The first time I heard the Shadow King’s name, it was spoken as a curse.

Whispered at the hearth by my nursemaid, hissed on the battlefield by dying men, scratched into the walls of ruined keeps where his armies had passed. They said it the way some prayed, with reverence edged in terror, as though even uttering it might draw his gaze.

They called him Malicar, Lord of Night, Breaker of Dawn. Others simply called him Death.

But to me, he was prophecy.

...****************...

The night of my birth was ink-black, moonless, and swollen with storm. Lightning split the heavens as I entered the world, my mother’s scream swallowed by thunder. The midwives swore that the chamber shook with each cry, and that shadows crawled along the walls though no lamp had guttered.

One fell to her knees and declared me marked.

A child of light, bound to darkness.

Of course, no one wanted to believe her. The king, my father, banished the midwife that very hour. But fear lingers in silence, in the stolen glances of servants, in the way a mother clutches her infant closer than necessary.

By the time I was old enough to walk, I knew I carried something unwanted. And by the time I was old enough to understand, I knew what it was.

The Shadow King would come for me.

......................

It began with dreams.

At first, they were small things.

A whisper in the dark, a chill in the air that made me draw my blankets closer. But as the years passed, they deepened. I dreamed of forests where the trees bled ink instead of sap. Of castles crowned in bone. Of eyes like coals, smoldering in endless night.

And always, always, the voice.

"You are mine."

No matter how I woke...trembling, sweating, gasping...the words clung like smoke.

I never told a soul. My mother would have wept. My father would have sent priests. And none of them could have stopped the inevitable.

Because in every dream, I was moving closer to him.

When I was sixteen, war came.

The Shadow King’s armies spilled from the Blackened Vale, cloaked in perpetual dusk. They burned villages, slaughtered knights, and left whole provinces in ruin. The air itself grew heavy where they marched, sunlight dimming as though afraid.

Legends said Malicar had once been mortal, a prince who bartered his soul for eternal dominion. Whether truth or lie, he wielded power unlike any other. Blades shattered against his armor. Arrows dissolved into ash before touching him. Only one thing was certain: he sought a bride.

Not for love, but for conquest.

And the prophecies all whispered the same name.

Mine.

...----------------...

I tried to run from it. Gods know I tried.

I trained with swords until my palms bled. I studied arcane wards, binding circles, even the forbidden texts my tutors feared. If I could not escape my fate, then I would twist it. The bond meant for destruction would become my weapon.

Still, every victory on the practice field felt hollow. Because in the dead of night, his presence thickened in my dreams. Sometimes I swore I felt his breath ghost against my ear.

"To bind is not to cage," he murmured once. "It is to belong."

I woke with my heart hammering, shame and fear knotted together.

But shame was dangerous. Fear was worse. For buried beneath them, something else stirred. Curiosity. Longing.

The night the Shadow King came for me, the castle torches sputtered out as though drowned.

I was standing on the balcony of my chamber, the air restless with storm. Below, the courtyards lay silent, guards gone, their posts abandoned. Not abandoned...erased. Shadows swallowed stone, creeping up the walls like vines.

And then he was there.

Malicar.

The man of every whispered tale, every nightmare, every prophecy carved into the marrow of my bones. He wore a crown of obsidian thorns, his cloak stitched from living shadow. His face was half-hidden, sharp angles carved in moonless night. But his eyes… gods, his eyes burned like twin suns gone black.

“You’ve kept me waiting,” he said, voice low as a blade drawn from its sheath.

I should have screamed. I should have reached for the dagger strapped to my thigh. Instead, my lips parted, and words slipped out like betrayal.

“You came.”

His smile was both cruel and tender, as though he found amusement in my ruin.

“Did you doubt I would?”

Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the distance between us.

Barely a step, though it felt like a chasm. My breath hitched, caught between terror and a pull I could not name.

“Why me?” I whispered.

The Shadow King reached out, fingers gloved in black steel, and brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch was cold, yet heat rippled through me as though my body betrayed itself.

“Because only you can bind me,” he said softly. “And only I can unmake you.”

His words wrapped around me like chains. Invisible, unbreakable. And in that instant, the prophecy was no longer a story whispered by frightened midwives. It was here, alive, breathing against my skin.

The storm raged. The castle trembled. And in my chest, something ancient stirred awake.

Not fear. Not hatred.

Something far more dangerous.

