The Weight of Ordinary Things
"Come," Issac said, his hands still framing Leizar's face, steady despite the tremor that ran through his fingers. "Let's go inside. You're safe now."
Safe. The word felt fragile between them, like glass that might shatter if spoken too loudly. But Leizar nodded, letting his father guide him away from the forest edge, away from the whispered voices that still seemed to drift on the wind.
The manor's heavy oak doors closed behind them with a solid thunk that should have been comforting but somehow felt more like a trap closing. The familiar scents of home - beeswax candles, leather-bound books, the faint sweetness of dried herbs - wrapped around them, but underneath it all Leizar caught something else. Something that made his skin crawl.
The scent of earth. Of things buried too shallow.
"Hungry?" Issac asked, his voice carefully normal as he guided Leizar through the main hall. "You barely touched your breakfast."
Leizar realized he was hungry, achingly so, though the thought of food after what he'd seen in the forest made his stomach turn. "I could eat," he said quietly.
They made their way to the kitchen, their footsteps echoing against the stone floors. The kitchen was warm and bright, copper pots gleaming on their hooks, afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows. Everything exactly as it should be, exactly as it always was.
Issac moved with practiced efficiency, slicing bread and cheese, ladling soup from a pot that had been simmering on the back of the stove. Simple food, comforting food, the kind that spoke of home and safety and all the ordinary things that made life bearable.
But as Leizar watched his father work, he noticed the way Issac's hands shook slightly as he cut the bread. The way his silver eyes kept darting to the windows, as if expecting something to emerge from the garden beyond. The scar on his jaw seemed more prominent in the afternoon light, a reminder of violence that Leizar still couldn't remember.
"Dad," Leizar said softly. "What's happening to me?"
Issac's hands stilled on the loaf of bread. For a moment, the only sound was the gentle bubbling of the soup and the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
"I don't know," Issac said finally, and the honesty in his voice was somehow worse than any lie. "But we'll figure it out. Together."
He set the bread and cheese on the table, followed by bowls of thick vegetable soup that steamed in the cool air. They ate in relative silence, the simple act of sharing a meal lending weight to Issac's promise. Whatever was wrong, they would face it together.
But even as Leizar ate, he couldn't shake the feeling that the food tasted like ash, that the warmth of the soup couldn't touch the cold that had settled in his bones. And when he looked at his shadow, cast long across the kitchen floor by the afternoon sun, it seemed to writhe at the edges, as if something was moving just beneath the surface.
Issac followed his gaze and saw it too. For just a moment, his carefully controlled expression cracked, revealing the raw fear beneath.
"After lunch," he said, his voice carefully steady, "how about we do some baking? It's been a while since we made blackberry cobbler. The berries should be perfect right about now."
Leizar looked up at his father, seeing the desperate hope in those silver eyes, the need for normalcy, for something ordinary and good to fill the space between them and whatever darkness was coming.
"I'd like that," he said, and meant it.
Because even if the world was falling apart around them, even if his shadow was moving wrong and voices whispered from the forest, they could still make cobbler together. They could still have this moment, this one perfect moment of father and son in a warm kitchen, planning something sweet for dinner.
It wasn't much. But right now, it felt like everything.
They finished lunch in comfortable quiet, the simple act of eating together lending a sense of normalcy that both father and son desperately needed. When the last spoonful of soup was gone and the bread reduced to crumbs, Issac stood and began gathering the empty bowls.
"The blackberry bushes are down by the old stone wall," he said, his voice carefully casual. "Past the herb garden, near where the creek bends. Do you remember?"
Leizar nodded, though something about the location made his stomach tighten with unease. He couldn't place why, but the thought of walking that particular path filled him with dread. Still, the alternative was staying in the manor, listening to the silence and watching his shadow move wrong against the walls.
"I'll get the baskets," Issac continued, moving to the pantry. He emerged with two wicker baskets, well-worn from years of use, their handles smooth and dark from countless hands. "We'll need quite a few berries for a proper cobbler. And Leizar?"
"Yes?"
"Stay close to me. Don't wander off."
The words were spoken lightly, as if they were simply practical advice for berry picking. But Leizar heard the fear underneath, the desperate need to keep his son within arm's reach. He nodded, accepting the smaller of the two baskets.
