The bells of the Sanctum rang like a death sentence.
Elira stood barefoot on cold stone, wrists bound in iron that bit into her skin, the air thick with incense and smoke. Thousands watched from the cathedral steps—some with hatred, some with relief, most with hunger. The Sanctum loved its executions public. It fed their god.
"By the Light's decree," the High Inquisitor intoned, "the tainted shall be purified."
The blade descended.
The sky screamed.
Darkness ripped open above the altar, tearing through the clouds as if the heavens themselves had been wounded. Wind exploded outward, snuffing torches, flinging priests from their feet. The executioner staggered back, screaming as his blade shattered in his hands.
Elira's breath caught.
A shadow fell across the altar—too large, too dense, swallowing the light rather than blocking it. Stone cracked under unseen weight. The air went cold.
Then he stepped out of the rift.
Black armor, jagged and alive, drank in the torchlight. Shadows clung to him like loyal beasts. His face was carved by scars—old, vicious marks earned through decades of war—and his eyes burned, not with magic, but with living fire. Flames roared from them, molten gold edged with fury.
The King of Shadows had come.
Panic erupted. Sanctum knights charged, shouting prayers as they raised glowing blades. The first never reached him.
A single movement—clean, brutal.
The King's sword flashed, shadow-forged steel cutting through light and bone alike. Blood sprayed across white marble. Another knight lunged. The King caught him by the throat and crushed his windpipe with one hand, tossing the corpse aside like refuse.
Elira felt it then.
Something pulled.
A sharp, tearing sensation ripped through her chest as blood from her sliced palm dripped onto the altar—and touched the King's armor.
The world lurched.
Shadows surged outward, howling. The King froze mid-strike, eyes flaring brighter as if struck from within. Elira gasped, her knees buckling as heat and cold collided inside her veins.
"What did you do?" the Inquisitor screamed.
The King turned slowly, his burning gaze locking onto Elira for the first time.
Not with mercy.
Not with anger.
With shock.
Behind him, two towering figures emerged from the dark rift—alien, shadow-skinned, armed with cruel, otherworldly weapons. They took position at his back, silent and unmoving, eyes glowing violet beneath jagged helms.
The bond tightened.
Elira screamed as the chains snapped from her wrists—not outward, but inward—pulled by a force neither light nor darkness alone.
And the King of Shadows whispered, low and deadly:
"…Impossible."
The first arrow flew before anyone found their voice.
It burned with holy light, screaming through the air toward the King of Shadows. One of the alien guards moved—too fast to track. The arrow shattered inches from the King's face, dissolving into sparks as a curved, obsidian weapon cleaved it in half.
"Protect the altar!" the Inquisitor roared.
Too late.
Sanctum knights surged forward in a tide of steel and prayer. Light-based sigils flared across the ground, forming a cage meant to trap demons and monsters alike. The King stepped into it—and the runes cracked.
Shadows erupted from beneath his feet like spears, impaling three knights at once. Screams tore through the cathedral square. One guard advanced, movements sharp and alien, blades unfolding from its arms as it cut through bodies with surgical cruelty. The second guard took position behind the King, firing bolts of condensed darkness that punched holes straight through shields and skulls.
Elira staggered as the violence echoed inside her chest.
Every strike the King made sent shockwaves through her body. When he was grazed by a blade, pain flared across her ribs. She cried out, clutching herself as blood bloomed beneath her dress.
The King snarled.
"What are you?" he demanded, turning fully toward her now, eyes blazing brighter—hotter—until the fire cast long shadows across the altar.
"I—I don't know!" Elira gasped.
A Sanctum priest lunged at her from the side, dagger raised. Instinct screamed.
Something answered.
The shadows beneath Elira twisted, rising like living things. They wrapped around the priest's legs, yanked him forward, and slammed his skull against the stone. He went limp instantly.
Elira froze, horrified.
She had done that.
The bond tightened again—violent, possessive. The King stiffened, breath hitching as if her action had struck him instead.
"Stop," he growled, not to her, but to the shadows themselves.
They obeyed.
The Inquisitor backed away, eyes wide with terror and awe. "She's awakened it," he whispered. "The prophecy—"
The King moved.
He crossed the distance in a blur and seized the Inquisitor by the throat, lifting him off the ground. Holy light flared desperately, burning the King's gauntlet, but he didn't loosen his grip.
"Speak," the King said coldly. "What have you done?"
The Inquisitor laughed, blood dripping from his mouth. "Bound you," he rasped. "To her."
A thunderous crack split the air as the Sanctum's main gate burst open. More soldiers poured in. War horns sounded beyond the city walls.
The guards closed in around the King, weapons raised.
Elira swayed, the world spinning as the bond pulsed again—urgent, demanding movement.
The King looked at the advancing army.
Then at her.
"Run," he commanded.
The shadows surged—and the ground beneath the altar collapsed.
Stone gave way beneath them.
Elira screamed as the altar collapsed into darkness, the world flipping violently as shadows swallowed her whole. Air tore from her lungs. For a heartbeat, she was falling—then strong arms wrapped around her, iron and heat and something terrifyingly alive.
The King of Shadows landed hard, knees bending as shadow cushioned the impact. Cracks spiderwebbed through the stone floor beneath his boots. Above them, the cathedral roared as soldiers shouted and debris rained down.
"Hold on," he ordered.
Elira barely had time to gasp before the darkness *moved*.
Shadows surged like a tidal wave, sealing the collapsing ceiling, forming a tunnel of writhing black that carried them forward at impossible speed. The two alien guards flanked them instantly, cutting down Sanctum soldiers who leapt blindly into the void after them. Blood splashed against the walls, vanishing as if the darkness drank it.
Elira clutched the King's armor as pain ripped through her again—sharp, echoing, wrong.
He staggered.
A holy spear burst through his side, driven by a knight who had leapt into the tunnel in a final, desperate charge. The King roared, shadows exploding outward in a violent shockwave that crushed the knight against the wall with a sickening crunch.
Elira screamed as the spear wound burned across her own flesh, mirroring his injury. She collapsed against him, trembling, vision blurring.
"Enough," the King snarled.
He ripped the spear free and hurled it back up the tunnel. A distant scream cut off abruptly.
The bond flared—hot, suffocating.
Elira's hair caught the light spilling from the tunnel's end, shimmering unnaturally, strands reflecting like diamonds even in the darkness. The King noticed despite himself. His grip tightened, not in desire, but in something far more dangerous.
Recognition.
They burst out into the open night beyond the city walls. The tunnel unraveled behind them, sealing shut just as arrows rained uselessly against solid shadow.
Silence crashed down, broken only by Elira's ragged breathing.
The King set her on her feet slowly. His burning eyes searched her face—her innocence, her terror, her confusion—and something in his expression fractured.
Behind him, the guards stood motionless, weapons lowered but ready.
From the distant city, war horns sounded again—closer this time.
The King cursed under his breath.
"This shouldn't exist," he said, voice low and furious. "A bond like this hasn't been forged since before the gods took the world."
Elira swayed, the pull between them tightening like chains around her soul.
"What… what does that mean?" she whispered.
His gaze locked onto hers, fire blazing brighter.
"It means," he said, shadows rising around them like a crown, "they will never stop hunting you."
The ground trembled.
Far above, the clouds parted—and something vast began to descend.
The King turned toward the sky.
"…And neither will I."