I always arrive when I am least expected. The household breathes a sigh of relief whenever I step into the grand hall, and I let them believe I am their gentle muse, their sweet, caring daughter, sister, cousin. The servants bow, the housekeeper offers a gentle smile, and even Father nods with that faint, unseeing pride that always amuses me.

But I know.

I always know who watches me from the shadows. The ones who whisper, who plot behind linen curtains and polished silver. My spies. My enemies masquerading as servants. They think they can hide beneath their polite bows and careful words, but they cannot. I see everything. I see them, and I see him, my Shadow King, the one who owns my nights and stirs my blood with a glance.

No one knows his true identity. He is revered through fear and trauma. Respect earned from hundreds of thousands of the blood he shed. He is known as a Count from a neighboring kingdom.

But only I know. I feel him. His shadows intoxicate me.

He does not belong here. No mortal man could. He is the storm that bends my world, the darkness that calls to the most vicious parts of me. Yet I pretend, as all the world pretends, that he is merely a guest of honor, a friend of the family.

I smile when I see him, a soft curve of lips that disarms everyone else, but my chest hammers, my fingers itch, and my mind churns with the obsession that defines me. There is no halfway in my love for him; it consumes me entirely. And tonight, as the firelight dances across his face, I will allow myself a closer glimpse.

"Elara," my maid whispers, her voice trembling as she brushes my hair into place. "The Master will dine soon. Should I announce you?"

I tilt my head, letting her nerves feed my amusement. "No, Liora. Let me watch. Let him come to me. That is how it must be."

Her eyes widen, and I think she suspects something—perhaps she sees the madness behind my calm, or perhaps she only sees my play. Either way, she dares not contradict me. She never dares.

The grand hall is prepared for our evening meal, the candles flickering in golden candelabras that cast elongated shadows on the stone walls. I can hear the murmurs of my family as they settle, the laughter and clinking of glasses, but my attention is fixed on him. He stands at the far end, indifferent to the warmth of the room, his dark eyes scanning the gathering with that piercing intensity that makes my knees weak.

 A smile...one fleeting, almost cruel...curves his lips, and I feel a surge of possession. Mine. He is mine. And the world will learn it soon enough.

I glide across the room, my skirts whispering against the polished floor. Father notices, as always, and beams. "Elara, my dear, you shine tonight."

I nod demurely, letting the charm settle like a mask. "Thank you, Father. It is the candles. They flatter everyone, do they not?"

He chuckles, oblivious. No one ever sees the predator beneath the elegance, the chaotic pulse beneath the measured gestures. And yet, my mother catches my eye, her subtle nod acknowledging something unspoken. Perhaps she senses the truth, or perhaps she is merely amused. Either way, she does not interfere. She never interferes. The household adores me, all of them, save the hidden eyes that watch, the spies from my cousins who think they can snake their way into my inheritance as the heiress to the Dutchy.

Our Family is one of the most powerful and influential noble family in our kingdom. My grandfather earned the Duke title after leading our kingdom army as the general to victory. It earned us the most powerful army and land as well as wealth. No one dares defy us.

They cannot. No one can.

The meal begins, and I let myself linger near him, a whisper of silk brushing against his arm as I pass. He glances at me, just enough for my pulse to quicken, just enough to ignite the obsessive fire that coils around my heart. He does not smile, does not speak, yet every subtle shift of his posture speaks to me alone. I imagine the dark thoughts that must linger behind those eyes, the silent hunger. They mirror my own, though he does not yet know the extent of my devotion.

A servant stumbles, dropping a silver platter, and I catch it mid-fall with a flick of my wrist. Everyone gasps, and I laugh softly, a melodic sound that fills the hall.

The spies...discreetly as they dare not act openly...exchange wary glances. They know, in that instant, that I am aware. That I always am. They are nothing to me, mere obstacles, shadows that cannot touch the fire burning within. I could crush them if I wished, yet I enjoy the dance, the subtle fear in their eyes. It is delicious.

Later, as the household retreats to the drawing rooms, I follow him. He lingers by a window, staring out at the garden, and the moonlight catches his sharp features.

 I step into the room, careful to make my presence known yet still appear casual, effortless. "You enjoy the view, Count Jeran?" My voice is silk and poison entwined.

I don't know why he used Jeran as his name. Despite wishing to keep his identity as Malicar the Shadow King, I'd most prefer the later escaped my lips as Malicar left a sweet taste on my tongue.

