The neon lights of Eldoria flickered above her as Zyra walked through the city streets. The rain had picked up, a steady drizzle that coated everything in a silver sheen. Her mind was still on the body in the alley, on the markings that had haunted her dreams for years.
She needed answers. And she knew exactly where to find them.
The last place she wanted to go. The Shadowborn district.
A place where nightmares walked, and the price of knowledge was always steep.
A single black iron archway marked the Shadowborn district entrance, twisted into unnatural patterns. The street beyond was cloaked in perpetual twilight, even though it was well past midnight. The sky here was different, tinted with shades of violet and indigo, as if reality itself had frayed at the edges.
As Zyra stepped beyond the arch, the change was immediate. The air grew thicker, humming with magic, the scent of smoke and incense curling around her. The cobblestone streets were lined with lanterns that cast an eerie blue glow, illuminating figures that moved like specters in the mist. Shops with no names displayed wares that shimmered with enchantments, and the whispers of unseen creatures echoed from the alleyways.
She kept her pace steady, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger beneath her coat. She didn't belong here—she never had. The Shadowborn district was a place for those who thrived in darkness, for beings who had long abandoned their humanity.
And one of them was waiting for her.
The Silver Veil was a bar that straddled the line between Eldoria and the underworld. It was neutral ground, a place where supernatural factions came to trade information, settle disputes, and drown their sorrows in cursed whiskey. The moment Zyra stepped inside, all conversation stilled.
Dozens of eyes—some glowing, some slitted like a predator's—turned to her. She ignored them, walking straight to the back where a private booth was shrouded in shadows. A single figure sat there, his presence commanding even in the dim light.
Damen Valerian.
Prince of the Shadowborn. The man she had once trusted. The man who had betrayed her.
His silver eyes glowed faintly as he watched her approach. "Zyra," he murmured, his voice rich and smooth, laced with something dangerous. "You must be desperate to come here."
She slid into the seat across from him, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Tell me about the symbols."
A slow smile curved his lips. "Straight to business? No pleasantries?"
"I don't have time for games, Damen."
He chuckled, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. "Oh, but you see, I do. And information comes at a cost."
She clenched her jaw. "I don't have gold."
"I don't want gold."
His gaze flicked down to the silver chain around her neck, to the pendant that hummed with suppressed magic. Her fingers instinctively curled around it.
"No."
He arched a brow. "You don't even know what I'm asking."
"I know you, Damen. And I know your price is always too high."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Then I suppose you'll have to figure it out on your own."
Zyra exhaled sharply, her frustration mounting. "People are dying. That symbol—it's appearing on their bodies. If you know something, tell me."
For a long moment, he studied her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, finally, he sighed. "It's a summoning mark."
Zyra felt her stomach drop. "Summoning?"
"Someone is trying to call something from the other side of the Veil," he said, his voice quieter now, more serious. "And if they succeed, Eldoria will burn."
A chill ran through her. She had suspected something dark was at play, but this—this was worse than she imagined.
"Who?" she demanded. "Who's behind it?"
Damen shook his head. "That, I don't know. But I do know this—whoever it is, they're not working alone."
Zyra's blood turned to ice. A cult. A faction. Perhaps even an entire army.
And she was already in the middle of it.
Damen tilted his head, watching her carefully. "You're going to need me, little star."
She scowled. "Don't call me that."
He smirked, unfazed. "You always were stubborn."
Zyra pushed herself to her feet. "If you hear anything else, you know how to reach me."
He caught her wrist as she turned to leave, his touch burning through her sleeve. When she looked down, his expression was uncharacteristically serious.
"Be careful, Zyra."
She hesitated, then yanked her arm free. "I always am."
And with that, she disappeared into the night, the weight of the truth pressing down on her like a blade to the throat.
The storm had worsened by the time Zyra reached her apartment. She barely had time to shake off the rain before a shadow moved in her periphery.
She spun, dagger in hand.
A hooded figure stood in the doorway, their presence dark and suffocating. The air crackled with energy.
"You shouldn't have asked questions, Everhart," the figure rasped.
Before she could react, the room exploded in darkness.