The stone floor of the Sunless Tower was always five degrees colder than the rest of the palace. It was a calculated chill, designed to remind the prisoners that they were no longer in the grace of the sun, and to remind me that I was no longer a daughter, but a tool.
I walked the spiral staircase with my hands tucked firmly into my sleeves. My silk gloves—white, pristine, and lined with lead-thread—felt like a second skin I could never shed. To most, silk is a luxury. To me, it is a cage.
"You're late, Silence," the guard at the iron gate grunted. He didn't look me in the eye. No one did. Even with the gloves, even with the three feet of distance I maintained, they looked at me as if I were a walking plague.
"The King had thoughts he wished to share," I replied, my voice as flat as the stone walls. "I am sure he would be delighted to hear your critique of his timing."
The guard paled, the heavy ring of keys rattling as he fumbled for the lock. "Just get on with it. The Shadow-Prince hasn't stopped humming since they brought him in. It's unnerving."
"Humming?" I asked, a small spark of curiosity piercing through my practiced apathy.
"Like a hive of bees," the guard muttered, swinging the heavy door open. "Be careful, My Lady. They say his magic eats the light. Even in here."
I stepped into the dark. The door slammed shut behind me, the sound echoing up into the hollow heights of the tower.
This was my ritual. Every evening, when the autumn sun dipped below the jagged peaks of Oakhaven, I descended to the roots of the world to drain the life out of men who dared to defy my father. They called me the King's Silence because I took the noise of their magic—the fire, the wind, the strength—and turned it into a void.
The cell at the end of the hall didn't have bars; it had a shimmering veil of salt and iron-filings, held in place by a low-level enchantment. And behind it, sitting on a simple wooden bench as if it were a throne, was Prince Alaric.
He didn't look like a monster. That was the first disappointment.
The scrolls described the Midnight Islanders as hulking beasts with skin like charcoal and eyes like burning coals. The man before me was lean, his skin a pale, bruised olive, his hair a tumble of ink-black waves that hit his collarbones. He wore the tattered remains of a royal military jacket, the gold braid torn and dull.
But it was the shadows that caught my breath.
They didn't just sit in the corners of the room. They moved. They drifted around his ankles like slow-moving smoke, swirling with a life of their own. As I approached, the shadows rose, snapping toward the salt-veil like hungry cobras.
Alaric looked up. His eyes weren't fire; they were a startling, piercing silver—the color of a blade held under moonlight.
"So," he said, his voice a low, melodic rasp that sent a shiver down my spine. "They've finally sent the executioner's shadow. I expected someone… taller."
"I am not your executioner," I said, stepping up to the veil. "I am your cage."
"Is that what you call yourself?" He stood up, and the shadows rose with him, darkening the air until the torchlight from the hallway struggled to penetrate the cell. He moved with a predatory grace that made my pulse jump—a biological warning I tried to ignore. "I've heard of you, Elara Vance. The girl who drinks souls. Tell me, do I taste like charcoal? Or just regret?"
"You talk too much for a man who is about to lose his voice," I said.
I reached into the pocket of my gown and pulled out a small silver vial. I poured the contents—a circle of crushed moonstone—onto the floor, breaking the salt-veil just enough for me to step through.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the temperature plummeted. The shadows hissed, swirling around my skirts. I felt the familiar itch in my palms—the hunger of my own power. It was an ache, a hollow space in the center of my chest that screamed to be filled.
"Stay back," I warned, though the command was as much for my own magic as it was for him.
Alaric didn't stay back. He took a step forward, then another, until he was looming over me. He was close enough that I could smell him—salt-spray, cold earth, and something metallic, like a coming storm.
"The King wants your magic siphoned," I said, my voice trembling only slightly. "He wants you weak for the trials."
"And what do you want, Silence?" Alaric whispered. He looked down at my gloved hands. "I see the way you hold yourself. You're afraid of me. No… you're afraid of it."
"I am afraid of nothing."
"Liar."
He reached out. I expected him to strike, to cast a spell, to fight. Instead, he did the one thing no one ever did. He moved his hand toward mine.
"Don't!" I snapped, recoiling. "If I touch you, I'll strip the skin from your mind. I'll leave you a husk."
"Try it," he challenged, his silver eyes flashing with a terrifying sort of amusement. "My shadows have been lonely. They want to see if the void is as cold as they are."
Before I could move, he closed the gap. He didn't grab me; he simply brushed his bare knuckles against the silk of my glove.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Usually, when I drained someone, it felt like pulling a thread from a sweater—a steady, one-way tug. But the moment Alaric touched me, it was an explosion. My magic didn't just pull; it leaped.
The shadows in the room went wild, screaming upward to the ceiling. A jolt of pure, icy energy shot up my arm, shattering the lead-thread in my gloves. The silk tore, exposing my bare palm to his skin.
I gasped, my knees buckling. I expected to hear him scream. I waited for the agonizing wail of a man losing his essence.
But there was only silence.
Alaric gripped my waist to keep me from falling, his hand steady against my spine. His skin was burning hot against the ice of his magic. I looked up, gasping for air, and found him staring at me with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock.
He wasn't weakening.
If anything, the shadows were growing stronger, weaving themselves into my own golden-white energy, spinning a web of gray light that pulsed between us.
"What are you doing?" I whispered, my hand still pressed against his chest. I could feel his heart—thud-thud, thud-thud—hammering against my palm.
"I'm not doing anything," he breathed, his grip tightening on my waist. His silver eyes were wide, reflecting the strange, shimmering light of our joined powers. "Elara… your magic… it isn't taking."
"I can feel it," I argued, though I was lightheaded. "I'm siphoning you."
"No," he said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "You're feeding."