Chapter 1
The surrounding kingdom burns with a black flame that promises destruction in its path. The roaring fires mimic desperate screams. I look out over my fallen kingdom, my nails drawing blood from my clenched fists. Dark magic swells in my veins as I laugh into the open air. A voice, not mine, slithers from my throat.
“I’m not hiding in the shadows,” my voice reverberates through the damp air. “Iamthe shadow, and this kingdom should be hiding from me.”
Another entity wields my body as I watch in horror through eyes, not my own as if I am trapped in a long hallway in my mind. I turn to a group of figures, familiar beings standing before me, their bodies defeated both mentally and physically. Their mouths hang open, fear soaking their bodies more than the dripping blood. I hear what I think is a familiar voice in the background, but everything is muffled by the screams and burning structures around me.
Briar!
Briar!
I walk toward my ruined kingdom and turn to face the figures one last time—knowing in my stolen mind that I won’t return—when I’m struck in the back of my head.
I wake up suddenly on the floor next to my bed.
Covered in sweat, I rub my eyes and the knot forming on my head from the fall. My eyes adjust to the darkness that is my bedroom. Being a Wiitch—a Shadow Wielder—my body adapts quickly to the darkness. “My name is Briar Blackbyrne, and I am in Daramveer,” I repeat until my heart stops thundering.
My dimly lit room is freezing, just like I prefer, and the faint outside light stings my bloodshot eyes. I know today will be no different than the others—dull and bleak—but I can’t shake the feelings of pure exhaustion and fear that my reoccurring dreams are changing, and the destruction is growing each time I close my eyes—somehow becoming more real.
This dream has haunted me most nights for the past five years. As a child, I always had nightmares. My mother constantly reminded me that it was due to the ever-present shadows that lurked nearby, although my brother never experienced such horrors.
Being a powerful Shadow Wielder means I am supposed to be fond of the darkness, but the nightmares often leave me hating our magic. As the daughter of the most powerful Shadow Wielder our realm has seen in over one hundred years, I have a reputation, but it isn’t great—especially being the princess of a hated kingdom. My reputation mostly follows me because of my father; many think we share the same beliefs and morals. Over the years, I have begun to wonder the same, and I grow tired of emotionally dealing with his shit; I have become numb, rude, and careless. Most townspeople avoid me altogether, though I can’t say I blame them.
Over the years, magic in our realms has diluted, and people have become accustomed to weak magic flowing through theirveins. Most have accepted simple lives, as less magic meant fewer problems—like power struggles that often led to wars in the olden days. As Wiitches, now mainly referred to as Wielders, our magic was conjured through rituals. Basic elements could enhance our magic, but blood was the most powerful, practiced only by the darkest Wielders that still haunt our realms. Recently, most have been content using magic sporadically in daily life, primarily for basic healing rituals. However, not all Wielders were okay with our magic disappearing.
My dreams began to worsen three months after my twenty-first birthday.
On the day my mother died, I willingly let my magic fade alongside her, or I’ve tried to do so all these years. The urge to lose control brings extreme fatigue and headaches almost daily. The darkness deep within me threatens to spiral out of control with each passing year.
I sit on the edge of my bed, letting my legs dangle off the side. I stretch my arms wide above my head and feel a headache coming on like clockwork. My oversized shirt slips off my shoulders as I wipe the sleep from my eyes.
I emerge from bed at half past eleven and throw open my heavy velvet curtains. Gray skies greet me, accompanied by the sound of crashing waves against the harbor. The knowledge of the oncoming storm doesn’t improve my mood either. Sighing, I stride toward my bathing chambers, hoping to wash away the feeling of blood still dripping from my body after the dream.
I glance in the mirror to find an unfamiliar person staring back at me. What was once a stunning, plump, and youthful face now looks hollow while my long hair, darker than the nightmares that haunt me, flows down my side in a tangled mess.
It’s a common trait for Shadow Wielders to have raven hair and piercing green or blue eyes. However, one thing that sets meapart from other Shadow Wielders is my eyes—they’re a deep hazel that could shame a perfect autumn forest.
Lumor Wiitches are the opposite of our magic and aren’t used to living in the shadows. They flourish in the light, and even though our magic is similar, they possess an aura that I have always envied. Lumor Wielders also differ in appearance, often having bright white hair and dark eyes. We live together harmoniously, but that wasn’t always the case when the Great Witches roamed this realm. They kept us divided and favored their own magic over ours. However, in Daramveer we still coexist peacefully.
My strong physical features made me strikingly beautiful among the other Shadow Wielders. Surprisingly, I shared some similar traits with my mother. Our eyes were the same almond shape and color, and I have the same high cheekbones she did. My father has a hard time looking at me these days; he’s been distant since my mother died and my brother, Barlowe, left. Being the King of Daramveer must be taxing, on top of being a total asshole.
After sweeping my raven hair into a messy knot and picking out my most lackluster outfit, I bound through the doors of my bathing chambers, ready to take my leave for the day. Gray slacks and a white button-up are my go-to on most days when I want to blend in. My father hates me in these clothes, so I revel in making him absurdly angry over items of fabric. Most of my days are spent in the kitchen assisting our two head aids, Rose and Lang—the best people in this castle and the only ones I speak to on a regular basis.
A knock on the heavy wooden door makes my heart race. I pull my hand back from the doorknob since no one ever comes to my room without a formal warning these days. Before I can swing open the door to confront the intruder, a note is slipped under the crack.
“Dress like you give a shit about this kingdom today. Someone is here to greet you.”
No guessing at whom this is from; I know it’s from my wonderful father—always leaving me the sweetest notes.
I roll my eyes and stroll back to my armoire to choose a different outfit to piss off my father. The black flowing dress is beautiful and hugs my curves perfectly. However, it’s basic and wrinkled; the perfect touch to obey but still infuriate him by wearing an unkempt dress like this with guests here. No one has visited since my mother died, and my father barely has friends.
The Kingdom of Daramveer is under the strict control of my father, Lornx. Those in this kingdom must obey his laws, or there will be hell to pay. Literally. I may be the princess, but from an early age, I witnessed the act of torturing those who broke the law. By the age of sixteen, I knew what made the strongest of men scream from the depths of their souls. The king is a cruel man, and once his reign started, it didn’t take long for fear to sweep over the kingdom like a curse. By now, I have become so numb to the sound of shrieks that it continues to surprise me how I feel when I wake up from the reoccurring dreams that frighten me every time I close my eyes.
With those thoughts swirling around my head, I make my way to the throne room, where my father always prefers we meet.
Windows line the walls of the wide cold throne room and even though the sun bursts in through the cracks, it still seems dark, as if a shadowy veil hangs over the castle. The hard tile floor echoes with each step I take closer toward the throne. Guards stand against the walls, always lurking in the shadows—only visible if you stare hard enough or catch the slightest glimpse of them shifting. A common trait of all Shadow and Lumor Wielders is their ability to shift. Even the smallestamount of shade or light can be used by talented Wiitches to move throughout the world as mist.
My father’s onyx hair is sprinkled with gray and his eyes are an unnatural green with streaks of black. He’s tall in stature, but in the passing months, he’s changed. His eyes are hollower, and he looks worn—as if his magic is draining more rapidly than others. Wielders are not immortal, but we do experience extended lives if we’re smart. My father is a smart man, but his rapid aging recently could argue otherwise.
