If I thought being a shadow would mean floating dramatically through gothic corridors while brooding in existential silence, I was wrong.
Being a shadow mostly means getting stepped on. A lot.
Valerian woke before dawn, because of course he did. Normal people hit snooze. Cursed princes apparently rise with the same grim determination they use to execute traitors.
I felt the shift first—the subtle tightening of muscle under skin, the slow inhale that pulled air through lungs that weren't mine. Then the legs swung over the edge of a bed that looked carved from midnight itself: black velvet sheets, obsidian headboard engraved with twisting serpents, four posts tall enough to hang traitors from if the mood struck.
He stood.
I slid across cold marble like spilled ink.
No good morning stretch. No yawn. Just boots pulled on, cloak fastened with a silver clasp shaped like a crescent moon eating the sun, and a longsword belted at his hip that probably cost more than my entire apartment block back on Earth.
The whispers started almost immediately.
Not mine. His.
They came from inside his head—low, hissing, layered like a dozen voices arguing in a wind tunnel. I caught fragments.
"…feed me…"
"…the seal weakens…"
"…blood will quiet them…"
Valerian's jaw tightened. He didn't answer aloud. He never did, from what I could tell. Instead he clenched his fist once, and the whispers dimmed like someone turned down the volume on a possessed radio.
I tried speaking.
*Hey. Yo. Tall, pale, and murder-y. Can you hear me?*
Nothing.
I tried louder, pushing the thought like I was yelling across a crowded street.
*PRINCE VALERIAN DRAKONIS, YOUR SHADOW HAS GAINED SENTIENCE AND WOULD LIKE TO FILE A FORMAL COMPLAINT ABOUT WORKING CONDITIONS.*
Still nothing.
He walked.
Every step sent a tiny ripple through me. I was stretched thin across the floor, clinging to the soles of his boots, the hem of his cloak, the shadow his body cast under torchlight. It was disorienting as hell—like being a living carpet that someone kept vacuuming with their feet.
We passed through arched corridors lit by blue-flame sconces. Guards snapped to attention so hard I thought their spines would crack. Servants dropped trays and fled. One maid actually whimpered.
Fear drifted off them in delicious little wisps.
**[Corruption Siphon (Lvl 1) – Minor essence absorbed]**
**[EXP +2]**
**[Current: 20/100]**
I perked up. Literally. A tiny curl of shadow lifted off the floor like a dog smelling bacon.
*Oh. Hello, sweet sweet experience points.*
Valerian didn't notice. Or if he did, he chalked it up to the curse being extra twitchy today.
We reached the same execution courtyard from last night.
The body was gone. The blood, however, was not.
A wide, dark stain still spread across the flagstones like someone had spilled an entire barrel of blackberry jam and then tried to mop it up with a napkin. The air smelled of iron and something older—rot, maybe, or the faint ozone tang of dark magic.
Valerian stopped at the edge of the stain.
He sighed. The sound was so quiet I almost missed it.
Then he extended his left hand.
Black mist poured from his palm—my palm?—and sank into the blood. The stain shivered. Began to shrink. Tendrils of shadow rose from the stone, coiling the crimson into neat little orbs that floated upward before dissolving into his skin.
He was cleaning up his own murder scene.
With me.
I felt every drop. Every smear. The blood carried echoes: terror, rage, the last frantic prayer of a dying man. It all flowed into me like cheap energy drink—bitter, fizzy, and oddly invigorating.
**[Corruption Siphon – Moderate essence absorbed]**
**[EXP +18]**
**[Current: 38/100]**
**[Minor bonus: Residual curse leakage detected. +3 Shadow Points]**
**[Shadow Points: 13/100]**
I wanted to whoop. Instead I vibrated slightly against his boot.
Valerian frowned. Looked down.
The vibration stopped instantly.
He muttered, "Quiet."
Whether he was talking to me or the curse, I couldn't tell.
He finished cleaning. The courtyard stones gleamed again—unnaturally clean, like someone had Photoshopped reality. Not a speck left.
Satisfied, he turned toward the inner keep.
That's when the whispers returned. Louder.
"…more…"
"…it hungers…"
"…let it feed…"
Valerian stopped mid-stride. Closed his eyes. Breathed through his nose like he was counting to ten.
The whispers didn't stop.
He spoke—low, dangerous.
