Shadow Touched

19. FINCH

May it please His Majesty,

It is my humble duty to be the bearer of unfortunate news,

By the time you receive this letter, I believe I shall be dead. The Gloaming has found us in Moxbare.

The frost moved in at an exceeding pace, freezing the lands and spoiling the crops and animals. Before I could register what was happening, the Shadow-Touched overtook the province, laying waste to the northern towns of Loxbridge and Mendhallow. I regret to inform you that the small village of Slybury is no more. All living—human and animal—are dead.

As I write, two Shadowed lay siege outside the provincial keep. I am sending this message, along with three others, with my fastest messengers. To ensure their success escapes, I will remain behind for fear of slowing them down.

I have the honour to remain, Sir, Your Majesty's most humble servant,

Lord Havis of Moxbare,

Sic pugnare, ut vivere

~*~

Entering the War Room, I expected King Vincent would have convened the War Council. I anticipated Prince Greyling would be there, pushing for action—knowing full well what Solditch is capable of.

What I did not expect was the tension and fear emanating from each person there—all directed towards Grey.

When his eyes met mine, I choked down a gasp. Leached of all colour, they were bottomless pits of swirling darkness. His body—his very being—somehow felt bigger as it sucked all the air from the room. He stood proud and powerful. A subtle sneer on his lips. Hatred and disgust rolled off him in big, sweeping waves.

The cold, flatness of his voice sent shivers down my spine. It was more terrifying than the pits of darkness that were once his eyes. When he spoke, frigid puffs blew from his lips, freezing the room, even though a fire burned hot in the corner.

Though the threat of Solditch hung over the room, it was clear he—Grey—was the danger. When he turned on me, I was prepared to fight to protect myself, the King, and Greyling. Before he raised his hand, the shadow ripped from his throat, and then all of his bravado, the unexpected power he exuded, left. It was so surprising that no one had time to stop his body as it collapsed, hitting the floor with a loud thud.

Now, I stand helpless, watching as she tries to assess Grey, who protests against her, his cheeks red with embarrassment.

The tension in the room wanes. I, however, remain on high alert. I've seen those shadows in his eyes before. I felt that change—the danger within it. I went to King Vincent weeks earlier, worried about Grey. He admitted seeing the shadows, too. He knows what it means. Still, he takes no action. Too afraid of more truths escaping the castle and travelling the country in loud whispers.

The Gloaming never stopped. It's been in stasis, on hold. Those shadows we saw in Grey five years ago never left. They've been dormant. Now, they're rising again, responding to their master's call. I don't know why they don't drive him to bloodthirsty madness like every other Shadow Touched, but I have a theory. Well, General Roman's theory, really.

Deri is terrifyingly strong. Her hands move fast and efficiently as she checks Grey's pulse, temperature, and eyes, which I note are bloodshot and beleaguered. His blonde hair that he normally keeps brushed back off his face falls limply around it, like a heavy curtain. She mutters to herself, making note of his unsteadiness, the weakness in his hands.

Greyling attempts to brush off the healer's ministrations as she goes about her work, although to no avail. He gives in, begrudgingly allowing her to assess him, until suddenly he's not. His red-rimmed eyes roll back in his head and then snap forward, but they are no longer the sea blue colour that makes courtiers swoon. They are the black before nightfall, filled with darkness and a viciousness, unlike anything I've ever seen. They are the eyes of a complete stranger. Slowly, cooly, they survey the room. Taking in Deri, her assistants, the King, Welland, when finally they land on me.