Chapter Ten: The Feast of Shadows I. Morning’s Ghosts The dawn seeped through the filthy glass, painting Elior’s tiny room in a frail, anemic light. Nightmares clung tight beneath his skin as he lay motionless on his cot, staring up into the mildew-flecked ceiling. Every muscle ached—the residue of battles both external and within—but the wounds had sealed overnight, leaving only faint, silvery lines upon his skin. Magic coiled in his marrow; with every beat of his heart it pulsed, restless, refusing to let him find peace. Knock. Knock. Knock. Sharp, urgent—too brittle, too early. Elior squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to will the world away, but the knocking persisted, gaining a rhythm that made his bruises throb. He forced himself upright, the blanket slithering to the floor. An echo of pain flared in his side, and faded instantly—as if his flesh had never been torn, as if suffering itself was denied permanence. He crossed the chill room, the floorboards creaking quiet

Morning HeatThe first rays of dawn seeped through the stone latticework, casting shifting patterns across the modest dormitory. Elior’s breath fogged in the cool air as he stepped from the bath, towel wrapped low on his hips, beads of water slicking his skin and mapping a path down every chiselled muscle. Steam drifted from his dark hair, a strand clinging to his jaw. For a fleetinga moment, he caught a glimpse of himself in the warped mirror—a body marred by battles, but beautiful in its strength: taut shoulders, arms carved by discipline, each line tracing years of hardship and survival.A single, shining droplet slipped from his hair, falling in slow-motion through the hush of early morning. It landed, soft as silk, on Olivia’s cheek where he slumbered beneath tangled blankets. The boy stirred, lashes fluttering as a cool sensation traced along his jaw. His eyes slid open with a murmur, blinking against the half-light—only to freeze when he saw Elior, haloed by mist and dawn, scul

Chapter Fourteen: The Map of Forbidden BloodI. Morning’s Quiet Before the StormSunlight crept along the stone floor of the dormitory, tracing patterns across tangled blankets and the sharp edge of a scarred night. Olivia rose before dawn, moving with unusual care, letting the hush of early morning settle around him. He finished his cold bath in a room fogged by sleep, dressed, and tiptoed to the small stove. He brewed coffee—strong, nearly bitter—and watched steam curl while the world outside the window slowly woke.Elior shifted restlessly in his bed, muscles twitching from dreams he couldn’t remember—dreams that left him raw, hungry, uncertain. Olivia set the mug on the table, then nudged him gently. “Hey. Wake up, sleepyhead.”Elior blinked through sleep, catching the rich scent of coffee—and something strange beside it: a massive, yellowed map covering the table. His drawing from yesterday, the page scorched with frantic charcoal, was spread next to it. Pins and tiny scraps of n

The Tree Awakens The forest swallowed every sound, pressing silence thick around Elior and Olivia. The ancient tree waited, black and twisted, a sentinel at the edge of nightmares. Elior stepped closer, shivering as the tattoo trailing up his forearm began to glow—golden and fever-bright, burning in sync with the ragged thunder of his heart. Suddenly, the bark split. Blood-red sap streaked downward, pooling at the roots, thick as spilled secrets. The air stank of iron and something darkly sweet. The sigil across Elior’s skin sizzled hotter, matching the beat of something hidden and ancient beneath the ground. Olivia’s voice wavered. “Elior, step back—look at your arm!” He reached for his blade, raw panic gleaming in his eyes, but Elior barely registered the motion. A force, magnetic and terrible, dragged him toward the trunk. It felt as if the earth itself braced, every root burrowing deeper in anticipation. Whispers spun through the clearing—impossible echoes, threading the air

Throne of the DamnedBeneath the waking world, where air burned like ruined incense and shadows twisted in their agony, stood a titanic mausoleum hewn from black stone older than all memory. Pillars as thick as oak trees rose to a vault lost in smoky darkness, rings of bone and withered faces set into the mortar. The air shimmered with heat, stinking of sulfur and blood, and every movement stirred embers where nothing should burn. This was not a crypt but a throne room built atop the centuries-old rot of betrayal—a domain for those who called themselves kings among nightmares.At the center of this infernal tomb stood a throne forged from twisted, spiked metal and fused skulls, set directly above a seething pit of roiling fire. Black chains trailed off into oblivion, melted links whispering long-dead prayers. And on that throne reigned a beast neither wholly demon nor man, massive and glorious in his decay. Horns, the color of dried ash and war, twisted overhead like razors. His finge