They made their way through the manor's back gardens, past neat rows of herbs and vegetables that spoke of careful tending and long afternoons spent in the soil. The afternoon sun was warm on their backs, and a gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the fruit trees that lined the garden's edge.
It should have been peaceful. It should have been exactly the kind of ordinary father-son activity that made life worth living. But as they walked, Leizar noticed things that made the hair on his arms stand on end.
His shadow, cast long by the afternoon sun, didn't quite match his movements. When he stepped left, it seemed to lag just a fraction of a second behind. When he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the light, the shadow's arm moved differently, as if it were reaching for something else entirely.
Issac noticed too. Leizar caught him glancing down at the ground, his jaw clenching each time he saw the shadow's wrongness. But he said nothing, just kept walking with that careful, controlled stride that spoke of a man barely holding himself together.
The blackberry bushes grew wild along the old stone wall that marked the boundary of their property. The wall itself was ancient, built from stones so old they seemed to drink in the sunlight rather than reflect it. Some of the stones bore strange markings, worn smooth by centuries of weather, that looked almost like writing in a language Leizar had never seen.
The berries hung heavy on the thorny branches, dark purple and fat with juice. They looked ripe and inviting, exactly what they needed for the cobbler. But as Leizar reached for the first cluster, he hesitated.
Something felt wrong about this place. Not the berries themselves, but the silence that surrounded them. No birds sang from the nearby trees. No insects buzzed among the flowers that grew wild along the wall's base. Even the wind had stilled, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
"Dad," Leizar said quietly. "Do you feel that?"
"Feel what?" But Issac's voice was tight, controlled, and Leizar knew he felt it too.
"The quiet. It's too quiet."
They stood there for a moment, father and son surrounded by beautiful berries and perfect silence, both trying to pretend that everything was normal while their instincts screamed that something was terribly wrong.
Then Leizar reached for a particularly fat cluster of berries, and his shadow reached with him. His hand grasped the fruit gently, careful not to crush the delicate skin, but his shadow fell across a different part of the bush entirely.
The fruit he picked was perfect, unblemished, exactly what they needed. But where his shadow had touched the thorny branches, the leaves began to curl inward and the remaining berries started to wither and blacken, their juice running down the stems like dark blood.
Leizar stared in horror at the spreading corruption, understanding flooding through him. His shadow was doing this. Somehow, his shadow was poisoning everything it touched.
They picked berries in silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts while the baskets slowly filled with dark, sweet fruit. Leizar was careful not to let his shadow fall across the bushes again, moving with deliberate precision to keep the wrongness contained. But he could feel it there, patient and hungry, waiting for his attention to slip.
Issac worked with mechanical efficiency, his movements sharp and controlled. Every few minutes his silver eyes would dart to Leizar, cataloguing his son's position, his safety, the state of his shadow. The fear was always there now, lurking just beneath the surface of everything they did.
When their baskets were full to overflowing with perfect berries, they made their way back to the manor. The sun had moved lower in the sky, casting longer shadows across the garden paths, and Leizar found himself stepping carefully to avoid letting his shadow touch the flowers they passed.
The kitchen felt like sanctuary when they finally reached it, warm and bright and blessedly normal after the unnatural silence of the berry patch. Issac immediately busied himself at the sink, washing the berries with gentle care while Leizar set their baskets on the large wooden table.
"First thing we need is a proper crust," Issac said, his voice deliberately cheerful as he dried his hands on a worn cotton towel. "Can you get the flour from the pantry? The good flour, in the blue crock."
Leizar nodded, grateful for something simple and normal to do. The pantry was cool and dark, lined with shelves that held the accumulated supplies of careful living. Sacks of grain, jars of preserved vegetables, wheels of cheese wrapped in cloth. Everything they needed to sustain life, organized with the kind of attention that spoke of someone who understood the value of preparation.
He found the blue crock easily, lifting it carefully from its shelf. The flour inside was fine and white, milled from wheat grown in their own fields, ground by the miller in town who'd known Issac since before Leizar was born. Simple, wholesome, part of the web of ordinary connections that made their life possible.
