Once, they had been a clear, icy blue, a trait I’d inherited from my mother. Now, they were dark, bloodshot, with crimson veins lacing the irises like cracks in a porcelain vase. They were the eyes of a man teetering on the edge, a man who had not known peace in years. I touched the corner of my left eye, feeling the sting of fatigue. How long had it been since I’d last slept? Truly slept? Not the restless moments of unconsciousnessI occasionally succumbed to, but actual rest, free of shadows gnawing at my mind?
Three months.
That fucking Mirror of Truths had been in my possession for three months, and it had taken its toll on me. At first, I’d thought it would provide answers, reveal the truths hidden behind the illusions of all my enemies. Instead, it only showed me fragments—glimpses of nightmares that may or may not have been real. It whispered to me in the dead of night, reminding me of every mistake I had made, every sin that had led me to this forsaken legacy.
I looked down at my hands and flexed my fingers. Shadows curled around them instinctively, responding to my emotions. The thought of all the women who had died, of all the people who would suffer if my father didn’t stay contained, if I couldn’t draw enough power to myself, twisted in my chest like a knife. I forced it down and locked it away. There was no room for sentimentality in this world.
Growling in frustration, I turned away from the mirror, letting the shadows reclaim my form. It was easier to remain hidden behind the darkness. No one would ever see the cracks beneath it. No one would ever know that the mighty Shadow Lord, the heir to the Gallanti legacy, was slowly unraveling.
The last three months had been relentless—testing, pushing, and twisting every ounce of power I wielded. But there had been progress, hadn’t there? The thought brought a fleeting, almost imperceptible twitch of satisfaction to my lips.
Celeste. Her blood had been the key. My scientists had used it as the foundation to create a vaccine, an antidote of sorts, to save the women in my territory from the plague that afflicted them. For years, death had stalked my territory, taking lives and weakening the resolve of my people.
But now, no new graves were being dug. The illness had been halted in its tracks, and the women were recovering. In the past two months, we hadn’t had a single death. It was a triumph, but one that had come at a cost. Celeste’s blood had been a rare, precious resource, and Vincenzo had not been generous in allowing me access to her. I had used every ounce of leverage I possessed to secure enough to synthesize the cure. Now, my enemies could no longer use the epidemic as a weapon against me.
However, that small victory was not enough. Now that the crisis had abated, I had to focus on what came next: securing the strength of my territory, solidifying my alliances, and preparing for the next storm that would undoubtedly come.
I straightened my posture, rolling my shoulders back as I crossed the room. I pulled on a dark button-down shirt and tucked it into my tailored slacks, then adjusted the cuffs with meticulous precision. I needed to look the part of the man who ruled this territory with an iron fist. I grabbed my suit jacket and slid it on. The fabric fit like a second skin, smooth and impeccable, the color as dark as midnight.
It was an absurd ritual. Few would ever see me like this. To most, I was nothing more than an illusion, a figure of swirling shadows and shifting smoke. It was the creature I had become. The creature I’d chosen to be. So why bother?
The familiar question lingered in the back of my mind whenever I stood in front of this mirror. And yet, the answer came easily, instinctively.
It wasn’t for them.
It was for me.
The shadows were a tool, a weapon of fear and anonymity. They gave me power, obscured my vulnerability, kept the world at a distance. But beneath the swirling darkness, beneath theillusion, I was still a man. A man who had been taught, long ago, that appearance was everything.
My father had drilled it into me from the moment I could walk.Power begins with perception.If you want respect, you must command it before you ever speak a word.I’d hated him for it, hated the endless fittings and lessons on posture, the lectures about image. But he’d been right. Even now, when most would never see me, I felt the truth of his words.
I wore these suits because I refused to let go of that man—the man who hadn’t yet been completely consumed by the shadows. The man who still knew the weight of fine fabric, the precise cut of a jacket, the subtle click of polished shoes against stone floors. Dressing well reminded me of that man, tethered me to him, even as the darkness whispered that I didn’t need him anymore.
And then there was control.
Every stitch of these suits, every line and fold, was perfect because I demanded it. In a world where chaos was constant, where enemies lurked in every shadow, I could control this. My appearance was a deliberate choice. It reminded me that I owned myself, even when the power I wielded threatened to own me.
And perhaps, deep down, there was a part of me that still craved being seen. Not the swirling clouds, not the illusion of The Shadow, butme. The man behind it all. The man I had buried long ago, but not entirely forgotten.
I adjusted my tie, smoothing the silk, then stepped back. The suit was perfect—Iwas perfect.
Perception to others wasn’t the only thing my father had drilled into me from an early age. I could still feel the weight of his brutal expectations and the blood sacrifices he had demanded to maintain our family’s power. The rituals that had taken loved ones, ancestors… too many to recount.
Now wasn’t the time to brood. There was a meeting I needed to attend, one that could determine the next step in solidifying my absolute control over this domain. The old Lord Altair Coppola would be there—an ally, or perhaps more of a reluctant partner.
Since I had only learned of his visit an hour earlier, I couldn’t help but wonder what the old bastard had up his sleeve.
A sharp knock at my door dragged me from my thoughts, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the room. I exhaled slowly, pushing away the irritation curling at the edges of my mind.
“Come in,” I said.
The door swung open without hesitation, and Eldora stepped inside, moving with the quiet grace that only years of service—or perhaps survival—could refine. She had long since abandoned formalities between us, knowing I had no patience for them.
The energy in the room seemed to shift slightly, the faint scent of moonlight and forest wind trailing in her wake. Despite being in my service for over two centuries, she moved with the lithe elegance of someone who had seen far less time pass. Her silver hair was swept up in a neat chignon, not a single strand out of place, and her lavender eyes glimmered with that unsettling mix of insight and calmness.
She was dressed, as always, in her dark green robes, the silver embroidery catching the light like threads of moonlight. The brooch pinned at her throat—a crescent moon shaped from ancient silver—reminded me of her fae heritage. Eldora was a constant presence, a silent shadow in my world. She had an air of quiet authority that only centuries of service could cultivate.
“Your guest has arrived,” she announced in a clipped voice.
