The gates of Eryndor opened like the jaws of a sleeping giant.
They were massive—towering three times the height of any man—crafted from dark wood reinforced with bands of silver that gleamed like liquid moonlight. As we approached, they swung inward without a sound, revealing a city that stole the breath from my lungs.
The streets were paved with white stone that glowed faintly underfoot. Buildings rose on either side—towers of crystal and marble, their walls covered in vines that bloomed with flowers that emitted their own soft light. Bridges of spun glass arched between structures, carrying robed figures who moved with an ethereal grace. Everywhere I looked, there was beauty: fountains that flowed with water that sparkled like diamonds, trees with leaves of silver and gold, lanterns that floated in the air without any visible support.
But there was also tension.
The people who lined the streets—dozens, then hundreds—did not cheer. They did not welcome us. They stood in silence, their faces pale, their eyes fixed on Adrian with expressions that ranged from awe to terror. Mothers pulled their children close. Soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons. Whispers spread through the crowd like fire through dry grass.
"The Shadow King."
"He has returned."
"The prophecy begins."
"May the gods have mercy on us all."
I moved closer to Adrian, my shoulder brushing against his arm. He didn't look at me, but I felt his hand find mine again, his grip warm and steady.
"They're afraid of you," I whispered.
"They should be," he said quietly. "If half of what I've dreamed is true, I was not a kind ruler."
Before I could ask what he meant, the path before us opened into a vast courtyard. At its center, a fountain of black marble spewed water that glowed with crimson light. And beyond the fountain, rising toward the twin moons, stood the palace.
It was impossible.
Spires of silver and gold pierced the sky, each one connected by bridges that seemed to float on air. Walls of crystal revealed glimpses of gardens within—gardens that defied nature, with trees that bore fruit of pure light and flowers that sang softly in the breeze. At the very peak, the eternal flame burned, casting its glow across the entire city.
And at the base of the palace, standing before a staircase that seemed to ascend into heaven itself, waited a man.
He was old—older than anyone I had ever seen. His hair was white as snow, his face a map of wrinkles that spoke of centuries rather than decades. He wore robes of deep purple embroidered with gold, and on his head rested a crown of intertwined branches and crystals. But his eyes—his eyes were the most striking thing about him. They were the color of amber, and they held a weight that pressed against my chest like a physical force.
He looked at Adrian, and his ancient face crumpled.
Not with fear. Not with hatred.
With relief.
"After a thousand years," the old man whispered, his voice cracking. "After a thousand years of waiting, you have returned."
He stepped forward, and the guards around us tensed. But he raised his hand, silencing them before they could intervene.
"I am Aldric," he said, stopping a few feet away from Adrian. "King of Eryndor, Keeper of the Light, Protector of the Last Realm. And I have waited my entire existence for this moment."
Adrian studied him, his expression unreadable. "You know who I am."
Aldric's lips curved into a sad smile. "I know who you were. The question is whether you remember."
A long silence stretched between them. Then Adrian spoke, and his voice was different—deeper, older, as if something else was speaking through him.
"I remember shadows," he said slowly. "I remember a throne built from darkness. I remember a war that consumed worlds." His grey eyes met Aldric's amber ones. "I remember falling."
Aldric nodded slowly. "The Great Fall. When the Shadow King was cast out of this realm, we thought we had lost you forever. The prophecy said you would return when the Thread Weaver appeared." His gaze shifted to me, and I felt his ancient eyes pierce through me. "And here you are. Both of you. Together."
"I'm not the Thread Weaver," I said quickly. "I don't know what that means. I don't have any—"
"You stopped time," Adrian interrupted, his voice soft. "In the church. When the darkness came, time stopped around us. I saw it. You held the threads of that moment in your hands."
I stared at him. "I what?"
"You don't remember," Aldric said. It wasn't a question.
"No," I admitted. "I don't remember anything after the light appeared. I just… fell."
Aldric exchanged a glance with Adrian—a look that carried centuries of understanding. "The power often awakens in moments of extreme stress. It will take time for you to understand it. To control it." His expression darkened. "Time we may not have."
He turned and gestured toward the palace behind him. "Please. There is much to discuss, and little time for pleasantries. An old enemy has learned of your return. Already, forces gather in the east. Malakai knows you are here."
The name sent a jolt through me. Malakai. The name of the betrayer from my visions—the one who would tear everything apart.
But before I could ask how Aldric knew that name, Adrian stepped forward.
"I need answers," he said, his voice brooking no argument. "Who am I in this world? Why was I cast out? What does the prophecy say about us?" His hand tightened around mine. "And why does everyone look at me like I'm a monster?"
Aldric's ancient face softened. "Because in this world, the Shadow King was both savior and destroyer. You built this kingdom with your own hands. You defended it against enemies beyond imagination. But when the darkness came for you, when it offered you power beyond mortal limits…" He paused, pain flickering in his amber eyes. "You accepted."
Adrian's face went pale. "What did I become?"
Aldric looked at him for a long, painful moment. Then he knelt.
The King of Eryndor, ruler of the last kingdom of light, knelt before Adrian on the white stone courtyard. Behind him, the guards followed. The citizens followed. One by one, thousands of people bent their knees, their heads bowed, their voices rising in a whisper that became a chant:
"The Shadow King returns."
"The Shadow King returns."
"THE SHADOW KING RETURNS."
Adrian stood amidst the kneeling masses, his hand gripping mine so tightly it almost hurt. I looked at his face—really looked—and saw something I had never expected to see in the Mafia King's eyes.
Fear.
Not of the people. Not of the prophecy. Not even of whatever darkness waited in his past.
Fear that he would become the monster they expected him to be.
"Elara," he said, his voice barely audible above the chanting. "Whatever I was in this world… whatever I become…" He looked at me, and in his grey eyes, I saw a plea. "Don't let me lose myself."
I squeezed his hand back.
"I won't."
Aldric rose from his kneeling position, his ancient eyes glistening. "Then let us begin. The war for this world—for all worlds—has already started. And you two are the only ones who can end it."
He turned toward the palace, gesturing for us to follow.
"But first, we must ensure your survival. The magic of this world will try to consume you before it accepts you. You will need training. Protection. And you will need to unlock the powers that lie dormant within you both."
He looked back at us, his expression grave.
"Welcome to Eryndor, Shadow King. Welcome, Thread Weaver. May the threads of fate weave a kinder story for you than they did a thousand years ago."
As we walked up the crystal stairs toward the palace of silver and gold, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were walking toward something far greater—and far more dangerous—than either of us could imagine.
Behind us, the gates of Eryndor closed with a sound like thunder.
And somewhere in the darkness beyond the mountains, something ancient and terrible began to wake.