The lights bore a hole through Corvo’s eyelids. He hated them. He didn’t understand the need for them. When he came to the tower, he had been afraid of the dark; now he longed for it again. He just wanted to close his eyes and see nothing.

“You are not well, my little crow,” Mother said. “You are very sick. These lights are your medicine. Do you not want to get better?”

“I’m not sick,” he protested.

“You are. You—please. Do not argue.”

He didn’t. But he was not happy.

The library had been incinerated. The books within must have been centuries old, but they went up like kindling. A few survived and, come one morning, were gathered somberly by Mother in the library’s center. Corvo’s wooden warrior had been singed and charred, but she tapped it, and it was as good as new again.

Then there was the book with the cross on its cover. The book that had begun all this horrible illness, for which the treatment seemed so much worse than any symptoms. It had been bathed in fire, and the cover was black and burnt.

The pages beneath remained white. Mother resumed her study of it.

“Listen,” she said while they ate their next meal. “The Shadow Man is not your friend. He is a monster. He wishes to harm you. Do not speak to him again. Do not tell him anything.”

“But he was nice,” Corvo whispered.

“’Tis a trick. He deceived you, to make you comfortable. Do you remember how I told you to beware strange men, no matter how kind they are? To never trust a person whom you did not know? The Shadow Man is one such creature. Do not listen to what he says.”

She told him the same thing at least once a day.

She preferred to keep them outside now. She built a small camp for them in a clearing near the tower, with water and food and a tent that was clear of the canopy and always illuminated from without by the moon and from within by a magelight. There she made him sleep against her every night.

It was miserable, yet no worse than traveling, so Corvo didn’t complain.

Gob was posted as their sentry.

“If you see the Shadow Man, wake me at once,” she said. “Any hint of movement in the dark. Scream. Confront the creature to delay it.”

“Yes, mistress,” the goblin said.

Come next bedtime, Mother pulled out a small piece of cloth attached to a linen band. “Here. It is for you. Wrap it around your eyes, very tight, and no light will come through. Now you can sleep as though ‘tis dark.”

There had been endless instructions, like this one. Corvo was tired of them. He was sleepless and cranky, and he said, “I don’t want to wear it!”

“You must. It will make it easier to sleep.”

“No! I don’t want to wear it! I want the dark!”

“There will be no dark for some time yet,” she said seriously. “Wear it.”

“No!”

“Corvo…”

“I hate you,” he whispered, turning from her. “I want the dark.”

He huffed. His patience had been stretched thin. He didn’t really hate her—he loved her, as only a son can—but he was full of contempt. At everything. At the way things had changed. And while he knew the Shadow Man was to blame, it was Mother who seemed to punish him endlessly, even when he obeyed her.

She was quiet. She did not lean over or move, but sat upright. After a long time Corvo glanced at her again, and he saw that she was crying.

That made him feel terrible. He pouted and grabbed her, hugging her as tightly as he could.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I am sorry it has to be this way,” she whispered back. “But it does. Please. Wear the mask.”

He put it on. And while he wanted to pretend he hated it, it really did block all the light. He found it much easier to sleep after that.

That morning, before the sun rose, he stirred early while Mother still slept. She was sturdy with her arms around him. The light still shone overhead, and beside her head was the black sphere.

The orb atop her staff. She had removed it. Corvo stared into its surface. It was like a snow globe of midnight. The whole surface was dark black and speckled with twinkling stars, with wide, dim splotches of red and purple smeared from one side to another. Just like the night sky.

He picked it up to pull it closer. It seemed to weigh nothing.

It did weigh nothing. When he pulled his hands away, it stayed in place, hovering two inches in the air.

It rotated slowly in place.

He put it back where it belonged. Then he wormed his way from Mother’s arms. Once free, he stepped outside.

The bright enchanted light of the tent disappeared. It was replaced by the far-dimmer moon, and for the first time in an eternity, his vision adjusted to true darkness.

Yet it was a bright, clear night, and the moon was full. Gob sat on a stump nearby, gazing at their surroundings, doing nothing in particular. Like always. She never slept.

Corvo had to pee. So he did, not going far, and turned back around for the tent’s flap.

He saw his shadow. For the first time since Mother had sliced at it with his father’s sword, his own shadow, in full, cast by the bright silver moonlight behind and above him.

It was not his shadow. It was the shadow of a hunch-backed, long-limbed, hideous creature, distorted and malformed.

It was the Shadow Man.

It moved. It slid around to his side, as though the moon were moving around him, leaving the place it should have been and going to another.

