In Nyxara, magic did not answer spells.
It answered need.
Elowen had learned that truth the night the shadows spoke her name.
She stood alone in the west tower, where the High Court forbade lingering after dusk. Moonlight spilled through arched windows, painting silver across the stone floor and the pale curve of her shoulders. The city below breathed softly—distant lanterns flickering like restrained stars—but inside the tower, the air felt heavy, watchful.
Her runes stirred beneath her skin.
They always did at night.
Carved into her flesh at birth, the ancient symbols traced her collarbone, dipped beneath the linen of her gown, and curled along her spine like secrets meant to be touched rather than seen. The court called her gifted. Revered. Dangerous.
They never spoke of what the magic demanded in return.
Elowen pressed her palm to the cold stone wall, steadying her breath. The runes pulsed faintly, a warm ache spreading through her chest—an echo of something missing. She had learned to endure it. To swallow the restlessness, the quiet hunger that no amount of discipline ever soothed.
Until tonight.
The candles guttered.
Not extinguished—bowed.
Shadows deepened along the corners of the tower, stretching unnaturally, gathering as though drawn by an unseen tide. Elowen straightened, pulse quickening.
"Who's there?" Her voice remained steady, trained by years of court etiquette and quiet fear.
Silence answered.
Then movement.
The darkness detached itself from the wall and stepped forward.
He did not emerge so much as resolve—edges sharpening, form taking shape where shadow had no right to stand alone. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wrapped in black that drank the moonlight rather than reflected it. Silver runes glimmered faintly along his gloves and throat, older than any magic sanctioned by the court.
His eyes found her immediately.
They were not cruel.
They were knowing.
"You feel it," he said, voice low, unhurried. "The way the night pulls at you."
Elowen's breath caught before she could stop it. Her runes flared—brighter now, warmer, reacting as if they recognized him.
"You're a Shadowcaller," she whispered. "You're forbidden."
A slow smile curved his mouth. Not mocking. Not apologetic.
"So are you," he replied.
He moved closer, footsteps soundless against the stone. With every step, the air cooled—yet her skin warmed in response, heat rising beneath the thin fabric of her gown. The contrast made her dizzy.
"I didn't summon you," she said, though the words felt weak even to her own ears.
"No," he agreed, stopping a careful distance away. "But you were listening."
The tower seemed to shrink around them, walls pressing inward, moonlight narrowing to a single silver thread that cut between their bodies. Elowen became acutely aware of herself—of the way her pulse fluttered at her throat, of how her fingers curled instinctively against the stone, of how the runes now glowed openly beneath her skin.
He watched it all.
"What do you want?" she asked.
His gaze dipped—not leering, not rushed—simply attentive. As though every reaction mattered.
"To understand why your magic sings to mine," he said. "And why it's been calling me for three nights."
Her heart stuttered.
Three nights. She remembered them now—dreams thick with darkness and heat, with unseen hands guiding her through endless corridors of night. Waking breathless. Unsatisfied.
"You're inside my dreams," she said softly.
"Yes."
The honesty unsettled her more than denial would have.
He lifted a hand slowly, deliberately, giving her time to pull away. His fingers hovered near her wrist, close enough that she felt the cool hum of his power brushing her skin without contact.
"One touch," he murmured. "If you allow it. No more."
Elowen should have refused.
The court would call this treason. The priests would call it corruption. Everything she had been taught warned her away from shadow magic—its intimacy, its tendency to blur boundaries between want and will.
But her body leaned toward him anyway.
"Just one," she said.
His fingers closed around her wrist.
The world shifted.
Not violently. Not suddenly.
It deepened.
Shadow slid over flame, cool and velvet-soft, coaxing rather than smothering. Her magic responded instantly—rising, unfolding, stretching toward him like something that had waited a lifetime to be answered.
Elowen gasped, knees weakening as sensation flooded her senses. Not pain. Not pleasure exactly—but recognition. As if a locked door inside her had finally opened.
He steadied her without pulling her closer, grip firm but controlled.
"Breathe," he said quietly.
She did—and felt his shadow settle around her like a second skin.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The tower held its breath.
"This connection," she whispered, "what does it mean?"
"That you are not meant to burn alone," he replied.
His thumb brushed lightly over the pulse point at her wrist—just once—and the touch sent a shiver along her spine, slow and uncoiling. The runes blazed gold.
He released her immediately.
The absence felt sharper than the touch.
"I am Caelan," he said, stepping back into the dark. "And if you wish to understand what you are becoming, you will meet me beyond the Veil."
"Where?" she asked.
"In the place where shadows are honest," he said softly. "And desire is allowed to speak."
The darkness closed around him, folding him away as though he had never been there at all.
Elowen stood alone once more.
But her magic no longer slept.
She lifted her glowing wrist to her chest, heart racing, body humming with the echo of his touch.
The court had taught her to fear shadow.
They had never taught her how deeply she could want it.