"Enough."
A pulse of black energy rolled out from him. From us. The whispers shrieked and retreated like scalded cats.
Silence.
Then, quieter than before:
"…stubborn child…"
He exhaled. Kept walking.
I was fascinated. Terrified. A little turned on by how casually he shut down an eldritch peanut gallery in his skull.
*Note to self: do NOT piss him off until I can at least form a middle finger.*
We entered what I guessed was his private study. Bookshelves towered to the ceiling, filled with tomes bound in things that definitely used to have pulses. A massive desk dominated the center—black wood, claw-footed, covered in maps, scrolls, and a single crystal orb that pulsed faintly like a dying star.
Valerian sat.
Pulled a dagger from his belt. Began carving tiny runes into the edge of a parchment. Each cut released a thread of darkness that I eagerly slurped up.
**[EXP +4]**
**[Current: 42/100]**
*This is basically free EXP farming,* I thought. *I'm getting paid in darkness to watch a hot prince do paperwork. Is this heaven or hell?*
He worked in silence for maybe twenty minutes.
Then the door opened.
A woman entered.
Early thirties. Severe black hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful. Dressed in charcoal robes embroidered with silver sigils. She carried a silver tray with a single goblet of something thick and red.
Not wine.
Definitely not wine.
She bowed. Deep. Didn't meet his eyes.
"Your Highness. The nightly draught. Freshly drawn."
Valerian didn't look up.
"Leave it."
She set the tray down. Hesitated.
"The high priestess inquires whether the seal—"
"The seal holds," he cut her off. "Tell her if she wants updates, she can come ask herself. Preferably while kneeling."
The woman swallowed. Bowed again. Fled.
More fear essence.
**[EXP +3]**
**[Current: 45/100]**
Valerian reached for the goblet. Paused.
He lifted it to his lips, then stopped an inch away. Sniffed.
His eyes narrowed.
"Poison."
He set it down.
The liquid inside rippled. A faint green shimmer danced across the surface.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he dipped one finger into the goblet.
Black mist wrapped the digit. The green shimmer flared—then died.
He lifted the finger. A single drop of corrupted blood hung from the tip.
He flicked it.
The drop flew across the room, hit the wall, and began to spread like mold.
No. Not mold.
A tiny abyssal rift. Pinprick. Screaming faintly.
Valerian stood. Walked over. Placed his palm against the wall.
Shadow poured out—my shadow—and swallowed the rift whole.
The screaming stopped.
**[Significant curse corruption absorbed]**
**[EXP +32]**
**[Level Up!]**
**[Level 2 → Level 3]**
**[EXP: 5/300]**
**[New Skill Unlocked: Shadow Whisper (Passive – Lvl 1)]**
**[Description: You may now send faint telepathic messages to your host. Range: 0 meters (direct contact only). Volume: Whisper. Success rate increases with level and trust.]**
**[Shadow Points: 18/100]**
I stared at the blue box like it had just proposed marriage.
*Telepathy.*
I could talk to him.
Sort of.
I tested it immediately.
*Hey. Poison check. Nice reflexes. Also, thanks for the level-up, daddy.*
The message left me like a breath against his ear.
Valerian froze.
Slowly, he turned his head. Looked at his own shadow on the wall—my silhouette stretched long and thin.
For the first time since I'd woken up here, those amethyst eyes actually focused on me.
"…what was that?"
His voice was soft. Dangerous. Curious.
I panicked.
Sent another whisper before I could stop myself.
*Uh… just your friendly neighborhood curse sponge saying hi?*
Silence.
Long, terrible silence.
Then Valerian smiled.
It wasn't kind.
It was the smile of a man who just realized the monster under his bed might be sentient.
And interesting.
He leaned closer to the wall. Voice low.
"If you can speak, shadow… then listen well."
He straightened.
"I do not tolerate games. If you are more than a tool, prove it. Or I will rip you out and burn what remains."
He turned away.
But I saw it—the tiniest flicker in his posture.
Not fear.
Anticipation.
I vibrated again. Just a little.
*Challenge accepted, your edginess.*
**[Shadow Whisper – First successful transmission]**
**[+5 Shadow Points]**
**[Current: 23/100]**
The cursed prince's morning routine had just gotten a lot more complicated.
And honestly?
So had mine.