"Perfect," Issac said when Leizar set the crock on the table. "Now we need butter, eggs, a touch of salt. And sugar for the filling, of course."
They worked together with the easy rhythm of long practice, Issac measuring ingredients while Leizar arranged them on the wooden cutting board. Two cups of flour. A pinch of salt. Cold butter, cut into small cubes that would create the flaky texture they both loved. An egg, cracked into a small bowl, its golden yolk bright against the white ceramic.
"The secret," Issac said, beginning to cut the butter into the flour with two sharp knives, "is keeping everything cold. Cold butter, cold water, cold hands if you can manage it. Heat makes the dough tough."
Leizar watched his father's hands move with practiced skill, the knives flashing as they cut through the mixture, reducing the butter to smaller and smaller pieces until the whole thing resembled coarse meal. There was something hypnotic about the repetitive motion, something soothing about the familiar sounds of cooking.
"Your turn," Issac said, stepping aside so Leizar could take over. "Just like I taught you. Keep the motion light, don't overwork it."
Leizar picked up the knives, feeling their familiar weight in his hands. He'd done this countless times before, standing beside his father in this very kitchen, learning the patient art of making something good from simple ingredients. The motion came naturally, almost automatically, his hands remembering what his mind sometimes forgot.
But as he worked, he became aware of his shadow on the flour-dusted cutting board. Where the shadow of his hands fell across the mixture, the flour seemed to darken slightly, taking on a grayish cast that made his stomach turn. He tried to ignore it, to focus on the rhythm of the knives, but the wrongness was always there, lurking at the edges of his vision.
"Good," Issac said, either not noticing or choosing not to comment on the discolored flour. "Now we add the water. Just a little at a time, until it holds together."
The water was ice-cold from the well, and Leizar sprinkled it over the flour mixture with careful attention, watching as the dough began to form. His shadow fell across the bowl as he worked, and where it touched, the water seemed to shimmer with an oily darkness that had nothing to do with the ingredients they were using.
But the dough itself was perfect, coming together with the kind of tender cohesion that promised a flaky, buttery crust. Issac smiled as Leizar gathered it into a smooth ball, the first genuine smile Leizar had seen from him all day.
"Beautiful work," he said, and the pride in his voice was warm and real. "Now we let it rest while we prepare the filling."
They wrapped the dough in a clean cloth and set it aside, then turned their attention to the berries. Issac had already washed them, and now they gleamed like dark jewels in their ceramic bowl, lush and ready to be transformed into something even better.
"Sugar," Issac said, reaching for the heavy ceramic jar. "Not too much - we want to taste the berries, not just sweetness. And a little cornstarch to thicken the juices."
As they mixed the berries with sugar and spices, the kitchen filled with the scent of summer - sweet fruit and warm spices, the promise of good things to come. For a moment, surrounded by the familiar rituals of baking, Leizar could almost forget about shadows that moved wrong and voices in the forest.
Almost.
Because even here, even in the sanctuary of their kitchen, the wrongness followed him. When he reached for the cinnamon, his shadow reached too, and the spice jar trembled slightly at his touch. When he stirred the berry mixture, dark swirls appeared in the purple juice that had nothing to do with the fruit they were using.
But Issac said nothing, just continued working with the same careful attention he always brought to their cooking. And gradually, despite everything, the cobbler began to take shape.
The dough had rested long enough, becoming pliable and smooth under the cloth. Issac unwrapped it with the kind of reverent care he might use for something precious, something that deserved respect for the simple miracle of its existence.
"Now comes the tricky part," he said, dusting the wooden cutting board with flour. "Rolling it out thin enough to be tender, but thick enough not to tear."
He handed Leizar the heavy wooden rolling pin, worn smooth by generations of use. The tool felt familiar in his hands, weighted with the memory of countless afternoons spent learning this exact skill. But as he began to roll the dough, pressing it flat with steady, even strokes, his shadow fell across the pale surface.
Where the shadow touched, the dough seemed to darken, taking on a grayish tint that spoke of corruption rather than wholesome ingredients. But the texture remained perfect, rolling out into a perfect circle that would cradle their berries like a tender embrace.
"Beautiful," Issac murmured, and for a moment his voice held nothing but genuine pride. "You've always had good hands for this work."
