The Shadow’s Heir

The crypt was quiet, but it wasn't a comforting kind of quiet. It felt more like a heavy blanket of gloom that pressed down on everything. This silence had a weight to it, almost like it was alive, curling into your lungs and whispering long-buried secrets. Deep inside the catacombs of Arenthia, even the rats were smart enough to stay away. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and something unsettling was stirring in the depths.

Selira’s awakening wasn’t gradual; it was like a violent rip through the stillness of her existence. After months of being lifeless, her body jerked as shadows forged their way through her veins. Her once limp hands, cold and lifeless, clenched against the icy stone slab beneath her. A sound wanted out; a scream, but it got caught in her throat. Instead, a harsh, rasping sound echoed in the tomb—a far cry from the voice of a woman.

She sat up, and the world around her tilted. Her heart pounded a couple of times, then settled into a steady beat, way too strong for someone who should be dead. As her vision cleared, she noticed the moonlight spilling through the cracks in the ceiling above, casting a cold silver glow. Touching her skin, the light revealed something darker had taken hold. Once blue veins pulsed with a sinister black hue, slick and alive in a way that felt utterly wrong.

Thoughts raced through her mind, sharp and bitter. Vivid memories of betrayal surfaced—a face from her past.

Kaelen.

With that name came a deep, cold rage, far more dangerous than fear. With a hand clutching her stomach, she felt it. A place where life wasn’t meant to cling, yet somehow, it did.

There was something moving beneath her palm. A quick flutter—then silence. She wasn’t just alive; she was pregnant.

A faint smirk crossed her lips, but it was far from a joyful smile. 

Then, she stood.

The shadows flowed towards her like mist, rubbing against her legs, coiling around her like affectionate tendrils. They pressed against her shoulders and spoke in a tongue that felt ancient, one she couldn’t place but somehow understood. It was an old voice, perhaps older than the gods, whispering secrets that had waited far too long to be heard.

Their queen had returned.

As she stepped into the halls above, nothing had changed. Dust lingered on the fractured tiles, and ivy had overgrown the crumbling windows, reaching out hungrily. Statues of once-revered kings leaned crooked, with hollow gazes staring into emptiness. Selira moved through the abandoned corridor, her bare feet soundless against the floor. The only light was from phosphorescent fungi and a faint blue glow seeping from her fingertips.

As she passed a tarnished mirror, her reflection startled her. The face staring back bore her likeness but twisted. Gone was her warm, honey-blonde hair, now hair dark as night. Her once golden-brown eyes shone silver, pupils narrow as slits. Her skin, pale but not from death—there was something regal yet terrifying about her, radiating a life that shouldn’t belong to the dead.

And then there it was—a mark just under her collarbone.

It looked like a crown entwined in thorns, alive, pulsing with her heartbeat—and the heartbeat of the child within her.

It was hers.

Or was it Theirs?

Her fist clenched tightly.

No, not Theirs.

She was no one’s pawn.

Outside, the landscape had crumbled.

Arenthia had once basked in wealth—a jewel draped in greenery and golden fields, rivers glittering like glass. Now, famine’s grip choked the land, and smoke stained the skies. The banners of the High Crown still fluttered above the city gates, but hollow faces of the people below revealed the truth: they were starving.

Kaelen’s so-called peace.

A peace founded upon blood and betrayal.

Selira moved through the dead fields, cloaked in shadows, unseen by the townsfolk. She stood on the cliffs overlooking the city, fingers wrapped around a weapon that hadn’t existed until after her death.

The blade was made of bone and shadows, a gift from darkness itself—that now answered to her. It s*ck*d in the light around it, humming with power.

Selira had no tears left to shed.

Instead, memories flooded back.

The night Kaelen had kissed her, blood on his lips, promising her the world, only to stab her through the heart.

The way he whispered forgive me while she bled out on the cold marble floor, eyes locked with his until the end.

“I’ll be back,” she had promised the shadows when they questioned her worthiness for another chance.

“Bring fire with you,” they had urged.

And that’s exactly what she had brought.

The city guards didn’t notice her as she slipped past. The market, once bustling, felt emptier than she remembered, people’s eyes dull and full of dread. Moving through Arenthia felt different—like she was a ghost, a presence draped in darkness. Animals cowered, and children cried out without reason. The air tasted of soot and impending rain.

The palace rose tall in the center of the city. Once bright white, it now bore the stains of ash.

Selira let the memories wash over her.

It had been a home, a prison, a grave.

And now? It had become her battleground.

“Selira?”