“Corvo,” it said. “You’ve come back for me.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Corvo froze. A breeze made him shiver. He spun to face his shadow again and stared at the spot on the ground.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he whispered.

“Why? Did you think I had abandoned you?”

“You made me sick.”

“Do you feel sick?”

Corvo had to shake his head.

“Maybe Mother is sick. Why would she make you sleep in the forest if she loved you? She has not let you play in days. She punishes you when you do nothing wrong. That is her sickness. Not yours.”

Corvo swallowed. He was afraid, but the Shadow Man said the things he had been thinking silently already. It harnessed all his discontent.

“You’re lying,” he whispered.

“No, my little crow. I never lie. I am your true friend. All I want is to play. Will you play with me?”

“Is there a puppy?” Corvo squeaked.

“No. Better. Come here. Into the dark. I’ll show you. It’s only a step. Trust me.”

Corvo stared at the shadow on the ground. It moved, twisting back around his body and toward a nearby tree, the dark shadow of which was spread all across the ground beside the tent, before stretching itself out of sight.

He knew he should have fetched Mother. He knew it was wrong to talk to the Shadow Man. But he was too curious not to take the single step and look. She was so close, and Gob was nearby. What was there to go wrong?

He stepped into the dark around the tent.

The Shadow Man sat on the grass. No longer a shadow, but the solid, tarry shape again, the shape that had appeared after he read from the book in the library. It watched him with its red eyes.

Around it, on the ground, were countless figurines.

They had no features. They were nothing but solid silhouettes. But each was distinctive in its shape: one, a dwarf with an axe. Another, an elf with a bow. One was a toy dog, another a troll, another a giant, and so forth. It was a menagerie of toys, carved not from wood but darkness itself, set out for play.

“I know you like to play with toys,” the Shadow Man said. “I’ve watched you play. I play with toys, too. But your mother only lets you have one. Why? Does she not know magic? Could she not give you more?”

Corvo shook his head and shrugged.

“I can give you more. Come here. Let us play.”

Now Corvo couldn’t resist. What harm was there in playing? What did Mother know about the Shadow Man? She had never met him.

He sat down by the toys. And he picked them up, and he played.

The Shadow Man played back. With no hint of malice, it picked up the figurines, and for each it made a voice. It and Corvo formed a story together in their imaginations. The twisted voice of the Shadow Man spasmed with hushed laughter as their figures fought and went on adventures. Whenever some new enemy was needed, whenever there was a twist in the story, the Shadow Man would make a gesture with its hand, and another figurine of darkness would appear. Whole sets of miniature forests or colosseums rose and disappeared in an instant. It was the most miraculous set of toys Corvo ever could have imagined.

The Shadow Man leaned in very close to him.

“Watch.”

It tapped Corvo’s favorite figurine so far, that looked something like his toy of the warrior in wood, with a single, long finger.

The figurine came to life.

It raised the sword in its hand high, motioning straight ahead, ambulating exactly like a real man, and it marched toward a huge model of a dragon, long-tailed and winged and half as tall again as Corvo.

The Shadow Man tapped the dragon. It whipped its tail and stretched its wings. Then, the warrior and the dragon fought before his eyes.

Corvo giggled. He had seen magic before, but nothing like this. This was better than anything, even Aunt Aletheia’s fireworks.

The duel was long and so exciting that Corvo began to sweat. He crawled across the grass to get a better angle as they fought, until at last the warrior thrust its sword through the dragon’s neck, and the black figurine fell dead.

Corvo clapped. Yet just then, the Shadow Man looked up, and it recoiled.

Corvo followed its gaze.

Gob stood in front of them.

“Are you the Shadow Man?” she said dully.

“You weren’t invited to playtime,” said the Shadow Man.

“You are the Shadow Man,” she said.

The Shadow Man stood. It hissed and slithered to Gob’s side, and it hung a hand near her head. Waiting. Watching to see what she would do. Its red eyes loomed high over her.

Gob’s head turned. “Mistress,” she said. “Wake up. The Shadow Man is here.”

“No!” the Shadow Man said. “Stop! Be silent!”

“You cannot play with master Corvo. The mistress forbids it.”

“Forbids,” the Shadow Man said.

“Mistress—” she began.

The Shadow Man put its colorless hand on the goblin’s mouth. She did nothing at first, but then grabbed at its arm, trying to pull it away, defending herself weakly.

The Shadow Man hissed again.

