, black elf ?” I step closer, challenging him. His scent reaches me, leather, damp jungle, plants, roses, and?—

“Iszaelda!”

A jolt runs through me as I turn to my right. Kathraanis strides toward us, her pale-white hair gleaming in the sunlight.

When she reaches us, she plants a loud kiss on the man’s lips, then wraps her arm tightly around my back and strokes my neck. I wriggle free.

Are they promised? Bound?

“I see you’ve met Netharu’el Atras of Nazat’Ar,” she says, her gaze shifting from me to him. His smile is strained, almost artificial.

Netharu’el.

Nathariel means “dark soul” in Elvish, a name that likely dates back to the time before the star elves broke away, when names still carried their Elvish meanings.

“Yes,” I reply smoothly, holding his gaze. “We seem to get along quite well.”

“Indeed,” he says, his eyes locking onto mine with a dark intensity.

“Wonderful to hear,” she continues. “Netharu’el is the newest addition to the Resistance’s leadership, nearly as new as you. A remarkable swordsman, among other things.”

And they’ve already found each other?

“Congratulations on the position, Netharu’el.” My voice drips with sarcasm, and while I hope Kathraanis doesn’t catch it, I’m counting on him to hear every note.

“Thank you, Iszaelda.” Netharu’el’s words carry more than they let on—cold, cutting, sharp as blades.

I glare at him once more before turning to Kathraanis. “Can we finish our discussion now? It’s been almost a day.”

“I don’t have time right now. I’m needed at a meeting. However…” She brushes her fingers over her daggers, glancing over her shoulder.

“What?”

She turns back to Netharu’el. “Would you mind showing Iszaelda around? She needs to see the entire area. Take her along the forest’s edge and back.”

I stiffen. “That’s not necessary. I can?—”

“No trouble at all, Kathraanis,” Netharu’el interrupts smoothly. “It’d be my pleasure.”

“Perfect, thank you. I’ll see you both later.”

Before I can protest, she disappears toward the building and the shadows of the trees. I let out a heavy sigh.

“So,” Netharu’el asks dryly, “do you have something against my company?”

“You think? What in the fires gave you that idea?”

“It’s certainly not exactly?—”

“That was a rhetorical question. Do you know what that means? Let’s get this over with. Show me around.”

“Of course, my dear,” he replies. He begins walking, his body rigid and hostile, guarded. He grips the scabbard at his side, as if he’s ready for anything. “Your wish is my command.”

“I’m going to be sick if you keep talking like that,” I mutter, trailing after him. Slowly. One full elf-length behind. Even from the back, his horns rise high, giving him the appearance of some ancient deity. How did they get so large? Did he water them? Feed them?

“Brilliant, Iszaelda. So, this is the garden,” he says, gesturing to the area, his voice low and bored. “It has walking paths, flowerbeds, waterfalls, statues, and groves. Even lakes. You’ll see a great deal of dwarven craftsmanship here. Gorgoroth is filled with their creations.”

He walks ahead along a narrow cobblestone path.

Strange trees, mingled with vines and ivy, grow low on either side, no taller than an elf.

They line the path, forming an uneven wall around us.

The leaves are round, bright green, and bushy, the landscape wild and untamed.

Sunlight filters through in scattered patches, streaming between the dense canopy above.

Now and then, I glimpse stone faces and blades, statues arranged in rows and circles.

The tree trunks are engraved with unusual markings, sharp and angular.

Are they runes? The symbols look anything but dwarven. Could star elves have carved them?

The air is alive with sound—the whisper of grasshoppers, the flutter of wings, and the bright calls of exotic birds.

The scent of tall, fresh grass hangs heavy, and the humid air presses against my skin, so thick it’s hard to draw a full breath.

I catch the soft rustle of feathers as a flock lifts into the sky and the frantic scratching of some burrowing creature, perhaps a mole or badger, desperately clawing at the earth.

