Bitter wind greeted Matthew Nightshade the moment he stepped out of the barracks. It cut across his sun-worn skin in sharp ribbons—biting without mercy.

But he welcomed it. Pain was easier than remembering.

The chilled air tangled in his shaggy blond hair, catching in the curls that clung to the nape of his neck.

The wind here was relentless—sharp..., unkind..., and alive.....

At least my patchy beard blocks some of it, he thought dryly. A half-hearted joke at his own expense… the kind of humor men wear when armor feels too dense to carry any longer.

As Matthew began to walk, his heavy boots crunched against dry, cracked dirt.

A mercy, he thought silently. The Illyrian north hadn’t seen rain in weeks.

Thank the Almighty Sparks.

Matthew could handle the wind. Even the cold.

But mud?

Mud was the true enemy—clinging to cloaks, weighing down boots, dragging weariness deeper into the bones.

Today, at least, only dust rose beneath his steps. Pale brown clouds swirled in his wake as he made his way forward, toward the main fort of his ancestors.

As he walked, the usual surroundings fell into place...

The land around him lay faded—washed-out browns and faint golds scattered from the earth to the tops of barren trees. Crushed blues painted the sky behind smoky wisps of gloomy cloud. The only true color to shine through was the soft sway of ivory-green grass.

The hills looked almost greyed, as if the world had been dusted in ash.

And above it all, the sun crept over the horizon—slow and reluctant. Its light did little to warm the Northern Territory.

The Kingdom of Illyria’s northernmost edge had always been frigid. Remote. Unforgiving.

And deadly.....

Matthew pulled his heavy black cloak tighter across his shoulders.

It hung from him like a shroud—weighted not just by wool, but by the legacy he carried…..

…..and the losses he couldn’t.....

He rarely let himself feel the heaviness of it all.

Cracked armor was easier to lug around.

But today… something clawed at the cracks.

Long talons made out of something old, and wet.....

The talons scraped their hungry tips along the inner chambers of his chest—screeching all the way down to the hollows of his soul.

Matthew shivered as he walked… and not just from the chilled air.

The nightmares had returned last night...

And they hadn’t been kind.....

They left him frayed and on edge—causing this day to wilt and sour before it had even begun.

The crunch of parchment reports in gloved hands broke the silence of the morning’s early hour.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Those damned nightmares had to return last night.”

Matthew paused mid-stride, sighing into the cold.

“Of all nights!”

He rubbed his eyes with a gloved hand as he grumbled and bit out, “One good night of sleep. Just one night. That was all I asked for.”

He let out another huffed whine, as his pleas to the Sparks went unanswered.

“I even skipped Deya’s drinking contest last night!”

His tone pinched as his whining grew louder.

“Skipped it!”

“And she even made those golden, fiery little drinks that I love!”

“Ugh…”

More crunching of parchment tore through the air as his petulant whining faded… slowly.

He scowled beneath heavy brows of sun-drenched gold, adjusting the frost-stiff bundle in his arms. The reports crackled—sharp and brittle—sending black birds bursting into the sky.

They were stiff with frost now, and far more wrinkled than when Deya had dropped them off earlier that morning.

“Would’ve been nice if she’d just gone to the meeting for me,” he muttered—

Recalling how Deya had stormed into his room before dawn, kicked his door open like she was leading a siege, and dropped the damned reports on his no-longer-slumbering face.

He sighed, then finally turned his boots back toward the main fort.

His tantrum complete.

His dignity—moderately intact.

Now—straighten. Roll the shoulders back. Clench the glutes. Aaand… forward!

“Yes, Matthew—work it!” a raspy feminine voice called from a nearby shadow.

“Shut it, Deya.... Thought you were supposed to be sleeping,” Matthew grumbled, caught in the act of his temper-tantrum and his recovery process.

“I considered it,” Deya said, “then decided this was too entertaining to miss.”

Her raspy laughter cackled throughout the morning’s icy air, echoing off the lands and buildings nearby. As she popped in and out from one shadow to the next.

Rolling his eyes, Matthew ignored her ribbing.

He couldn’t see her just yet.

She always did love a good game of hide-and-seek.

And since shadow-dancing was a particular specialty of Deya's, he knew she loved to take her time before finally appearing.

So he kept moving forward… until his mischievous little friend decided to join him.

Deya Corvina was small enough to vanish in a crowd.

But that was the least of her talents.

Shadows bent for her—not in fear, but in allegiance. She could swirl them around herself like loyal pets. Vanishing and reappearing in a blink.

