A truth that softens the dark
Noctyrrh woke uneasy.
The shadows did not cling as tightly to the spires. The air felt thinner, less suffocating, as if the night itself were listening for something it had forgotten how to hear.
Lumi noticed it first.
At dawn—if the faint silvering of the horizon could be called that—she stood near the crystal panes of her chamber, palm resting against the cool surface. The truth inside her stirred softly, not in warning, but in quiet curiosity.
This was wrong.
Or rather—different.
At twenty-two, Lumi had learned the language of pain intimately. Truth burned. Truth punished. Truth demanded blood as proof of obedience. Yet this morning, the power within her felt… tempered.
A knock came at her door.
She opened it to find Blake waiting, his dark hair unbound, shadows still clinging lazily to his shoulders as though reluctant to release him. Without the weight of the court or the Dreadsword, he looked younger. More human.
"Did you feel it?" he asked.
She nodded. "The night is quieter."
Blake stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "The sentries reported unrest along the outer districts. Not rebellion—confusion. Shadows pulling back where they shouldn't."
"That sounds like fear," Lumi said.
"No," Blake replied slowly. "It sounds like uncertainty."
They stood across from one another, both wary.
"When I speak truth near you," Lumi said, choosing her words carefully, "it doesn't punish me the way it should."
Blake's eyes sharpened. "You're certain?"
She lifted her chin. "Ask me something."
He hesitated.
Then, quietly, "Are you afraid of me?"
The truth surged forward—and settled like a held breath.
"No," Lumi said.
No pain. No blood.
Blake exhaled slowly. "The night answers honesty," he murmured. "But it has never… softened."
"Maybe it's learning," Lumi said. "Just as you are."
Something fragile passed between them.
Later that day, they walked the upper terraces together, visible to the city below. Whispers followed, but differently now—not sharp, not probing. Curious.
A child reached out from the crowd below, fingers brushing the shadow at Blake's feet. Instead of recoiling, the darkness thinned, allowing light to touch stone.
Gasps echoed.
Blake froze.
Lumi felt the truth stir—gentle, approving.
"They're watching," she whispered.
"Yes," Blake said hoarsely. "And the night is listening."
When they returned to the palace, the council awaited them, tension coiled tight.
"Your presence is destabilizing the realm," one elder accused, eyes fixed on Lumi. "The curse was meant to be absolute."
"Curses break," Lumi replied calmly. "Especially when fed by fear."
Blake stepped forward. "Noctyrrh will adapt."
The elder's voice trembled. "Or it will tear itself apart."
Silence fell.
Blake reached for Lumi's hand openly this time, no performance in the gesture. The truth rose—but did not wound.
"Then we will rebuild it," he said.
That night, as Lumi lay awake, she realized something that both frightened and steadied her:
Truth did not only destroy.
In the presence of the Dreadsword Prince, it could also heal.
And somewhere deep in the realm of eternal night, the shadows shifted—not in obedience, but in hope.