Shadows at the Twin Rivers

  “The deepest betrayal is often found not in the enemy's spear, but in a friend's vacant gaze.”

  A pale, sickly light filtered through the low-hanging miasma curling over the riverbanks, marking the dawn of a long, troubled day. The air clung cold and heavy with the scent of wet stone, stagnant water, and the lingering bitterness of spent Force magic. Beyond the ruined arch of Fort Oratorio, the Scalic Twin Rivers stretched in two winding arms, their surfaces dull as tarnished steel.

  Their boots crunched on damp gravel—the only sound besides their tired breathing—as the Luminous Vanguard advanced. They were battered, emotionally heavy, and still recovering from wounds deeper than skin. The relief of survival had long faded, leaving an ache that settled quietly in the cracks of their spirits.

  Themis walked at the front, scarf pulled close against the chill, eyes fixed ahead. He refused to look back at the fort.

  Shade knows I’m here.

  He knows my power.

  He’s waiting.

  The Moon Crest—Luna’s mark—had burned bright earlier, but now it faded into a cold ache on his palm. A reminder. A warning.

  Beside him, Shilol adjusted the wooden-steel tonfas at her hips. The wound Trish had mended still throbbed faintly, but she pushed on, scanning the fog-laced terrain with sharp, practiced eyes. She had survived being hunted. And she did not intend to be caught off guard again.

  When the party reached the point where the rivers split, Shilol slowed. She turned and forced a bright smile onto her tired features.

  “Alright,” she said, voice soft but steady. “Since most of you I’ve only met by reputation—and you just saved me—let’s make this official.”

  Orion stepped forward first, Ignis’s faint phoenix-fire flickering behind his eyes. He looked less like a general now, more like a man trying to atone.

  “Orion Raelthorne,” he said quietly. “Former General of Rhapsodia… now the Fire Arcanian. And—Shilol—I’m sorry. For everything. For what I’ve done. To you, and to Crotchet.”

  Shilol gave him a gentle smile.

  “It’s alright, Orion. If Themis forgave you, then so do I. Besides… you helped save me.”

  Seraphina stepped forward next, her motion graceful, Sylphid’s presence drifting in the air around her like a quiet breeze.

  “Seraphina Caelira,” she introduced. “Wind Arcanian, priestess of the Tower of Wind. It’s an honor to meet the girl Themis speaks so fondly of.”

  Lyria followed, her voice soft but carrying an innate steel.

  “Lyria Caeliswyn. Symphonia Templar, Force Arcanian. Your defense earlier was impressive, Shilol.”

  “That’s how Themis trained me.” Shilol laughed lightly.

  Isolde gave a polite nod.

  “Isolde Naristhal. Water sorceress. Themis is currently my knight until I find something—or someone—I’m searching for.”

  Shilol blinked. “And what exactly are you searching for?”

  Isolde’s lips curved faintly. “I’m not entirely sure. But until then, Themis accompanies me.”

  A flicker of jealousy crossed Shilol’s face, unnoticed by most.

  Trish, Trieni, Tristan, and Liam shared familiar smiles. They had known Shilol before, back when she cooked them dinner during their mission preparations in Clef Hills.

  Shilol waved at them before taking a breath.

  “I’m Shilol Lunareth. Former cook, martial artist, and teacher. I lived in Crotchet with Heathcliff and Themis. I… I think they were testing me for something, though I don’t know why.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  She was about to say more—perhaps to speak of Heathcliff—

  But Isolde suddenly leaned in, her tone sharp with curiosity.

  “Shilol… how do you and Trish know each other? You two seem very close.”

  Shilol turned to Trish, eyes softening. Without hesitation, she pulled her into a warm embrace.

  “We’ve been friends since childhood,” she explained. “My father—Dion Lunareth—brought herbs and ingredients to her family for medicines. We practically grew up together in the capital.”

  Trish nodded softly.

  “It’s true. Her family saved ours more than once.”

  The warmth lingered briefly—until Shilol’s expression shifted into mischief.

  She stared at Themis.

  “Speaking of familiar faces… my hubby’s cooking later. Especially for you.”

  Themis froze.

  Every female member of the Vanguard stared at him.

  Lyria raised a brow.

  Seraphina blinked in curiosity.

  Trish tried not to laugh.

  Isolde’s smile tightened with unmistakable jealousy.

  Themis coughed hard.

  “S-So—right—logistics. Shilol. How did you get out of prison?”

  The atmosphere dropped instantly.

  Shilol’s smile vanished.

  Her voice dimmed.

  “Heathcliff opened my cell.”

  Her words landed like a blade in still water—an impact that spread through everyone.

  Seraphina’s hands tightened on her staff.

  Liam’s jaw clenched.

  Orion inhaled sharply.

  Trish’s gaze fell.

  Trieni’s grin disappeared.

  Tristan stood utterly still.

  Lyria and Isolde exchanged puzzled looks—finally witnessing the fracture named Heathcliff.

  But Themis—

  Themis felt the world tilt.

  Steam rising from chipped cups.

  Spear practice beneath an oak tree.

  Laughter.

  Promises whispered like prayers.

  We’ll be brothers forever, okay? Even if the world falls apart.

  His breath trembled.

  “No,” he muttered. “No… if he saved you, he wouldn’t have left. That’s not him.”

  Shilol shut her eyes.

  Her voice wavered.

  “I saw him, Themis. And I wish I hadn’t.”

  A shaky breath.

  “But it was him. And… it wasn’t. His eyes were empty. Completely empty. Like I wasn’t even a person.”

  She hugged herself.

  “And when he talked—it was so quiet, like he was afraid of waking something inside him. When I asked where he was going… he just walked away. No goodbye. No hesitation. Wearing the Prince’s uniform.”

  Orion stiffened.

  “The Prince’s uniform… Heathcliff Caelum? The prince who vanished years ago?”

  The unease intensified.

  Shade-corruption was one thing.

  But this—

  This was Heathcliff Ashvane.

  Friend. Brother.

  Twisted into something unrecognizable.

  Themis stepped forward, voice cracking.

  “Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe Shade made an illusion. Or—if it was Heath—maybe he’s scared. Maybe he’s fighting it. We can save him. Seraphina—your purification—”

  Seraphina’s expression fell.

  “Themis… my magic can purify miasma. But possession on this scale—if Shade is inside him—forcing light into him could kill him.”

  Silence descended again.

  Tristan finally rested a hand on Themis’s shoulder.

  “We don’t have enough information,” he said softly. “Chasing Heathcliff blindly into Rhapsodia will end badly for all of us. Melodia awaits. Answers await. Strength awaits.”

  The wind sighed across the water.

  The miasma drifted like pale ghosts.

  The Vanguard resumed their march—but each step felt heavier than the last.

  Ahead lay the path to Melodia.

  Beyond the rivers, somewhere unseen, walked Heathcliff Ashvane.

  Friend. Brother.

  And prisoner of the darkness inside him.

  What would they find when they reached him?

  And would the man they knew still exist?