Chapter Fifty-One: The Bloodline of Shadows
Tarn stood at the edge of the city, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The Serpent's words continued to echo in his ears, a constant reminder of the greater forces at play. But as the night deepened, so did his resolve.
The kingdom was crumbling, its foundation shaken by the hidden hands of traitors, both within and beyond the walls. The Serpent's influence was spreading, and Caedren—though strong—was not invincible. Not yet. Tarn knew better than to underestimate the reach of ancient power. It did not knock loudly—it seeped like oil into the cracks.
He stood atop a ridge overlooking the southern gate, where the road curved eastward toward the old ruins of Aevoncrest. Below, the wind stirred the torches of the outer watchmen. Even from this distance, he could see the unease in their movements. Tension was in the air, thick and unrelenting.
"Lord Tarn."
A voice cut through the silence, low and steady. Tarn turned sharply, hand instinctively moving toward his sword. The speaker emerged from the veil of trees behind him, cloaked in darkness, the hood of their mantle obscuring their face.
The figure stepped forward, calm, deliberate. "You're looking for answers," they said. "But the answers you seek are far darker than you realize."
Tarn's grip tightened. The voice stirred a memory, a half-forgotten echo of another time. He drew his sword slowly, the sound of steel scraping leather cold in the night air. "Who are you?"
The figure paused. Then, with a deliberate motion, they lowered their hood.
A familiar face looked back at him.
Tarn's heart stopped. His breath caught in his throat. The firelight of a nearby lantern flickered just enough to reveal her features fully.
"Lysa," Tarn whispered. "I thought you were dead."
Lysa's smile was cold—measured and distant, like something learned rather than felt. "I was. Until they brought me back."
He took a step forward, disbelief etched into every line of his face. Her eyes were the same stormy grey he remembered, but there was something in them now—something darker, ancient, watching him from behind her gaze. "This can't be real. I buried you myself. I saw your blood on the snow."
"Yes," she said. "You buried what I was. But not what I am."
The wind stirred her cloak as she looked toward the distant Bastion. "The Serpent has shown me what lies beneath all of this. The wars, the thrones, the crowns—they're distractions. This kingdom sits atop something older. Something buried in blood and forgotten by time."
Tarn shook his head, his voice low with warning. "You're speaking in riddles. Whatever they did to you, I can help undo it. This isn't who you are."
"Isn't it?" she said, her tone almost curious. "Who we are is shaped by what we survive. And I survived death, Tarn. I came back with my eyes open."
A silence stretched between them, filled only by the whisper of leaves and the far-off howl of a wolf.
Lysa stepped closer, her voice softer now. "You always searched for truth. Even when it was dangerous. That hasn't changed. But you never understood what truth demands."
Tarn's jaw tightened. "I understand more than you think. Enough to know the Serpent is poisoning everything Caedren's trying to build."
"Caedren..." She lingered on the name. "He walks a path of fire. And fire consumes. Whether he falls or rises depends on what he's willing to sacrifice."
Tarn raised his sword slightly. "And what about you? Are you his enemy now?"
Lysa looked at the blade, then at him, unfazed. "I'm no one's enemy. Not yet. But there are others who would tear him down—not for what he's done, but for what he is."
"What he is?"
"A thread in a tapestry he cannot see. One marked by a bloodline older than the throne. Older than the Ashen Oath."
The words struck Tarn like a blow. "You're talking about the Bloodline of Shadows. The old legends."
She nodded slowly. "Not legends. History, hidden beneath layers of lies. A pact made in darkness. A promise sealed in blood. And Caedren carries it. Whether he knows it or not."
Tarn lowered his sword an inch, the weight of her words rooting him in place. "What do you want from me, Lysa?"
She stepped into the moonlight, her expression suddenly vulnerable. "I want you to survive what's coming. And I want you to choose the right side. Because soon, the lines will blur, and when they do, you'll have to decide whether to follow the man you swore to protect—or the truth that might destroy him."
Tarn stared at her, torn between a thousand questions. But before he could speak again, she was already moving back into the shadows.
"Wait!" he called, taking a step forward.
She turned just once, her cloak stirring like smoke. "Remember what I said, Tarn. This kingdom is more than a crown. It's a wound. And the bloodline runs deep."
Then she vanished.
Tarn stood alone, sword at his side, the night pressing in around him.
The bloodline of shadows had been whispered in old texts, dismissed as myth by scholars and mocked by priests. But now, it was real. And it lived within the king.
As the first hints of dawn crept over the city walls, Tarn Virell knew the world would never be the same again.