Page 9 of Realms of Shadow and Sun

The words struck Cressida like a physical blow. For a moment, her carefully constructed mask of cruelty slipped, revealing a flicker of the hurt and betrayal that still festered within her. She made a move as if to strike him, her hand raised, magic crackling at her fingertips. But at the last second, she stepped back, regaining her composure.

“You betrayed me,” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. “And it will be the last thing you think about when I end you.”

Cyrus scoffed, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I'm not afraid of my death,” he said, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. “The only death I'm afraid of is the one that will come to our daughter—by her own mother's hand.”

Cressida's lips curled into a sneer, her eyes flashing a brilliant, terrible red. “Believe it or not,” she said, savoring each word, “I won't be killing her. She's promised to me—a blood promise. She'll fight my cause, with absolutely no chance of freedom.”

For the first time since his arrival at her palace, a flicker of genuine fear passed across Cyrus's face. He swallowed hard, unable to meet Cressida's cruel, hollow eyes. “How did you coerce her into making a blood promise to you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It was easy,” Cressida replied, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in a gesture of predatory anticipation. “I just threatened someone she cared about.”

“Agatha?” Cyrus ventured, a note of desperation in his voice.

A titter of laughter escaped from Cressida's throat, the sound echoing off the dungeon walls like the cackle of a mad witch. “You fool,” she said, shaking her head in mock pity. “You have no idea what has happened in this world. You took our daughter and ran away to the human world, hiding in that pathetic little shop of yours, peddling books to humans. You know nothing about her, even though you shared a world.”

Cyrus looked puzzled, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of Cressida's words.

Cressida leaned in close, her face mere inches from the bars of Cyrus's cell. “Our daughter,” she said, drawing out the moment, relishing the growing dread in Cyrus's eyes, “has a mate.”

Chapter Six

The scent of smoke and ash hung heavy in the air as Grayden stood before the ruined house, or rather, what little remained of it. His fingers tightened around the worn wooden handle of his shovel, knuckles white with tension. With a deep breath that sent a sharp pain through his still-healing side, he plunged the blade into the debris, shifting charred timbers and broken stone.

The thatched roof, once a symbol of the simple comfort of village life, had been set ablaze during Cressida's ruthless attack. Now, its remnants lay scattered among the ruins, a grim reminder of how quickly peace could be shattered. As Grayden worked to clear a path into the structure, each movement sent fresh waves of pain radiating from his wound. He gritted his teeth, pushing through the discomfort. Physical pain was a welcome distraction from the ache in his heart.

Finally breaching the threshold, Grayden paused to survey the devastation within. The scene before him was heartbreaking in its totality. A thick layer of ash and soot blanketed every surface, transforming the once-vibrant home into a monochrome sea of greys and blacks. Shards of ceramic bowls and plates crunched beneath his boots, their delicate patterns lost forever. In the corner, partially buried under a mound of straw and debris, lay a small doll crafted from navy yarn. Its button eyes stared sightlessly at the ruined ceiling, a poignant reminder of the lives disrupted by senseless violence.

Grayden's chest tightened as he recalled the family who had lived here—a young couple with two small children. By some miracle, they had escaped unscathed and were now sheltered in the tents Phillippe had brought from the training camp. But their home, their possessions, their sense of security—all had been reduced to ashes in a matter of minutes.

For hours, Grayden had been working tirelessly, moving from house to house along the eastern side of the village. He pulled out anything salvageable, working quietly and efficiently. The villagers, caught up in their own grief and the monumental task of rebuilding, barely seemed to notice the presence of a prince among them. In a way, Grayden preferred it this way. He wasn't here for recognition or gratitude; he was here because the alternative—sitting idle while people suffered and Renya remained captive—was simply unbearable.

As he continued to sift through the debris, Grayden found his mind wandering, the monotonous task unable to fully occupy his thoughts. Charly and Phillippe had suggested this work as a way to take his mind off Renya, but their well-intentioned plan was failing miserably. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to throw down his shovel, leap onto his horse, and ride to the Shadow Realm to rescue his beloved. The desire to hold Renya in his arms again was a constant, burning ache that no amount of physical labor could dull.