They lined the deep ceramic dish with the rolled dough, Leizar carefully lifting and draping it while Issac guided his movements with gentle touches. The berries went in next, mounded high and gleaming with their coating of sugar and spices. The kitchen filled with their sweet scent, promising good things to come.
The remaining dough was rolled into strips for the lattice top, a pattern Issac had taught him years ago. Over and under, over and under, creating a woven design that would let the steam escape while keeping the filling contained. It was precise work that required patience and attention, the kind of task that quieted the mind and focused the hands.
But even here, in this most innocent of activities, the wrongness persisted. Each strip of dough darkened slightly where Leizar's shadow fell across it, and the berries beneath seemed to shift and move in ways that had nothing to do with the settling of fruit in a dish.
Issac brushed the lattice with beaten egg, giving it a golden sheen that would become beautifully brown in the oven's heat. Then he slid the cobbler into the oven they'd heated with carefully tended coals, the cast iron interior radiating warmth that filled the kitchen with comfort.
"Two hours," he said, checking the angle of the sun through the tall windows. "Maybe a bit more. The crust needs time to get properly golden."
Two hours. Time enough for the sun to set, for the familiar world to give way to whatever waited in the darkness. But for now, there was still light, still warmth, still the promise of something good baking in the oven.
They cleaned up together, washing bowls and putting away ingredients with the methodical care of people who understood the value of order. The kitchen slowly returned to its usual state of organized calm, though the scent of baking cobbler lingered in the air like a promise.
They sat at the kitchen table, the silence stretching between them like a held breath. The oven radiated heat, but it felt oppressive now rather than comforting. Leizar traced patterns in the flour dust on the wooden surface while Issac stared at his hands, both of them hyperaware of every sound - the tick of the clock, the settling of the house, the soft bubbling from within the oven that could have been cobbler or something far more sinister.
But as the sun began to sink lower in the sky, painting the kitchen walls with golden light that grew steadily redder, Leizar found his attention drawn more and more to his shadow. It stretched long across the floor now, reaching toward corners where the light couldn't penetrate, and in those dark spaces he thought he could see movement.
Small shapes, child-sized, pressing their hands against invisible barriers. One of them, just as there had been in the forest. Just as there had been in his dream.
The first time he saw them, he gasped, his hand flying to his throat. But when he looked again, there was nothing there but ordinary shadow, the kind cast by any boy standing in afternoon sunlight.
"Almost ready," Issac said, opening the oven door to check their work. The cobbler emerged golden and bubbling, the lattice crust perfectly browned, the berry juices running dark and sweet through the openings. It looked exactly as it should, exactly as every cobbler they'd ever made together.
But underneath the sweet scent of baked fruit, Leizar caught something else. Something that reminded him of the forest, of corrupted mushrooms and whispered voices. Something that made his stomach turn even as his mouth watered at the sight of their beautiful creation.
"Perfect," Issac said, setting the cobbler on a cooling rack. "We'll let it rest while we have dinner. It's always best when it's had time to settle."
Dinner was a quiet affair, simple food eaten by lamplight as the sun finally disappeared behind the distant hills. They talked of ordinary things - the weather, the need to repair the garden fence, the progress of the vegetables they'd planted in spring. Safe topics, comfortable topics, the kind of conversation that filled the space between people who cared for each other.
But underneath it all, Leizar was aware of the growing darkness outside the windows. Night was coming, and with it, the return of whatever forces had haunted his dreams and corrupted his shadow. The cobbler sat cooling on its rack, beautiful and perfect and somehow wrong, just like everything else in their carefully constructed world.
When the meal was finished and the dishes cleared away, Issac cut generous portions of the cobbler, the berries still warm and fragrant, the crust flaky and golden. They ate in companionable silence, the sweet-tart flavors bursting across their tongues, the simple pleasure of good food shared between father and son.
It should have been perfect. It was perfect, in every way that mattered.
But as Leizar took his last bite, he could swear he tasted something else beneath the berries and sugar. Something dark and bitter that reminded him of earth and corruption and things that should have stayed buried.
Outside, full darkness had finally fallen, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell began to toll.
