The blight smelled like rotting honey and forgotten promises.
Elara knelt in the ashen soil of the Withered Wood, her fingers hovering over a brittle stem that had once borne sun-berries. A thread of silvery sickness pulsed within it, visible only to her twisted Sight. With a breath, she pulled—not much, just a wisp. The sickness flowed into her, a cold sludge in her veins, and the stem crumbled to harmless dust. The relief in her chest was brief, overshadowed by the familiar, gnawing hunger that awoke in its wake. Never enough.
"Elara!" Her younger sister Lyra's voice, shrill with panic, cut through the grim silence. "They're here! Riders from the Vale!"
The Fae. Elara's heart plummeted. The village elders had sent a desperate plea to the Shadow Court weeks ago. They hadn't truly expected an answer, let alone a royal visitation.
By the time she reached the village square, a frozen tableau awaited. The villagers huddled together, faces pale. Opposite them, mounted on steeds of living shadow and starlight, were a dozen Fae warriors. And at their forefront, a man who could only be the Shadow King.
Kaelen.
He was like a piece of the night given form: tall and imperious, with hair as black as a raven's wing and eyes the volatile silver of a storm. His armor was etched with shadows that seemed to move. Power radiated from him in waves, a dark, intoxicating symphony that made the hunger inside Elara writhe in both terror and craving. He surveyed the crumbling huts and gaunt humans with a dispassionate coolness that felt more insulting than outright contempt.
The eldest, Garon, shuffled forward, bowing deeply. "Your Majesty. We are… grateful for your audience."
Kaelen's voice was low, smooth, and cut like ice. "Your 'blight' encroaches on my borders. It is a nuisance. I did not come for your gratitude. I came to assess the problem." His silver gaze swept the crowd and landed, with unsettling precision, on Elara, still standing at the edge with soil on her hands. He paused for a fraction of a second, a faint frown touching his lips, before looking back at Garon. "My magic can burn the sickness from the roots of this land."
A collective gasp of hope went through the villagers.
"But magic," Kaelen continued, "has a price. The balance must be kept."
"Name it," Garon said, voice trembling. "We have little, but what is ours is yours."
The Shadow King's smile was a blade. "I have no need of your trinkets or your grain." He pointed, his finger a dark accusation. "I will take her."
Elara's blood turned to ice. He was pointing at her.
Chaos erupted. Lyra cried out. Garon sputtered. "Elara? But… she is just a healer, a simple girl—"
"A simple girl who reeks of spent magic and defiance," Kaelen interrupted, his eyes locking with Elara's. He had seen. He had sensed her small, desperate workings. "The alliance between our peoples is a thread. It requires a knot. A marriage. She will be that knot. She will come to my court as my bride. A symbol. And an assurance."
Bride. Assurance. The words were shackles. In his court, surrounded by his power, her secret would be impossible to hide. He would discover she was a Siphon, an abomination both human and Fae despised. He would kill her, or worse.
"This is not a negotiation," Kaelen stated, the shadows around his steed deepening. "The price is her. Accept, and my magic saves your homes, your children. Refuse…" He let the threat hang in the blight-poisoned air.
Elara looked at Lyra's tear-streaked face, at Garon's despair, at the dying land. Her choice was no choice at all. The hunger inside her, a monster of her own, whispered that the King's immense power was a feast it longed for. That was a danger far more personal.
She stepped forward, lifting her chin to meet the storm in his eyes. "I accept your terms, Shadow King."
A flicker of something—surprise, intrigue—crossed his perfect features before the mask of indifference slid back into place. "Wise." He extended a hand, gloved in dark leather. "We leave at dawn."
As she placed her hand in his, a jolt, violent and electric, shot up her arm. It wasn't just his magic; it was a clash, a recognition. His silver eyes widened infinitesimally. He felt it too—the unnatural pull, the resonance between his immense power and her hidden void.
He pulled her up onto his shadow-steed, his body a wall of hard, warm muscle at her back. His lips brushed her ear, his voice a private, venomous promise meant only for her. "Welcome to the bargain, little witch. Now, let us see what you are truly hiding."