Her voice was a rasp, equal parts sandpaper and mischief. Her eyes were dark and sharp—the eyes of an assassin.

She moved like someone who had long ago made peace with danger, and wore that confidence the way others wore perfume.

Every gesture was deliberate—from the flick of her dagger to the flick of her tongue, as she curled her dark lips into a smirk just before she insulted you.

She stepped out of a nearby shadow like it had been smoke the whole time. Hands clasped behind her back, crooked smile firmly in place, she fell into step beside him.

Quiet.

Patient.

Giving him time to wake up.

Matthew didn’t look at her.

Not right away.

He pretended he was above the game.

Deya pretended she didn’t notice.

They walked in silence for several breaths, the wind filling the space between them like an old companion.

Then Matthew finally sighed.

“Since you’re clearly not going to sleep off last night’s events,” he grumbled low, “does this mean you’re joining me for my meeting this morning?”

Deya’s smile widened.

“Not a chance!”

Matthew’s jaw tightened.

“Jerk.”

Her laughter was low and pleased, as if she’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

“Did you review the reports?” she asked.

“I did,” Matthew yawned loudly before Deya smacked his gut. “I swear by the Almighty Sparks, Deya—”

Deya cut him off once more sarcastically chastising him,

“Great Marquises do not blaspheme before breakfast, Matthew Nightshade.”

Matthew gave her a look.

Pot.

Kettle.

Deya’s crooked grin told him she was entirely unrepentant.

So he finished his interrupted thought anyway—

“Let a man wake up a little before you start in with the questions… and the pip-pop-popping nonsense, you bite-sized shadow demon.”

Deya leaned closer, voice turning needling, completely ignoring his words.

“Aaand?”

Matthew waved the frost-stiff reports in her face.

“Sparks— you’re relentless!” Matthew snapped.

“Sparks— you’re such a toddler some days,” she countered with a wink.

Then her foot snapped out and met his hindquarters—

like a whip cracking against a flour sack.

Her laughter tumbled freely. “Get your shit together, ‘oh-Great-Leader.’”

“My shit is together, Deya!” Matthew yelped as the sting faded.

“It’s just…” Matthew began, frustrated.

And then stopped.

The words lodged somewhere in his chest.

He tried again.

“It’s just…”

Nothing.....

His jaw flexed.

He hated this part—the part where he couldn’t even name what he was feeling without it tasting like ash.

Deya didn’t need him to finish.....

She never did..... She always knew what he was thinking.....

“You’re pissed,” she said, voice softer now, “about meeting with my asshole-of-a-brother this morning.”

Matthew stopped walking.

Then exploded.

“FOUR, YEARS, DEYA!”

He threw his arms wide, as if the sky itself had offended him.

“I haven’t seen Osiris in FOUR YEARS!”

“A good choice,” Deya said, eyes widening. “One of you would’ve been slaughtered… or maimed, at the very least.”

Matthew pointed at her.

“He started it!”

Deya huffed, jaw going slack.

“Uh-huh.”

She’d heard this argument from Matthew far too often.

It had been a one sided conversation on repeat for the last four years. And Deya had grown weary of it. And in truth so had he. But instead of admitting that, he scowled at Deya and kept walking.

The sun climbed higher, and the hills bled their shadows away. And for a moment, the cold felt less alive.

Deya’s boots barely made a sound beside his.

She walked like a rumor.

Like something the world didn’t want to admit existed.

And in a way, that was exactly what House Corvina was.

Fear.....

Whispers.....

Leaving only shadows in their wake.....

Used by kings—and hated by noble courts.

Deya belonged to House Corvina—a family shrouded in mystery, their name spoken softly in taverns and palace halls alike.

Every king knew: better to work with the Corvinas than against them.

For the Corvinas drew their strength from the realms of Death and Shadow, and built their influence on hushed secrets.

No rumor ignored.

No vice unnoticed.

They could dance not only in the shadows that slid across stone and sky…

…but in the darker ones that lived inside a person’s mind.....

No thought was safe from a Corvina.

Throughout Illyria’s long history, the Corvinas had rendered grand services that saved the realm from disaster more times than any history book cared to count.

But no matter which king offered it, they always refused titles and lands.

Needing no crown to know they were powerful.

Respect was respect.

Even if it was born out of fear.

They served the Kingdom of Illyria as the King’s personal assassins.

And when asked what their family stood for, their answer came in a whisper that cut like a knife:

“We are the sword that slits the throats of the King’s enemies… while dancing in the shadows.”