The day bled into dusk too quickly within the palace of Nocturne.
The crimson sky dimmed to indigo, and shadows crept from every corner as though the sun itself feared to linger here. Elara stood by her window, staring out at the black gardens where pale silver trees swayed without wind. The air shimmered faintly alive, watching.
Every so often, she thought she heard a whisper.
A soft voice, feminine and mournful, weaving through the stone.
At first, she thought it was her imagination. But then the whisper formed words.
"He wears the crown of the dead… and his heart of glass."
Elara shivered and stepped back from the window.
The palace didn't sleep.
It murmured, breathed, listened.
And somewhere deep within it, something ancient was stirring.
Later that evening, the maid returned to escort her to what she called "the gathering."
No explanation. No hint of what waited beyond the massive obsidian doors.
They opened with a groan that sounded like a sigh from the grave.
Inside lay a great hall filled with candlelight but no warmth. The nobles of the Shadow Court stood in silent ranks, each face masked by silver veils. Jewels gleamed faintly on their robes, but their eyes… their eyes were hollow.
As Elara stepped inside, their gazes turned toward her in eerie unison.
A man whispered to his companion, "The new tribute."
Another chuckled softly, "She won't last a moon."
Their laughter was like knives dipped in silk.
At the far end of the hall sat Lucien on his throne, draped in shadow and faint red light. His crown shimmered faintly, forged of black metal that pulsed with faint veins of light like blood caught in glass.
"Come forward," his voice commanded, smooth but heavy with power.
Elara hesitated, her heart hammering. She could feel every gaze upon her as she took each step.
Lucien's eyes found hers dark as the night sky, yet burning with something she couldn't name.
When she finally stopped before the throne, he rose. The shadows bent with him, moving like living things.
"This is Elara of Velin," Lucien said, his voice echoing through the hall. "The chosen tribute of the Year of Eclipse."
The nobles murmured, their whispers rustling like dry leaves.
Lucien's gaze sharpened. "Kneel."
She obeyed reluctantly, but without defiance. The air thickened, humming with unseen energy.
Lucien extended a gloved hand. "The bond must be sealed."
Her breath caught. "Bond?"
Before she could ask further, he touched her forehead lightly. The contact burned cold and hot all at once.
Symbols flared to life beneath her skin, winding like molten light across her wrist before fading into faint silver scars.
"What….what is this?" she whispered, clutching her hand.
Lucien's eyes softened almost imperceptibly. "A mark of protection… and of possession."
The hall erupted in murmurs.
Elara's eyes widened. "Possession?"
"You belong to the palace now," he said quietly. "And it will not harm what is mine."
That night, Elara couldn't sleep again.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his gaze the strange grief behind his control, the weight of something he carried alone.
But she also saw the mark on her wrist glowing faintly, pulsing in rhythm with something deep in the walls.
When midnight came, the whispers returned.
This time, louder.
"He was not born of shadow… He became it."
"Beware the night of whispers. The curse listens too."
Elara sat up sharply. "Who's there?"
The candles flickered.
A figure stood in the doorway tall, unmoving.
Lucien.
He didn't knock. He didn't need to. The door had opened for him on its own.
"You shouldn't wander alone," he said, his tone calm but heavy.
"I wasn't wandering," she replied. "Your palace is speaking to me."
Lucien's brow furrowed. "What did it say?"
She hesitated. "That you weren't born of shadow. You became it."
The air stilled.
Lucien's face darkened not with anger, but something far older. Pain. "The palace remembers too much," he said at last.
Then he turned toward the window. "You heard it because you are bound now. You and this palace share a thread."
"Why me?" she whispered.
Lucien didn't answer immediately. "Because light does not belong here," he said finally, his voice softer now. "And yet, it came anyway."
The silence between them stretched, fragile as glass.
Then, without warning, a deep rumble shook the room. The walls trembled, and faint red mist seeped from the cracks in the floor.
Lucien's eyes flared crimson. "Stay behind me."
The mist coiled, forming vague human shapes that wailed in agony faces twisted in sorrow, reaching for her.
"The spirits of the fallen tributes," Lucien said grimly. "The curse wakes with hunger."
He raised his hand, and the shadows obeyed. They swept through the room like a storm, devouring the wraiths until only silence remained.
When the light returned, Elara was on her knees, trembling.
Lucien turned back to her. His eyes no longer glowed, but his breath was ragged the act had cost him strength.
He extended a hand to her. "Now you see," he murmured. "The crown is not power, Elara. It is punishment."
Her fingers brushed his as she took his hand. For a heartbeat, the mark on her wrist burned and in that moment, she saw it.
A vision.
A battlefield drowned in blood and light. A young Lucien kneeling beside a dying goddess, his hand covered in her golden blood as he made a vow:
"If darkness takes you, then let it take me too."
Elara gasped, the image vanishing as quickly as it came.
Lucien looked at her sharply. "What did you see?"
She hesitated. "Nothing… just light."
He studied her, as if sensing the lie, but said nothing.
Instead, he turned toward the door. "Rest, Elara. Tomorrow, the palace will test you again."
He paused at the threshold, his voice low. "Do not answer if it calls your name."
And then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a sigh like a whisper fading into the dark.