He turns slowly, dark eyes meeting mine. There is a flicker of recognition, or perhaps curiosity. "Elara," he says, the name rolling off his tongue with a weight I can feel in my bones. "You are always near."

I tilt my head, letting the faintest smile curl my lips. "Always. Is that so terrible?" There is a challenge in my voice, though it is coated with warmth. Everyone else would hear concern, care even. But he hears me. He knows the hunger beneath the honey.

The door creaks, and I sense a figure in the shadows. Liora, faithful but fearful, peeks in. I allow her to enter, but only to serve. She flinches as she sets down a glass, and I pat her hand lightly. "Do not fear, child. Everything is as it should be."

Her eyes dart toward him, wary. I suppress a grin. Let them try. They will never succeed.

He finally steps closer, and my heart hammers against my ribs. There is a tension in the air, a spark that I can taste, electric and raw. "You do not frighten easily," he murmurs. His voice is a caress and a threat all at once.

I lean closer, so close that our shadows merge, and I whisper, "Fear is for those who do not know desire."

The pause that follows is delicious. The world could end, and I would not care. He watches me, studying, measuring, and I let the madness in my mind bloom. Every touch, every glance is a claim, a thread tying him to me, whether he realizes it or not.

From another corner of the room, I hear footsteps. An irrelevant rodent intruding.

A young cousin of mine, Dreda, who admires him from afar, unaware of the danger that coils around me. Her voice is soft, filled with awe and nervous excitement. "He is magnificent," she breathes to another, and I smile inwardly. Magnificent, yes. Mine, even more so.

The night drifts on, and the household gradually disperses. I linger, orchestrating moments so subtle that no one notices, so delicate that my obsession remains hidden beneath charm. The spies may continue their watch, but they see nothing, understand nothing. They are blind to the force that binds me to him, blind to the chaos that simmers beneath my composed facade.

Finally, alone, I allow the mask to slip. The mirror reflects my face, pale and sharp under the candlelight, eyes glittering with fevered intensity. I trace a finger along the glass, imagining it marking him, mapping him, claiming him. He is mine. The thought is intoxicating, thrilling, and I shiver with anticipation. The world may believe I am sweet, gentle, devoted, but the truth is far more delicious. I am unhinged. I am chaos. I am everything he cannot yet control, and everything he will never leave.

The spies watch from their corners, silent, powerless. I can feel their fear like a pulse in the walls. It excites me, reminds me of my strength. Malicar stirs in my mind, and I imagine the day he will finally understand, the day he will succumb, or perhaps resist until the very edge of madness. Either way, he is bound to me, and that is enough for now.

I let the candles burn low, the shadows stretch and curl, and I sit in the quiet, savoring the chaos I hide so well from all except him. My hands twitch, restless, longing, and my thoughts are a storm of dark devotion. The night is young, but my obsession is eternal. And when he finally notices, truly notices, there will be no escape. No one will stand in my way. Not spies, not family, not even the world itself.

For I am Elara, and Malicar is mine. Always mine.

The carriage wheels clattered over the cobbled streets of the capital, the Duke’s escort forming a disciplined, glinting frame of steel and velvet around them. Banners snapped in the wind.

The sigils of his house, golden eagles on deep crimson, fluttering above the heads of the crowd that had gathered along the procession route.

Elara sat beside her father, the fabric of her skirts pressed neatly against her legs, her gloved hands folded in a pose of perfect composure. Yet beneath her serene mask, her eyes flicked constantly to the edges of the crowd, tracing every shadow, every subtle movement, every whisper that might hint at danger or, more deliciously, intrigue.

Her father’s jaw was set, and each step toward the palace tightened the lines of authority in his posture. Soldiers flanked them, halberds gleaming beneath the pale morning sun, faces impassive, every man and woman a testament to the Duke’s power and discipline. The city itself seemed to lean away, doors shuttered, curtains drawn, merchants pausing mid-sale to gaze at the long line of noble presence.

Whispers followed them: about the Duke’s victories, his lands, the wealth his family commanded. And somewhere, somewhere just beyond perception, shadows lingered.

Unseen, watching, waiting.

The gates of the palace yawned open like a mouth of polished stone, the gilded dragons etched into the arch reflecting the sunlight in harsh streaks. Guards exchanged nods with the Duke’s escort, the clash of armor and the glint of polished weapons marking the ritual of arrival.

Every eye in the palace yard followed the carriage, and Elara could feel the hum of tension vibrating in the air like a taut string. Even the wind seemed to hesitate as they passed beneath the towers, carrying the scent of incense and polished stone.