Issac insisted on helping Leizar to bed, the same ritual they'd followed for ten years. Clean nightclothes, teeth brushed, a glass of water on the bedside table. All the small ceremonies that marked the end of another day, another victory against the darkness that always waited at the edges of their carefully constructed world.
"Sleep well, my boy," Issac said, his voice carefully steady as he tucked the blankets around his son's shoulders. "Tomorrow will be better."
But even as he spoke the words, he didn't believe them. Tomorrow would bring new horrors, new manifestations of whatever was awakening in the boy he loved more than his own life. Still, he could offer the comfort of routine, the illusion of safety that had carried them this far.
Leizar was already drowsing, exhausted by the day's emotional upheaval. His silver hair spread across the pillow like spun moonlight, and for just a moment he looked exactly like the innocent child Issac had raised, the boy who had never hurt anyone, never remembered the blood on his hands.
Issac stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of his son's breathing. Then he quietly closed the door and made his way downstairs to the kitchen, where the remains of their cobbler sat cooling on the rack.
He should clean up the last of the dishes, bank the fire, prepare the house for another night. But instead he found himself standing at the kitchen window, staring out at the darkness beyond the glass, his hands trembling with a fear he could no longer suppress.
The shadow magic was getting stronger. Today it had corrupted berries, darkened flour, tainted everything Leizar touched with its creeping wrongness. And Issac was helpless to stop it, bound by protocols that prevented him from taking any meaningful action.
A movement in his peripheral vision made him turn.
Leizar's shadow stood in the doorway.
Not Leizar himself - the boy was upstairs, safely asleep in his bed. But his shadow was here, cast by no light Issac could see, moving with its own terrible purpose. It was the right size, the right shape, but wrong in every way that mattered. Where Leizar's shadow should have been a simple absence of light, this thing had substance, presence, malevolent intelligence.
And eyes. Deep in the darkness where a face should be, two points of red light burned like embers from a dying fire.
Issac couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but stare as the shadow-thing regarded him with those haunting crimson orbs. There was recognition there, and something that might have been amusement. As if it knew exactly who he was, exactly what he'd done, exactly how terrified he was in this moment.
They stared at each other across the kitchen, predator and prey, while the clock on the wall ticked away the seconds with mechanical indifference. Issac wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to do anything but stand there like a deer caught in a hunter's sight. But his feet were rooted to the floor, his voice trapped in his throat by a fear so complete it bordered on paralysis.
Then the shadow moved.
It turned away from him with deliberate slowness, as if to show that Issac was not worth its full attention. It walked - actually walked, its feet making no sound but moving with perfect human stride - across the kitchen to the door that led to the garden.
The shadow reached out with one dark hand and grasped the door handle. The metal should have passed right through it, but instead the handle turned with a soft click that echoed like thunder in the silent kitchen.
The door swung open, revealing the garden beyond, dark and still under the starless sky. The shadow paused in the doorway, turning back to look at Issac one more time. Those red eyes burned into his soul, carrying a message as clear as if it had been spoken aloud:
I am coming. And when I do, nothing you have built will protect you.
Then it stepped through the doorway into the night, and the door swung shut behind it with a gentle thud that somehow sounded like the closing of a coffin lid.
Issac stood alone in his kitchen, his whole body shaking, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that tasted of panic and despair. For a moment that felt like eternity, he couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare at the door through which his worst nightmare had just walked.
Then the paralysis broke, and he ran.
Not outside - he couldn't face whatever waited in the darkness beyond his door. Instead he ran to the main hall, to the grand mirror that dominated the eastern wall, its ornate silver frame gleaming in the moonlight that filtered through the tall windows.
His hands were shaking so violently he could barely manage the simple gesture, but he pressed his palm against the mirror's surface and whispered the words that would carry his voice across dimensions.
"Venus. Venus, please. I need you. Something's wrong, something's terribly wrong."
For a moment there was only his own reflection, wild-eyed and pale, staring back at him with undisguised terror. Then the surface rippled like water, and another face appeared beside his own.
Venus looked exactly as she had ten years ago, when he'd last been desperate enough to call her. Dark hair framing a face that was beautiful and terrible in equal measure, eyes that held depths of knowledge he'd never been able to fathom. She took one look at his expression and her own face went grave.