The voice shattered the moment like a piece of glass breaking underfoot. A woman lingered near a broken fountain, hidden partly in shadows. Her hair was like iron; her eyes wide with disbelief and a sorrow that felt ancient.

“Virelle,” Selira whispered.

Her cousin. Once as close as sisters.

“You died.”

“Was,” Selira corrected. “Now I’m back.”

Virelle stepped closer, eyes filled with doubt. “It’s been a year. We buried you. I held your hand—I closed your eyes.”

Selira didn’t blink. “So you witnessed him kill me.”

Virelle flinched, her voice trembling as she spoke. “I tried to stop it. He’s … not the same anymore. Not since what he discovered in the North. He’s changed.”

Selira’s voice softened. “Did he cry at my funeral?”

“Like a broken man.”

“And yet, he took the throne anyway.”

Virelle’s throat tightened. “He believed it was the only way to protect the realm. He said your blood—”

“Was cursed,” Selira interrupted, the bitterness clear in her tone. “I remember.”

An uneasy silence draped over them as the wind wailed through the ruins of the city.

Selira’s hand reached for Virelle’s.

“I’m not here to forgive,” she said gently. “I need your help.”

Virelle looked down, trembling. “What can I do?”

“Lie for me. Guide me through the palace like I’m gone. Until I decide I want to be seen again.”

“And when you do?”

A grin appeared on Selira’s face, jagged. 

“Let them kneel.”

That night, deep inside the palace, Kaelen found himself dreaming of fire.

He stood alone in a field of ash, blade in hand, facing a woman cloaked in darkness. Her eyes shone silver, her smile fierce.

He knew her before she spoke.

Selira.

Awakening abruptly, he gasped, sweat soaking into his silken sheets. The mark he had hidden from everyone—the one burned into his chest the day she died—glowed softly.

He stumbled towards the mirror and placed a hand on the brand.

Then he heard her voice. 

“You should have finished the job.”

He turned around, but the room was empty.

Only shadows danced in the corners, watching him.

Selira stood behind a velvet curtain high in the southern tower, the wind lifting the fabric for a clear view of the throne room below. Kaelen entered, surrounded by guards, tension visible in his posture. But his eyes…

Haunted.

Perfect.

She watched him take his seat, the ghosts of his past following every motion. Her ghosts. Their child’s.

A presence brushed along her spine.

Not just a touch; it felt alive.

He is not alone, the shadows warned.

Others are looking for what stirs within you.

Selira pressed her hand to her abdomen.

The child moved again. A firm kick, unmistakable.

She would protect it, whatever it took.

She would bring down entire gods.

She would make them remember who she was.

And Kaelen?

Would bow down before her.

Not for love. Not for forgiveness.

But because she’d show him mercy.

The sky broke apart.

A storm rolled into Arenthia, filled with flashes of lightning and unnatural winds. People took cover in their homes, while in the palace towers, two figures watched each other across a hall haunted by memories.

Selira moved stealthily.

Kaelen dreamed of her every night.

The child inside her was something beyond human.

Born from betrayal. Born of dark destinies.

Born from shadow.

Another knock sounded at her door.

It was Virelle again. “He’s called the council. He’s scared.”

Selira turned toward the window.

“Good,” she replied.

Drawing her blade from its sheath, she stepped forward.

Let him fear.

Let them all quake in terror.

She stepped into the firelight of the throne room, unmasked at last.

Gasps filled the room.

Screams erupted.

Kaelen rose from his stolen throne, face drained of color, lips slightly parted.

“Selira…”

The shadows twisted behind her, and in her eyes—filled with wrath and rebirth—he saw his end.

“You took my life once,” she declared. “But you never truly grasped what I am.”

The child kicked again.

Lightning cracked in the sky.

“I’m not just a memory,” she said, her words echoing like thunder.

“I am the grave reborn.”

And she had come for everything.

Her first death breath was sweet with the flavor of power and smoldering revenge.

Selira took a ragged, shivering breath as the blackness of her tomb unfolded, freeing her from its cold grasp. The earth, which had rested upon her, hesitated, as if it didn't want to let her go. But she wasn't part of that earth anymore. Her lungs were filled with a peculiar mixture of stinging, electric air that was alien yet somehow invigorating. It ran through her bloodstream like a jolt of power, energizing everything inside her. It was not the soft warmth of life she had known; it was a black, hot energy that shrouded her and promised never to let go.

She could feel it thumping through her blood, a strength that was as ancient as eternity and sewn up from threads of shadows lying just beneath the face of the world. Ghastly whispers danced through her mind, not hers, mingling and spuming just beyond reach. Instead of scaring her, however, they only felt strangely warm and comforting, a