Her pulse quickened at the thought that the King and his court would soon assess her father, measure him, weigh him against the invisible scales of trust and fear.

She leaned slightly forward, just enough to catch the Duke’s eyes. His expression remained carved in stoicism, though a flicker of annoyance crossed his features as the gate guards lingered longer than protocol required. “Patience,” he murmured, not for her but for himself, though the words were sharp as a sword’s edge. “Every man in this city wants a weakness to exploit. We shall see who tires first.”

Inside the palace, the halls were a cavern of marble and gold, the ceilings vaulted high with frescoes that told the tales of ancient kings and the gods who favored them.

Candles flickered along sconces, casting long shadows that danced across tapestries of past victories and vanquished enemies.

Servants in stiff, embroidered attire moved like clockwork, their murmured greetings precise and clipped.

Elara’s eyes, however, sought more than the grandeur; she noted the placement of guards, the subtle stances of courtiers, the set of shoulders that betrayed tension beneath the practiced smiles. She imagined Malicar would appreciate this attention to detail. The pulse beneath the calm, the secret currents that guided every motion.

The Audience Chamber loomed ahead, its doors towering and inlaid with filigree of silver and onyx. The Duke straightened, and Elara adjusted her skirts, smoothing the folds as if her composure were a shield. When the doors opened, the King rose from his throne, a man draped in crimson and ermine, his crown gleaming like a halo that carried no warmth. He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. There was calculation there, a predator’s patience wrapped in ceremonial courtesy.

“Your majesty,” the Duke greeted, voice deep, precise, with the measured respect owed to a monarch but not submission.

The King inclined his head, every movement deliberate. “Duke,” he said, the syllable heavy with a weight of history neither of them would speak aloud. “Your timing is as exacting as ever. One might suspect you orchestrate even the sunrise for your convenience.”

The Duke’s eyes flicked briefly, taking measure of the King. “Only as much as required to keep the realm in order, Your Grace,” he replied evenly, masking the irritation in his tone. “And you, Your Majesty...ever vigilant as the sun itself?”

The King’s smile was a razor beneath silk. “One must, of course. Threats are never idle in this kingdom. Not even from familiar hands.” His gaze lingered on the Duke, sharp, weighing, calculating. “Tell me, Duke…your forces at the borders grow ever more disciplined. I trust their loyalty has not wavered in your absence?”

“Perfectly, Your Grace,” the Duke said smoothly. “The men stand as they always have. Unbroken, unyielding. Like the stone walls of your palace, perhaps.”

The king's advisor stepped forward, velvet robes whispering over marble. “Yet even the strongest walls require careful watch, Your Grace. Neighboring houses whisper, and the loyalty of great lords is often more flexible than stone or steel.”

The Duke inclined his head, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Whispers carry little weight. Only action bears consequence.”

The crown prince, arrogant yet disciplined leaned in, his voice honeyed but sharp. “And the Duke’s daughters? Surely their bonds with other noble houses will strengthen the crown…or weaken it, depending on ambition and desire.”

Beneath the surface levity, the words pricked like finely honed needles. Elara noted the subtle tightening of her father’s jaw. He did not flinch; he never did, but his eyes were sharper now, the flicker of old grudges and rivalries shimmering there.

They exchanged courtesies like blades, smiling as if sugar could hide the steel beneath.

Each question was a test, a probe to see how far the Duke would bend, how much of his power he would reveal. Elara observed from the side, silent, a perfect noble daughter, but in her mind she traced every movement, every nuance of the King’s voice, imagining the storm of her Shadow King’s laughter at the delicacy of human politics.

The Duke’s power and influence was growing. Sooner or later it would be a threat to the crown. Hence the duke had to prove unyielding loyalty in any means possible.

Each individual in the court had their opinions, and various whispers such as the duke being able to stage a coup when he wanted or the duke being the king's obedient dog, where inconspicuously made known within the court walls.

Ministers began to circle, their robes of lilac and silk whispering over marble floors as they moved closer, each step a calculation.

“Ambition, Your Grace, is best guided than feared,” the Duke replied as all the ministers settled, measured, deflecting the subtle accusation with practiced grace.

A younger lord muttered, half to the air, half to those near him, “Wealth like the Duke’s commands attention, influence…perhaps even…obedience.”

One queried about alliances with neighboring houses, veiled as concern for the Duke’s safety.

Another questioned the future of his lineage, the potential marriages of his daughters.