"Issac? What's happened?"
"It's Leizar," he gasped, the words tumbling out in a rush of panic. "His shadow - it walked, Venus. It looked at me with red eyes and it opened the door and walked outside. It's not supposed to be able to do that. Nothing in the protocols said anything about the shadow having its own consciousness, its own will. What if it comes back? What if it tries to hurt him? What if-"
"Issac." Her voice was sharp, commanding, cutting through his spiraling panic. "Slow down. Breathe. Tell me exactly what you saw."
But he couldn't slow down, couldn't make sense of what had happened, couldn't do anything but let the terror pour out of him in a stream of fractured words and half-coherent fears. Venus watched him for a moment, her expression growing more concerned with each passing second.
Then she stepped through the mirror.
Venus emerged from the reflective surface as easily as stepping through a doorway, her physical form solidifying in the main hall with a soft shimmer of displaced air.
"Come," she commanded, taking his arm with gentle but implacable force. "To the kitchen. You're going to hyperventilate if you keep this up."
She guided him through the familiar rooms, his legs unsteady. The kitchen still held the lingering warmth from their cobbler-baking, the sweet scent of berries a mockery of domestic peace.
"Sit," she said, pushing him into one of the wooden chairs at the table. The familiar solidity of the old oak seemed to ground him slightly.
She moved to the counter, her hands sure and quick as she mixed something from ingredients she produced from the small pouch at her belt. Herbs he didn't recognize, powders that sparkled with their own light, a few drops of liquid that smelled like starlight and winter storms.
"Drink this," she said, pressing a cup into his shaking hands. "All of it. It will help you think clearly."
The tonic was bitter but warm, and as it spread through his system Issac felt the crushing weight of panic begin to lift. His breathing slowed, his hands stopped shaking, his thoughts arranged themselves into something approaching coherence.
Only then did Venus sit across from him at the table, her expression grave but no longer urgent.
"Now," she said quietly. "Tell me everything."
Issac took a shuddering breath, the tonic working through his system like liquid calm. His thoughts felt clearer now, more organized, though no less terrifying for their clarity.
"It started before dawn," he began. "Leizar woke screaming. When I got to him, he had grave dirt under his fingernails, in his hair. There were scrapes on his knees as if he'd fallen on stone. He was clutching a mushroom covered in maggots - but he'd been in his bed all night." His voice cracked. "I bathed him, tried to wash it away, but the evidence was real. The dirt, the wounds. Then later, when he went to the forest, he said there were children in the shadows, that they'd followed him. The mushrooms turned black when he touched them, and a voice spoke to him."
Venus leaned forward slightly, her attention focused with laser intensity. "What did the voice say?"
"Something about the light hiding the truth. About embracing the darkness inside." Issac's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "But Venus, at the end of the day, we both heard it. Standing right there in the archery range, we both heard this voice whisper to us. It said 'Embrace the darkness inside. Come home to me. The light hides the truth. Your truth.'"
"Both of you heard it?"
"Both of us. And it knew him, Venus. It called it 'your truth' like it was speaking directly to him, like it had some claim on him."
Venus's expression had grown increasingly troubled as he spoke, but now a line appeared between her brows. "That's... unusual. But voices, corruption, even shared auditory experiences... none of that necessarily indicates shadow magic."
"There's more." Issac stood up, beginning to pace the small confines of his bedroom. The tonic had steadied his nerves but couldn't touch the core of terror that sat like ice in his chest. "Everything he touches gets corrupted now. The berries we picked turned black where his shadow fell across them. The flour we were using darkened when he worked with it. Even the water seemed to shimmer with something oily and wrong."
"Issac-"
"And his shadow moves independently," he continued, the words rushing out now. "All day I watched it lag behind his movements, reach for things he wasn't reaching for. During archery practice, it writhed and twisted even when he was standing perfectly still."
Venus was very quiet now, her face carefully controlled in a way that told him she was thinking hard about what he was telling her. But there was something else in her expression, something that looked almost like disbelief.
"Shadow magic," she said slowly, "doesn't work that way."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean shadows don't act independently of their casters. Shadow magic is about manipulation, illusion, transportation through darkness. It's not about... autonomous shadow entities with their own consciousness."
