Present – Northern Illyria, Marquise Ancestral Fort

Some storms pass.

Others linger.

That one had long since blown past—yet its silence, and its ghosts, still haunted Matthew years later.

This ancient fort always dragged Matthew’s memories back into his body.

Back into the present.

The sheer size of it alone kept him grounded in reality.

But truthfully, the memories never really left.

They lingered at the edges of his mind like frost on windowpanes—waiting.

Always ready to bloom and take hold without warning.

Some days, Matthew could pass an entire day without a memory rocketing through him.

But at night, they always found him.

They slipped into restless sleep like smoke under a door.

The morning light filtered through frost-laced windows, pale and gray—
as if the sky itself mourned what had surfaced the night before…

…but lacked the power to stop it.

Matthew shook free of memory’s grip and pulled his heavy black cloak tight around his shoulders.

His boots echoed through the grand entrance of his ancestral fort, each step deliberate.

Outside, the northerly wind’s sharp tongue stung his face the moment he stepped beyond the threshold.

The cold here was not gentle.

It did not soothe.

It did not comfort.

It demanded.

The icy grass cracked underfoot as he crossed the grounds.

And when he reached the hilltop, he did what he always did when the weight of being Lord Nightshade became too heavy to carry.

He slumped beneath a gnarled oak.

Bone pressed to bark.

Breath leaving him in thin white clouds.

The argument with Striker replayed like a bitter refrain.

The storm.

The terrace.

The shove.

The words.

The diaries.

...Layla.....

Dereliction.

Matthew exhaled hard through his nose.

Then muttered to the wind—

“By the Almighty Sparks… damn you, Striker.”

That night Striker had revealed everything.

And their fight had unearthed more than anger and guilt.

It had shaken the very architecture of Matthew’s memory.

The comforting myths his parents had spun—soft, protective, familiar—sagged now beneath the weight of Striker’s revelations.

Matthew had spent years chasing the shape of what it meant to become the next Great Marquise Nightshade…

blind to the rot circling like vultures.

A sudden gust swept across the hilltop.

Matthew lifted a hand, fingers flicking with practiced ease.

The wind curled away at his command—bent by mana.

Once, that control had thrilled him.

Now it felt like the bare minimum.

Illyria’s problems demanded more than clever spellwork.

They demanded truth.

As always, his thoughts drifted to Emmy.

It had been Emmy who unearthed their aunt’s diaries.

Emmy who passed them quietly to Striker.

Emmy who saw the fractures in Illyria’s gleaming mask long before Matthew ever did.

After the argument, she had chosen her side.

She believed Striker’s loyalty belonged to them both.

Matthew reached down and tore at the frozen grass, ripping blades from the ground before tossing them into the passing wind like offerings he didn’t believe in.

And then—

through the hush—

a voice cut into the cold.

“Are you going to sit there all day doing nothing?”

Matthew didn’t open his eyes.

He didn’t need to.

He recognized that voice the way a man recognized a dagger at his throat.

Deya.

His closest friend.

His constant shadow on missions.

And she was the only person in the world who could insult him into laughter.

“Hello to you too, Deya,” Matthew said dryly.

A small figure plopped down beside him with a huff of annoyance.

“Hi.”

Matthew cracked one eye open.

Deya Corvina was small in frame—compact, sharp, and built like a blade folded too many times.

Deceptively lethal.

Assassin by blood.

Spy by artistry.

But it wasn’t her knives that made her terrifying.

It was her mind-reading.

Shadows bent toward her like they belonged to her.

Even in daylight.

Even in frost.

“So…” she drawled, already irritated.

“Are you gonna?”

Matthew closed his eye again.

“Am I going to what?”

“BE productive,” Deya snapped.

“Or just gift me another migraine?”

Matthew barked out a laugh.

Then surged to his feet like the hilltop had personally offended him.

“It’s my twenty-fourth name-day, Deya!”

He flung his arms wide.

A gesture meant for theater, not war.

“I can do whatever I want.”

He paced.

Fast and sharp.

As if the cold might splinter if he walked hard enough.

Deya squinted after him until her scowl cracked into something exasperated.

“So… dwelling on painful memories and spiraling into a sulk-fest is your idea of a celebration plan?”

Her tone was flat.

But her dark plum eyes burned bright and sharp—just as they did every time she locked onto a target.

Challenging Matthew was Deya’s second favorite game.

Matthew froze mid-stride and slowly turned.

“How would you know what I’m ruminating on…”

He drifted back toward her as he spoke, dropping into a low crouch.

One finger lifted her chin—sapphire eyes meeting plum.

“…unless you’ve been eavesdropping?”

His mouth curved.

Dangerous.

Playful.

“Tell me, oh devious little shadow…”

He leaned in closer.

“Did you break your promise?”

His voice dropped low.

“Because friends don’t spy on friends.”

Deya slapped his hand away.

“By the Sparks, you’re insufferable,” she scoffed.

“I’m not spying. You’re projecting your thoughts so loudly, a half-dead squirrel could pick them up.”

“They really are.”

A soft voice drifted from the shadows behind them.

Matthew’s entire body stiffened.

Then he groaned.

Slow.

Pained.

Like a man who had just been sentenced.

“Perfect,” he muttered. “Just what I needed.”

Nyx had arrived.

Where Deya was sharp like a blade…

Nyx was soft as smoke.

Tall.

Willowy.

Swaying like she belonged more to the wind than the earth.

Her long ashen hair spilled over her shoulders like dusk.

Her amethyst eyes were too large for her face—too ancient for her age.

And when she stepped into the light, she did it quietly.

Not like someone entering a room.

Like someone appearing in a dream.

“Wonderful,” Matthew said, voice thick with sarcasm.

“Welcome to the party I didn’t know I was throwing.”

Nyx blinked, lips twitching.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said gently.

“I did,” Deya barked.

Matthew snapped his head toward her.

“I know you did!”

Deya rose, furious, and flung her arms wide.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t check on you today—of all days?”

She jabbed a finger at his chest.

“You meet my idiot brother for the first time in four—”

CLAP.

“—years—”

CLAP.

“—and it just so happens to be your name-day—”

CLAP.

“—today—”

CLAP.

“—and you think I’m going to leave you alone on a hill like a tragic widow in a romance novel?!”

Nyx covered her mouth.

Her shoulders shook.

Matthew’s mouth opened—

then shut again.

Because the absurdity of it nearly made him laugh.

“Of course I was watching you,” Deya finished, smacking his arm.

Then—softer, almost begrudging—

“Not because I’m spying.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“But because I care, you stubborn jackass.”

Matthew looked down at her.

At the fury.

At the loyalty.

At the way it was always tangled together in Deya Corvina like barbed wire.

“Whatever,” he muttered.

Deya’s face went still.

Her eyes widened.

“Whatever?” she echoed.

Scandalized.

“WHAT—EVER?”

Matthew didn’t have time to brace.

A small black box sailed at his head.

Deya vanished into shadow the moment it left her hand.

Matthew caught the small box on instinct.

Blinking.

Then looked at Nyx.

“Why must your twin be so dramatic?”

Nyx was still smiling at Matthew.

But something had crept in behind her eyes.

“Oh, Matthew…”

Her voice carried the quiet patience of someone
who already knew how this day would end.