Each word was a dart, each smile a trap. The Duke parried with patience, his responses measured, offering enough to satisfy decorum but withholding true strength. Every syllable was a battle, every gesture a shield or a weapon.

Elara’s pulse quickened. Every word was a blade, every glance a measure of power. She imagined Malicar’s laughter at such subtleties.

To her, it was a game that mirrored the one Malicar would play. Psychological, merciless, and wrapped in elegance. She imagined herself in the center of it all, a shadow weaving through the web, her obsession with Malicar making the court’s diplomacy sharper, more vivid.

As discussion broadened to regional unrest, one older minister cleared his throat. His voice was cautious, but the words were loaded:

“There are rumors, Your Grace, of gatherings in the northern villages. A cult…they claim to call upon him. No one understands how, truly, but the peasants vanish, fires flare at midnight, and strange symbols are carved in stone.”

Murmurs ran through the chamber. Some laughed, calling it superstition. Others paled. The King’s eyes narrowed, his silence sharper than any retort.

The Duke inclined his head. “I trust such rumors remain unverified. We deal in deeds, not whispers.”

“But what if they are more than whispers?” another minister pressed, voice trembling. “If they succeed…what then?”

Elara’s lips curved inwardly. A thrill, delicious and sharp, pulsed through her. Even from the back of the chamber, she imagined Malicar’s knowing gaze, amused by the mortal clumsiness of those who spoke his name.

Then it happened. A minister, too eager, careless, let slip a name like a spark in dry tinder: “Malicar.”

Silence fell like a drawn curtain. Candles flickered as if afraid to burn in that moment. The King’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. Courtiers froze, and even the Duke’s practiced composure tightened imperceptibly. None dared speak; the word carried weight no one could ignore.

“Careful, minister,” the King’s voice cut through the hush, low, dangerous. “There are names that are not to be spoken in this hall.”

The culprit bowed, face pale as ash. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he murmured.

Another minister hissed, “Do not test the patience of the crown.”

A third whispered, “Even the Duke cannot shield you from royal ire if you overstep again.”

Elara’s chest surged with thrill. The forbidden name had been spoken, a truth surfacing, and she felt it pulse in her veins like fire.

The audience drew to a close, the King dismissing them with a wave of his hand that was more command than courtesy. As the Duke and his entourage departed, the King murmured, so quietly only the Duke could hear: “Count Jeran…”

The Duke did not respond. He knew that sooner or later the king would question their relationship. It was a neighboring independently powerful kingdom. Not much was know about it. One without an alliance with theirs. And yet The Viscount was the Duke’s family friend. Ofcause some questions would potentially be raised.

The truth was that the Viscount's father saved the Duke from an encounter with death itself during the great war that earned him the title. As for the reason why a secluded and strongly secretive kingdom like that would trouble themselves with such a matter, he too knew not why.

Elara shivered with delight. Threads of intrigue now had real weight.

Somewhere, Malicar would know.

Beyond mortal reach, Malicar stirred. His palace of living shadow pulsed and breathed, towers of black stone stretching impossibly upward. He sat on his throne of obsidian, edges glinting like knives, shadows draping his form. Figures of darkness, features sharp, eyes like coals—stirred, whispering without sound.

The name had been spoken. Malicar lifted his head, tracing the invisible threads to the mortal palace. Even his generals paused, sensing the disturbance.

He rose, shadows reshaping like armor. “So she moves closer,” he murmured, lips curling. “She thinks of me…she names me.”

The air thickened, responding to the pull of the mortal world. Figures fell into line, waiting for the pulse of his will. His gaze softened on the empty throne opposite him. Elara.

The one who had uttered his name, obsession entwined around her heart.

He cared not about that minister. Irrelevant individuals had no right to even an ounce of his attempt.

The previous day he could sense how much Elara thought of him despite his mirage and Count Jeran. He almost lost his face to a chuckle after glimpsing into her mind and witnessing her daydreaming about saying as much as a greeting to him.

'How much more adorable can my bride be?' he said, more to himself.

From the heights of his towers, he observed the world beyond, the whispering ministers, the games of power. She drew him closer, inexorably, and when they converged, there would be no escape, no veils.

For now, he let darkness fold around him like a cloak, thoughts fixed on her, on her madness, on the delicious inevitability. She had spoken his name. Malicar, Shadow King, Lord of Night, and she...the one who would claim him...were bound.

The game had begun, and he would not be denied.