Issac stopped pacing and stared at her. "Then what did I see tonight?"
"I don't know. But if you're describing true shadow magic manifestation, then we have a much bigger problem than I thought." Venus stood up, her movements sharp with sudden decision. "Only one person per realm can wield shadow magic. In this realm, that's Pendacore."
"So you're saying it's impossible?"
"I'm saying that if Leizar is manifesting shadow magic, then either the cosmic laws are being violated in ways that should be impossible, or..." She trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.
"Or what?"
"Or he's not from this realm."
The words hung between them like a blade waiting to fall. Issac felt something cold and terrible settle in the pit of his stomach, a certainty that he was about to learn truths he wasn't prepared to handle.
"We need to get Pendacore here," Venus said, her voice crisp with authority. "Tonight. If this is really shadow magic, he'll be able to confirm it. And if it's not..."
"If it's not?"
Her expression was grim as she moved back toward the mirror. "Then we're dealing with something much worse than shadow magic. Something that can perfectly mimic it while adding capabilities that shouldn't exist."
She pressed her palm against the mirror's surface again, but this time the reflection that appeared wasn't her own. The glass showed a different room entirely, dark and filled with strange shadows that seemed to move of their own accord.
"Pendacore," she called into the mirror. "I need you. Emergency consultation. Shadow magic manifestation in a secondary user."
The response came immediately, a voice like velvet over steel: "Impossible. I am the only shadow wielder in this realm."
"That's what we need to confirm. Can you come?"
There was a pause, and then: "I'll be there within the hour. And Venus? If you're right about this, we're all in more danger than you realize."
The mirror went dark, leaving them alone with their fears and the growing certainty that whatever was happening to Leizar was far beyond anything they'd prepared for.
"He's coming," Venus said quietly, though they both knew the words were meant to reassure herself as much as Issac.
The kitchen fell silent except for the ticking of the clock on the wall. Venus sat perfectly still, but Issac could see something in her eyes he'd never seen before - genuine fear. This woman who had faced dimensional tears, who had stood against entities that ate reality itself, was afraid.
Upstairs, Leizar slept peacefully.
Somewhere in the darkness beyond their walls, his shadow walked with purposes of its own.
They didn't have to wait long. Less than an hour after Venus made the call, they heard it - the thunder of hooves on cobblestone, approaching fast through the night. The sound grew louder, more urgent, until it stopped abruptly outside their door.
Three sharp knocks echoed through the manor, each one precise and commanding.
Issac moved to answer, but Venus was already there, throwing open the heavy oak door to reveal Pendacore standing on their threshold. His black stallion panted behind him, its flanks gleaming with sweat, steam rising from its body into the cold night air.
Pendacore was exactly as Issac remembered from the few times they'd met - tall, lean, moving with the fluid grace of someone who existed as much in shadow as in light. His dark hair was pulled back severely from a face that might have been carved from marble, all sharp angles and elegant lines. But it was his eyes that drew attention, emerald green and bright as cut gems, eyes that seemed to see far more than they should.
He stepped inside without invitation, and the moment he crossed the threshold, everything changed.
Pendacore went rigid, his entire body tensing as if he'd been struck. Those emerald eyes widened, then narrowed to thin slits as he turned his head slowly, scanning the room like a predator searching for threats. His nostrils flared slightly, as if he were scenting the air, and when he spoke his voice was tight with something that might have been fear.
"Where is he?" The words came out sharp, clipped, edged with an authority that made both Venus and Issac instinctively step back.
"Upstairs," Venus said. "Sleeping. Pendacore, what's wrong? What do you sense?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved to the nearest window, his movements controlled but urgent. He pressed one pale hand against the glass and stared out into the darkness beyond, his jaw clenched so tightly Issac could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"The boy," Pendacore said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "The boy does indeed have shadow magic. True shadow magic, as pure and powerful as my own."
"But that's impossible," Venus protested. "You're this realm's shadow wielder. There can only be one-"
"There can only be one per realm who was BORN to it," Pendacore corrected, turning from the window to face them both. His emerald eyes were grim, filled with a knowledge that seemed to age him before their eyes. "This boy... he's not from this realm. He never was."
