Ziria ran through the door of her small cottage, slamming it shut behind her with a loud bang. The sound echoed in the quiet night, the latches rattling as though even themselves couldn’t hold back the weight. Her chest heaved, her breath fogging the cold air that clung stubbornly inside the room. She leaned against the doorframe for a brief moment, still clutching her lantern until her knuckles whitiened, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her ears. The shadow had disappeared again, making her mind go round and round and round. Frantic and desperate.

The vision the had flooded through her was still burning in her mind, clear as ice, half-formed, disjointed, but vivid enough to make her blood run cold, making the hairs on her arm rise.

The shadow.

The boy.

The man.

And something more.

She couldn't shake the familiar feeling tingling down her spine. She knew this story from before.

Her boots struck against the wooden floor with sharp, hurried steps as she crossed the room to her bookcase. It stood like a sentinel, a towering mess of worn spines and loose pages that threatened to spill into chaos with even the gentlest touch. But Ziria wasn’t gentle. Not tonight.

She yanked books from their places, tossing them to the floor with reckless abandon. A sacrilegious behavior, she knew that much. Dust filled the air, catching the weak light of her lantern, turning the space into a haze of golden motes. Her fingers grazed over leather bindings, cloth covers, and titles that had long since faded. Her mind raced faster than her hands, chasing fragments of memory. She couldn't find it.

There had been a passage, somewhere—something about shadows caught between life and death, about souls fragmented and torn. She was sure of it. She could almost see the words, feel the brittle pages beneath her fingers. She had read it, knew it by heart. But in this moment she couldn't remember it at all.

Where was it?

Her breath hitched as she pulled another book from the shelf and tossed it aside. The thud as it hit the floor barely registered, her mind louder than anything else. She grabbed another, then another and another, the pile at her feet growing like a sea of forgotten stories.

“Where is it?” she muttered through her teeth, her voice sharp and cracking in the silence.

The shadow’s words clawed at the edges of her mind. The boy wandered far from the light. He lost himself. Piece by piece… and the gift.

Her throat tightened. She didn’t know why the story had latched onto her so tightly, why it felt like a thread pulling her toward something inevitable. But she couldn’t let it go.

The shadow knew more than it led on, she knew that much. She had teased it with her questions, he lied to her when she asked who it was. What it was.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

She shoved another stack of books to the floor, the crash ringing out like a dirge. Her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the shelf, her nails digging into the wood.

When she finally stopped, her legs gave out beneath her, and she sank slowly to the floor. Her lantern wavered beside her, its light flickering weakly over the chaos she’d made. Books surrounded her like an ocean of forgotten knowledge, their covers staring up at her like accusing eyes for her dismemberment.

Her heart felt like it might break under the weight of her frustration, her fear. Why did this matter so much? Why did the shadow’s story feel so... personal?

Ziria pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, willing the questions away. But they only came faster, louder, until her thoughts were a storm like a cacophony of voices that wouldn’t be silenced. Her magic thrummed inside of her with anger, frustration and something like hurt.

And then she felt it—a tug in her chest, faint but insistent, like an invisible thread winding itself tighter and tighter around her ribs almost making it harder to breathe.

Her hands dropped to her sides, and her body moved without thought. She rose to her feet, the lantern swaying in her grip as she moved slowly, its light casting strange and slithering shadows across the walls. The dust around her still swirled around like shadows.

The tug in her chest grew stronger, pulling her toward the far end of the room, toward her bed. Her steps were slow, hesitant, her breath shallow as if she were walking into a dream—or a nightmare. These past few days had felt… different. She had never feared the darkness before. The darkness within her.

When she reached the bed, she knelt down, the floorboards cold against her knees. Her fingers trembled as she reached beneath the frame, her breath catching in her throat.

And then she saw them.

Eyes.

Two pale, piercing eyes stared back at her from the darkness, unblinking and severe. They burned like twin embers, sharp and knowing, pinning her in place, freezing her in her position.

Her breath hitched as her pulse hammered in her ears. She blinked, and then the eyes were gone.

In their place lay a book.

It was old, older than any she remembered owning. Its cover was blackened, its edges singed as though it had been pulled from a fire. Indents of what looked like fingerprints covered its spine. The binding was loose, the spine cracked and bent, and yet it seemed to hum with a strange, quiet energy, as if it were alive. She recognized the book, she had held it before. Not in this condition, but the familiarity of it made the tug in her chest warm.

Ziria hesitated, her hand hovering above the book. Her chest tightened, a strange unease crawling up her spine. The eyes. It was as if someone had been watching her, waiting for her to realize her memories of the story.

The lantern light flickered, and for a moment, she thought she heard whispers—soft and distant, like voices carried on the wind outside her windows. They grew louder, curling around her like smoke, filling her ears until she couldn’t hear anything else. Not even her own heartbeat.

She snatched the book from beneath the bed and stumbled backward, the whispers cutting off abruptly. The room fell silent, numbing her ears, but the air was heavy, charged with something, almost choking out the oxygen.

Her hands shook as she opened the book, its brittle pages crackling like dry leaves. The text inside was faded, the ink smeared in places, but she could make out enough to know she was right. The words flowed through her, reading it as she recited the words from her memory. It was the same story as she remembered.

Shadows caught between worlds. Souls fractured, torn apart. The boy wandered far from the light… Into the shadows, until himself became one.

Her vision blurred as the words on the page seemed to shift and writhe, forming shapes that weren’t there before. Faces emerged in the margins—twisted, anguished faces that seemed to watch her, their hollow eyes filled with silent screams.

Ziria slammed the book shut, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

The tug in her chest was still there, stronger now, more insistent. She could feel it pulling her toward something, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to find.

But she couldn’t stop.

She couldn’t stop.