Adrenaline surged through his veins, leaving him feeling panicky and on edge. He recalled how, just yesterday, he had spent hours pacing like a caged animal, snapping at anyone who dared approach him. It was then that Dimitri and Phillippe had firmly suggested he find a productive outlet for his restless energy while they formulated a plan to retrieve Renya.

But even as his muscles strained with exertion, Grayden's mind continually drifted back to those final, heart-wrenching moments with Renya. The look in her eyes as she made that fateful promise to Cressida was seared into his memory. In that instant, his heart had shattered. He would have gladly sacrificed his life rather than see her in Cressida's clutches. But Renya, stubborn and selfless to a fault, had chosen his life over her own freedom. The weight of that sacrifice pressed down on him, threatening to crush his spirit entirely.

Through their bond, he could still sense her presence—a subtle, gentle pulsing within his soul. It was a small comfort to know she lived, but the knowledge that she was out there, beyond his reach, was nearly unbearable. The bond that had once filled him with such joy now felt like an exquisite form of torture.

Needing a moment's respite from the oppressive atmosphere inside the ruined house, Grayden made his way towards the back, stepping out into what had once been a thriving garden. The cool air on his face was a welcome relief, but it did little to ease the turmoil in his heart. He closed his eyes, reaching out through their bond, silently willing Renya to feel his love, his determination to find her.

A soft, pitiful mewl broke through his thoughts. Grayden's eyes snapped open, scanning the ground at his feet. There, beneath a tangle of scorched grass and splintered cedar, he caught the barest hint of movement. Dropping to his knees, heedless of the mud soaking into his trousers, he carefully shifted aside bits of debris.

His efforts revealed a makeshift nest, crafted from scraps of stolen fabric and dried grasses. At its center lay two tiny kittens—one pure white, the other a mottled brown and orange. The white kitten mewled again, its eyes still tightly shut, while its sibling lay ominously still, its small body cold to the touch.

Without hesitation, Grayden gently scooped up both kittens, tucking them safely inside his tunic. Their tiny bodies against his chest stirred something within him—a fierce protectiveness that momentarily overshadowed his own pain. These helpless creatures needed him, just as his people needed him, just as Renya needed him. He couldn't save everyone, couldn't right every wrong, but in this moment, he could make a difference for these two small lives.

Cradling his precious cargo, Grayden made his way back towards the castle, his eyes scanning the streets for someone to whom he could entrust the kittens. Finding no suitable caretaker, he pressed on, eventually following a group of maids to the kitchen. As he entered the warm, bustling space, his gaze fell upon a young boy standing near the fireplace.

“Could you bring me some warm milk?” Grayden asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “And heat up some towels and bring them to my room?”

The boy nodded, curiosity evident in his wide eyes. Grayden carefully opened his tunic, allowing the lad to glimpse the kittens nestled against his chest. The boy's face lit up with a smile—a rare sight in these dark days—and he hurried to fulfill the prince's request.

As Grayden made his way to the room he had once shared with Renya, a fresh wave of grief washed over him. Every corner of the chamber held memories of her—her laughter, her touch, the way her eyes sparkled in the firelight. Most nights, he found it impossible to sleep here, the ghost of her presence both a comfort and a torment. He had taken to falling asleep in various corners of the castle, anywhere to escape the crushing weight of her absence. After one particularly harrowing night of heavy drinking, he had even awoken sprawled across Kalora's throne, with no recollection of how he'd gotten there. That incident had been a wake-up call, prompting him to limit his alcohol consumption, no matter how tempting the numbing effects might be.

Entering the room, Grayden quickly retrieved a towel from the bathroom and gently placed the kittens on the bed. The white one squirmed feebly, but the brown and orange kitten remained disturbingly still. With gentle, determined movements, Grayden began to rub the motionless kitten, trying to stimulate its tiny body back to life. Just as despair began to set in, one eye cracked open, and a pathetic meow escaped its lips. Grayden's heart lightened for a brief moment, a fleeting reminder that even in the darkest times, hope could still flourish.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. “Come in,” he called, carefully wrapping both kittens in the towel.

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