Issac felt the blood drain from his face. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying his magic violates natural law. But more than that..." Pendacore paused, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "You said his shadow walked away from him? Left his body and moved independently?"
"Yes," Issac confirmed, his voice shaking. "It opened the door and walked into the night."
"That's impossible." The word came out flat, absolute. "I can become shadow, merge with others' shadows, manipulate others through their shadows, but my shadow leaving me? Walking on its own? That cannot happen. Shadows are tethered to their casters. They're extensions of us, not separate entities."
"Then what are we dealing with?" Venus demanded, her voice tight with barely controlled fear.
Pendacore's hands clenched into fists at his sides, and for a moment shadows seemed to writhe around him like living things responding to his distress. When he spoke, his voice was hollow with a dread that made Issac's skin crawl.
"Something is using shadow magic as a medium. Something that shouldn't exist. The fact that his shadow can separate from him means..." He paused, seeming to struggle with words that didn't want to be spoken. "It means his shadow isn't entirely his anymore."
"What could do that?" Issac asked, though part of him didn't want to know the answer.
"There are old powers," Pendacore said slowly. "Forces that existed before the realms were separated, before magic had rules. If something like that has touched the boy..."
He turned those terrible emerald eyes on them both, and Issac saw depths of knowledge there that spoke of truths too dangerous to comprehend.
"His shadow walking independently isn't shadow magic gone wrong. It's shadow magic being used as a vessel for something else. Something that can wear his shadow like a coat, use it to interact with our world while keeping its true nature hidden."
"You're saying something is possessing his shadow?" Venus asked.
"I'm saying something has made his shadow into a bridge. A bridge between our realm and..." He paused, his face going even paler. "The 13th Realm."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Venus gasped, her hand flying to her throat.
"That's not possible," she whispered. "The 13th Realm was caged, not just sealed. Even the River of Souls was diverted to flow around it, never through it. Nothing enters. Nothing leaves."
"The realm where Aether rules," Issac said slowly, the words dredging up memories of ancient warnings. "Where the Fallen Guardians were imprisoned after they tried to unmake reality itself."
"Not tried," Pendacore corrected quietly. "They succeeded. For one moment that lasted an eternity, they unraveled the Pattern itself. Every soul that had ever been or would ever be screamed at once. The cosmic order collapsed into chaos, and in that space between heartbeats, Aether nearly rewrote the fundamental laws of existence."
Venus's voice was barely audible. "The Shattering."
"The other Guardians managed to reverse it, to reweave reality from the fragments. But the damage..." Pendacore shook his head. "Imagine a tapestry that's been torn apart and sewn back together. It looks whole from a distance, but up close, you can see where the threads don't quite match. Where the pattern is wrong."
"That's why the 13th Realm had to be caged," Issac said, understanding dawning in his eyes. "It's not just a prison. It's where they contained Aether himself after the Shattering. The First Human, Clandareth, corrupted by Eldritch magic. The Guardian Queen had to shatter unified reality itself to create separate realms that could contain what he'd become."
Pendacore's face went ashen. "You know the old stories."
"The Shattering wasn't destruction," Venus whispered. "It was creation. The Guardian Queen broke primordial existence into fourteen pieces to cage the chaos her husband had unleashed."
"And now," Pendacore said grimly, moving back to the window to stare into the darkness, "something is trying to reverse it. That shadow isn't wandering aimlessly through your garden. It's building a bridge back to the time before the Shattering, when reality was unified. And if it succeeds..."
He trailed off, but the implications hung in the air like a death sentence. Venus had gone pale as moonlight, her usual composed confidence shattered by the enormity of what they were facing.
"We have to wake him," she said. "We have to find out what he knows, what he remembers-"
"No." Pendacore's voice cut through her words like a blade. "We don't wake him. We don't disturb him. We don't do anything that might make the situation worse than it already is."
"Then what do we do?"
Pendacore was quiet for a long moment, his emerald eyes distant as he considered possibilities that made Issac's blood run cold just thinking about them. When he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of absolute certainty.
"We wait for his shadow to return. And then we pray that whatever it's learned out there in the darkness doesn't destroy us all."