Page 8 of Realms of Shadow and Sun

But instead of striking their target, the beams of light simply parted around the Shadow Queen, dissipating into nothingness as if they had never existed. Cressida stood unmoved, a look of smug satisfaction on her face as she watched Renya's attack fail.

“Stupid girl,” she sneered, taking a menacing step towards Renya. “You made a blood promise to me. Did you honestly think you could harm me?” Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “You'll do everything I say, and if you attempt to resist, I'll find your pathetic mate and end him.”

Renya felt the blood drain from her face, her legs threatening to give out beneath her. The thought of Grayden in Cressida's clutches, suffering because of her defiance, was almost more than she could bear.

Cressida's eyes glittered with an evil glee as she watched the fight drain out of Renya. “That was a warning,” she continued, her voice silky smooth yet laced with venom. “Insult me or disobey me again, and there will be consequences. Dire consequences.”

With those final, chilling words hanging in the air, Cressida summoned her dark mist once more. In the blink of an eye, she was gone, leaving Renya alone with her fear and despair.

Renya stumbled back to the edge of the room, her legs finally giving out as she collapsed against one of the ivory pillars. She stared out at the horizon, the shadowy landscape before her a mirror of the desolation in her heart. The loss of her ring, coupled with Cressida's threats, left her feeling more alone and hopeless than ever before.

As she sat there, the wind whispering mournfully around her, Renya found herself wondering if she would ever find a way back to Grayden. The path ahead seemed impossibly dark and treacherous, with dangers lurking at every turn. But as she watched the faint glimmer of sunlight struggling to break through the perpetual gloom, a tiny spark of determination flickered to life within her.

She may have lost her ring, but she still had her memories, her love, and somewhere deep inside, her own innate strength. Cressida could threaten and intimidate all she wanted, but Renya vowed then and there that she would find a way to break free, to master her powers, and to reunite with Grayden—no matter the cost.

Chapter Five

Cressida emerged from her bedchambers, her movements fluid and purposeful as she locked the door securely behind her. The soft click of the lock echoed in the empty corridor, a sound of finality that brought a cruel smile to her lips. Sion was trapped inside, her property, and she refused to grant him even a shred of autonomy. He would be right where she wanted him, when she wanted him—a puppet dancing to her twisted tune.

As she glided through the shadowy halls of her palace, Cressida couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that had been growing in recent days. Ever since the cave-in at the Tidal beach, Sion had seemed...distracted. His eyes, once filled with fear and grudging obedience, now held a spark of something else. Defiance? Hope? Whatever it was, it troubled her. But no matter. She would get to the bottom of it, one way or another. Brandle had been instructed to monitor Sion's every move, every breath. If there was treachery afoot, she would root it out and crush it beneath her heel.

The empty palace stretched out before her, its vast chambers and winding corridors a testament to her power and isolation. As she moved through the silence, a sense of peace washed over her. Everything was falling into place, the pieces of her grand design clicking together with satisfying precision. She had the girl—her daughter—in her captivity, not only forced to assist and obey but utterly miserable. The thought brought a wave of savage joy crashing over Cressida. At last, it was the wretched girl's turn to feel the despair of having a piece of herself torn away.

As she descended deeper into the bowels of her fortress, Cressida found her mind drifting back to a day she had long tried to forget. The day her daughter was born. Despite her best efforts to banish the memory, it rose unbidden, as vivid and visceral as if it were happening all over again.

She had been happy then, or as close to happy as she'd ever been. Proud, even, to bear her mate a beautiful daughter. When the babe emerged, fair-skinned and crowned with wisps of golden hair, it was obvious she took after her father. Cressida remembered the surge of disappointment she'd felt at that, quickly pushed aside in the rush of post-birth euphoria.

But then...then came the moment that changed everything. As the midwife severed the cord, Cressida felt something else sever within her. A part of her magic, her very essence, was ripped away. In that instant, it became horrifyingly clear who now possessed it.

Her mate hadn't cared about the loss of her power. The second his blue eyes met the matching ones of his daughter, he was lost. Cressida watched, a cold dread settling in her stomach, as he swaddled the girl close to his chest. He cooed and whispered her name over and over with a reverence that made Cressida's skin crawl.

When he finally passed the infant to Cressida, she took her with trembling hands. A part of her—the part that still clung to normalcy, to the idea of maternal love—was eager to look upon the daughter she had carried for so many long months. But when she peered down into that tiny face, framed by wisps of golden hair, she felt...nothing.

No connection. No rush of maternal instinct. No overwhelming love. There was only an emptiness, quickly filled by resentment for this squirming creature who had so easily stolen both her magic and her mate's heart.

Cressida shook her head violently, as if the physical action could dislodge the unwelcome memories. They clung to her like a heavy fog, threatening to smother her. She quickened her pace, her heels clicking against the stone floor as she left the ghosts of the past in her wake.

At last, she reached the entrance to the dungeon. Two guards stood at attention, their faces impassive beneath their helmets. With a curt gesture, Cressida dismissed them. She didn't need the maids or soldiers gossiping about what was about to transpire. As they retreated, she steeled herself for the confrontation ahead.

The dungeon was a vast chamber, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and despair. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls. In the furthest corner, behind bars of enchanted iron that seemed to drink in what little light there was, lay her prize.

Cyrus was chained to the wall, his once-proud form a crumpled heap on the cold stone floor. As Cressida approached, one of his eyes cracked open, as if he had been hovering in that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, waiting for her arrival.

“I see the human realm aged you,” Cressida remarked, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “Just like it did Agatha. I wouldn't even recognize you.”

Cyrus didn't acknowledge her comment, his face a mask of studied indifference. But Cressida knew him too well—she could see the tension in the set of his jaw, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“So,” she continued, pacing before his cell like a predator sizing up its prey, “you teamed up with my sister? My own flesh and blood? To take away my daughter?”

At this, Cyrus finally looked at her fully, his face a study in calm defiance. “What do you want me to say?” he asked, his voice rough from disuse. “The second you read that prophecy, we knew she wasn't safe from you. Your power had gone to your head, and you already resented her for taking some of it from you at her birth. Our daughter deserved better. She deserves everything.”

Cressida felt a flare of anger at his words, at the implication that she would have harmed her own child. “I wouldn't have hurt her,” she spat, but even to her own ears, the words rang hollow.

“You could barely look at her,” Cyrus countered, a hint of long-buried pain creeping into his voice. “Instead of nursing her, being a mother to her, you locked yourself up in the library, pouring over scrolls and tomes, looking for ways to reclaim your own power. You didn't care that she needed you. You didn't care if she was hungry, or hurt, or—”

“I still don't care,” Cressida cut him off, her words sharp as a blade.

Cyrus closed his eyes, a look of profound weariness settling over his features. “I wish I had never been fated to you.”

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