Aric ValeThe moment the shadow crossed the threshold, the symbols burst into life. Green fire sputtered along every carved path, twisting and expanding, forming a network of magical energy that enveloped the entire room.I felt it through the shadow. The curse was trying to take effect, trying to bind and control. It was hooks in flesh, sinking deep, pulling, demanding obeisance.The shadow fought against it.From my position outside of the circle, still trapped in my bound state, I experienced both sides at once. I felt safe outside of the curse's reach and yet sensed the struggle of the shadow with the binding spell.It was dizzying. Disorienting. Like existing in two bodies, fighting two wars."It's not holding," Elara said, her voice full of shock. Her hands were weaving, motions that made the symbols flash more intensely. "The binding should be complete by now. It should have claimed you.""Seven years too late," the shadow replied through gritted teeth. My voice was strained wi

Aric ValeWhole," I said. "And fractured. Both at once. Is that normal for curse-breaking?""I don't know. Never met anyone who survived a soul-split before." He paused. "Do you remember everything now? Both halves' experiences?""Everything. Seven years in exile. Seven years hunting. I was living two lives simultaneously without knowing it." I looked at my hands. "These hands fed travelers who stumbled into the Wastes lost and frightened. These same hands killed seventeen people. Both truths exist together now.""Which bothers you more?""That I can't separate them. Can't say 'that was the shadow, not me.' It was always me. Just parts of me I didn't acknowledge." I met his eyes. "You asked once if I was responsible for the shadow's actions. The answer is yes. Completely.""Even though you were cursed? Even though you had no control?""Control is complicated. The shadow acted on impulses I'd buried. Rage at injustice. Desire for vengeance. Certainty that some people deserve death. I s

The court wizard came to my quarters on the second day. He looked exhausted—dark circles under eyes, hands trembling. Reading death-marks was draining work."I need your assistance," he said without preamble. "The marks are your creation. Your magic. You understand them better than I do.""The shadow created them," I said. "Not me consciously.""The shadow was you. Its knowledge is yours now." He sat heavily. "I've read twelve marks. Each confirms what Elara said. Each victim was present when Dorian died. Each confessed complicity before death. But having you guide me through the remaining five would help."I hesitated. "Reading death-marks means experiencing their final moments?""Yes. Through their eyes. Feeling what they felt." He met my gaze. "It's not pleasant. But necessary.""Will I remember creating the marks? Remember being the shadow?""Likely. You'll experience the murders from both perspectives—victim and killer simultaneously."The thought turned my stomach. But he was ri

My new home was a tower room in the palace's eastern wing. Thirty feet square, with stone walls and barred windows, and a heavy door that locked from the outside. Not a dungeon—I had a bed, desk, chair, shelves for books. But unmistakably a prison."You'll be brought meals three times daily," the guard explained. He was young, professional, trying not to show discomfort at imprisoning a former Commander. "Visitors are allowed twice weekly, supervised. You can request books, writing materials, basic comforts. But you never leave this room. Never. Those are the terms.""I understand," I said, "and I accept them."He left, the lock clicking into place with finality.I stood at the window looking out over the palace grounds. Could see the square where Elara had died hours ago. Could see servants cleaning away the execution platform. Could see life continuing as if nothing fundamental had changed.But everything had changed. The kingdom had learned its prince was murdered by someone they'd

Two years had passed since my imprisonment began. Two years of the seasons cycling through my window, of visitors bringing news, of writing my story in meticulous detail. Two years of being whole while confined. The kingdom was far more different than what I had thought. Garrett brought reports during his weekly visits of new laws requiring transparency in royal decisions, councils where the common people could question nobility, systems ensuring power couldn't hide behind privilege. "Dorian's legacy is taking root," Garrett said, one spring morning. "Not perfectly. There's resistance from those who prefer the old ways. But the direction is clear. The kingdom is learning to value truth over comfort." "At tremendous cost," I said. "His death. Elara's execution. Seventeen murders. All the pain truth required." "Would you change it? If you could go back, knowing everything, would you choose comfortable lies over painful truth?" I thought about it. Really thought. "No. Because th