The two struggled. But only for a moment, for Gob was weak, and the shadow was very strong. It seemed to step forward, to consume Gob partway, restraining her, holding her by the face and the arm, and then—

It grabbed her neck and twisted.

There was a loud snap.

Gob fell lifelessly to the grass.

Corvo screamed. He covered his mouth in surprise. His guard had been down, and although he often saw violence, he had never imagined it could happen to Gob, or Mother, or anyone he knew. The Shadow Man snapped a confidence in him that, until then, had always seemed unbreakable—and Corvo had never been so terrified.

He ran to the tent. The Shadow Man pursued him.

“Come back,” it said. “The story isn’t over. The dragon’s queen is yet unslain.”

One of the featureless and frigid hands of the Shadow Man brushed Corvo’s neck, tickling the back of his hair, yet not quite grabbing him. He screamed and reached the tent’s entrance, tumbling to the grass, yelling and shouting for mother. But he was clumsy; he fumbled with the flaps, unable to get them open. A torrent of tears streamed down his face. The Shadow Man took him by the shoulders, grabbing him with both hands, preparing to lift him upward, and he did not know what to do. He gave up. He cried and prepared himself to suffer the same fate as Gob.

The flaps burst open.

Mother emerged with his father’s sword in her hand.

She lunged forward. Corvo was let go; he fell to the ground as the blade tore past his head, at the Shadow Man’s heart, but it scrambled backward, as though it were solid, avoiding the point. Mother swung at it again, yet just as the blade might have impacted the colorless flesh of its body, it flattened to the grass.

Its shape lingered for a moment, now without any dimension, like a normal shadow, yet darker in the night. Mother grabbed Corvo and dragged him into moonlight.

His shadow didn’t follow. He cast no shadow at all.

From the darkness there came laughter. It grew louder and louder, until the Shadow Man’s shape crawled across the ground, back toward Corvo, creeping to his feet. It had no shape again. It was nothing but a shadow. Harmless, yet unharmable.

“Be off!” Mother shouted.

“You cannot cut darkness. You cannot hurt me.”

“This blade is enchanted! It will kill you, as it killed the Kynigos of Katharos, as it slew the Manawyrm of Kaimas, as it ripped apart the Vampire of Arqa! You have nothing on these foes! You are a worm to its edge, and you will die as easily!”

“Find me first.”

An indistinct shape moved at the edge of the moonlight on the ground. Mother turned, and motion flashed around them. Above the tent; behind Gob’s body; at the edge of the nearest trees; around their dark campfire. In every direction.

Corvo spun in circles. It seemed that he was trapped in a whirlpool of darkness, like all around him the shadows crashed and rose in ocean-like waves. And everywhere, when each wave fell and receded, laughter followed.

Not mocking laughter. Child-like, giggling laughter.

The Shadow Man was having fun.

Mother raised the sword to the sky. From the tip of the blade ignited a white light. It started as a small, sparkling point, but it grew to be blinding in seconds, flaring like an explosion.

The whole forest was bathed in color. Corvo had to look away. It was a thousand times brighter than the sun. Everything drowned in light. Green and brown were washed out to white, and not a hint of shadow was left anywhere.

The laughter stopped. The Shadow Man screamed, hissing in pain, fading quickly, until it was gone entirely. Then even the crickets fell silent.

The night was quiet.

Mother leaned down and grabbed Corvo by the shirt.

“Why did you not listen to me?” she yelled. “Am I so bad a mother? Is this how you treat me?”

“He wanted to play,” Corvo whined.

“He is a monster, Corvo! He is not human! You cannot listen to him!” Her voice became louder with each sentence, until she screamed in frustration. “Why can you not listen, you stupid child? Do you see how it killed Gob? Look at what it has done! You will suffer the same fate if you do not obey me! We will both—why? Why can you not listen?”

She threw Corvo into the tent. He landed hard on the bedding, and as he looked back toward her, at the blinding light emanating from her that obscured her whole body, the flaps of the tent whipped to the side.

They moved as though caught in a hurricane. Then they straightened, solidified, and sealed themselves tight.

“Mama?” Corvo yelled. He ran to the flaps and pulled at them, but they were solid. Unmovable. Held together by magic. He screamed. “Mama! Let me out! Mama!”

But Mother did not respond. She left him in the tent, beneath the bright magelight at the ceiling. She didn’t let him out for hours.

Corvo cried the whole night through. And while it was a cruel punishment, he knew it was exactly what he deserved. It was his fault Gob was dead. It was his fault Mother was upset. He saw now that the Shadow Man was not his friend, no matter how wonderful its toys seemed to be.