“So, you’re an exceptional swordsman?” I ask, breaking the tense silence. I watch Netharu’el’s shoulder blades shift as he walks.

“Among other things.”

“Oh, you’re exceptional at more than just that?”

“Something like that.”

“Such as?”

“You sound skeptical.”

“Forgive me if I’m unconvinced. You don’t look like the typical warrior type.”

It’s a lie, of course. Like Kathraanis, he moves with practiced ease, prepared to counter any threat immediately.

Every step, every shift of his body, is deliberate, almost fluid.

Muscles ripple along his arms, barely concealed by a thin, black tank top.

The fabric clings so tightly that a part of me wants to tear it off to free the restrained strength underneath.

“Oh, really?” he says. “And what does a typical warrior look like to you?”

“Strong. Brave.”

“You don’t think I look strong?”

“I’ve seen sun elf women with bigger muscles than you.”

“Excuse me?”

He turns so abruptly that I bump into him, my hands inadvertently striking his forearms. The heat of his skin burns against my palms. I jerk back at once, retreating a step and scrambling to restore the distance between us. My hands tremble; the sensation had been sharp, almost searing.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Did I insult you?” I ask, offering a smile as sweet as syrup. I see the effect it has on him, the way anger flares in his black, bottomless eyes. “I truly didn’t mean it that way. Don’t take it personally. You shouldn’t let it upset you.”

He lets out a low growl. “You’ll have to try harder than that to insult me, pale elf.” He gestures to the right. “By the way, we’ve reached the forest edge. That’s where Gorgoroth begins.”

The cobblestones come to an end, giving way to a narrow forest path that twists toward the heart of a shadowy rainforest. The trees soar skyward, just as tall as those in Valeanrae, forming a massive wall.

But these are no ordinary trees. Their branches hang like flowing tapestries, their roots curling and sprawling like the tentacles of an octopus.

Vines and lianas drape down to the forest floor, creating a dense, living curtain of greenery.

Monkeys swing through the branches while parrots dart along the trunks, their bright feathers shimmering as they shriek with lively notes.

“Gorgoroth? Is that what this forest is called?”

“Of course.”

It’s an unusual name, likely chosen by the dwarves.

Baraatien is their domain, just as Aarilion belongs to the elves and Morthoth to the star elves.

At first, the elves held both Morthoth and Aarilion, our numbers strong enough to span the lands.

But when the star elves emerged as their own race, breaking away from us—from tree elves, sun elves, wind elves, and sea elves—they claimed Morthoth as their own, driving all others out of it.

We turn back, taking a different path across an open field.

The grass brushes my feet, its thick blades weaving between my toes.

Overhead, the sun casts a golden glow over the land, making everything feel vivid and alive.

Orchids and night bells bloom in bursts of color while vines drape over rocks, chairs, and benches next to streams that meander quietly through the landscape.

Naeva would’ve loved this.

The thought hits me, sharp and twisting like a blade to the gut.

You can’t make it alone, not without your medicine. I was supposed to protect you, to help you heal. And now… this. Our family is gone. Slaughtered. Because of me. I could’ve fought alongside them if I hadn’t been sent to the Hollow. Maybe Father, Mother, and Aeralon would still be alive.

But I must look ahead, not back. What’s been done is done, and nothing will change that. I’ll find Naeva. I’m sure of it.

“What do you all do here each day?” I ask. I would rather not speak to Netharu’el, but I have too many questions to stay quiet.

“A bit of everything.”

“Like what?”

“We receive reports from scouts, including important updates on Akares’s army movements. We plan attacks, gather knowledge, train, and meet with other high-ranking elves. Most people you’ll meet here are part of the Academy.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It’s part of the tour. Come, I’ll show you.”

We continue in silence for what feels like two tales, Netharu’el just ahead of me. His broad back is all I can see. The grass brushes against my calves, growing taller with each step.

“This is the far end of the grounds. This region is known as Nimuala. It’s where our apprentices are trained to become shadow warriors—or shadow dancers, if you prefer.”