“That would be a ‘not’.” Nefari’s nose wrinkles, and this time, she narrows her eyes at Patrix. She hates it when he calls her ‘little shadow.’ She much prefers the other nickname he had dubbed her when they met ten years ago at the entrance of Kadoka City. Fari is what he had nicknamed her, and it’s what nearly everyone else in the mountains has adapted since then. She likes it much better, for she sounds more fearsome than she feels on the inside.
Indeed, Nefari is Fate-blessed, a fact she promptly ignores and a fact others have begun to push on her. Fate was a fool for giving his magic to her and destroying himself in the process. She is only one girl – one woman, barely eighteen. Nothing is going to save this realm, especially not her. That sort of thinking is what got her parents killed and their kingdom destroyed.
His hooves click together. “Ah. There’s a bit of that temper I remember. For a moment, I feared you had turned into a stiff like the rest of the Kadoka centaurs.”
“I’ll show you temper,” Nefari growls.
A villager behind them makes a shushing sound. “Are you trying to get us killed?” the man asks.
They ignore him.
Patrix dips his head, and the tip of his messy beard touches his exposed and hairy collarbone. His lips barely move as he sternly says, “No magic. Remember what Bastian said.”
A small, sly grin spreads across Nefari’s lips. Bastian had warned against it, but defying the centaur leader – the Rebel Legion’s leader – is her favorite pastime.
“Fate is inside you, Nefari,” Bastian had said when they left Kadoka City yesterday. “Your magic is the only thing that can kill a wraith. As you are our most valuable weapon, you are also our most dangerous. If she were to find you . . .”
Nefari shakes Bastian’s warning from her mind. “Bastian says a lot of things these days. That doesn’t mean I have to listen to them. I’m an adult and, therefore, no longer someone he needs to hover over and protect. Besides, I’m already using magic to hide my features. What’s a little more?”
And Nefari is glad for it. If these men were to realize who and what she is . . .
Nefari’s magic is a gift from the stars – a sort of magic that hasn’t been seen for centuries, according to Swen Copsteel, the old and wise records keeper of Kadoka City. It’s bright and hot, and if she wields it correctly, she can cast shadows and shape them to her will, including across her own features. It isn’t enough to make her look entirely like a new person, but it’s enough to shade her tell-tale shadow people features – white hair and ice-blue eyes – until she appears like any other ordinary human.
If she were to someday forget she had this magic shrouding her face, her enemies would know more than her race. They’d know the secret she keeps, for she is the Shadow Princess long thought dead. The very Shadow Princess the Queen of Salix sought to destroy the day she invaded her people’s kingdom.
“Fari,” Patrix chastises. “Cut your nonsense. If I so much as see light dancing at your fingertips, I will dump you in the river, soldiers with pointy sticks be damned.” He glances at the oncoming storm. “That much magic will bring the wraiths. It is what Bastian warned you of, and you know it.”
Grumbling under her breath, Nefari straightens her spine and sags her shoulders. “Fine,” she relents. She searches the surrounding trees and then studies each soldier dragging more and more villagers to the collective captives. At least, the villagers have kept quiet about who and why she and Patrix were there.
One woman, in particular, holds Nefari’s attention. She grinds her teeth as she watches this woman being dragged along the path by her brown hair. The person dragging her is one of Nefari’s own kind – a shadow person turned harvestman. And in this shadow person’s eyes is the vacant look Nefari always sees in all who were unfortunate enough to be touched by a wraith. They see nothing. They’re playthings to a greater mastermind, to the Queen of Salix and her continued push to rule the entire realm.
All shadow people have two forms. One is humanoid, and the other is shadow form. For a decade, she hasn’t seen a single shadow person shift to their shadow form. Not since the Shadow Kingdom fell. No one dares because it’s magic, and magic is detected by the wraiths. These wraiths prowl the skies until they feel the magic pulse in the atmosphere, and then they’re drawn to it. It takes seconds for them to harvest the magic wielder and anyone unfortunate enough to stand beside them. It is their sole purpose to ensure all the power is sitting on Salix’s throne and nowhere else. Magic is Salix’s bane, and any shadow person left unharvested is a threat.
The shadow form is a beautiful form, though. Nefari misses the black skin that sparkles like a galaxy. She still sees it in her dreams, but those harvested never wear it, for reason’s Nefari isn’t privy to. She remembers it all though; the shadow jumping, the great tales of shadow royal magic, and the messages she would sometimes get from her parents, sent through the shadows. She tries to not think about it.
The woman being dragged along screams and kicks. She’s making such a ruckus that every soldier turns or glances briefly to watch the scene unfold. The soldier who had been glaring at Nefari chuffs and marches over to her and the harvestman. He raises his hand and strikes the woman across the face. The force of the hit causes the harvestman to release his burden, and the woman drops to the ground, clutching her face.
The harvestman doesn’t flinch. His expressionless eyes look down on the woman, and his long white hair sways in the snowy gale.
Nefari’s blood boils, and she feels her magic rising to the surface.
“Fari,” Patrix warns as Nefari’s fingers clench into fists in her lap. “Wait for the others to arrive. Do nothing. Sit still and –”
The crooked-nosed soldier strikes the woman again. His face is twisted in amusement, and a blaze of white-hot anger travels through Nefari’s bones. “I can’t,” she growls.
A sliver of her starlight magic seeps out of the skin of her hands. The falling snow obscures its brightness, but it’s only enough to burn away the rope binding her wrists. The rope disintegrates to ash, and Nefari leaps from her seat on the ground. She dashes to the soldier and tackles him in the midst of kicking the woman’s ribs.
With a thud, Nefari lands on top of the man and quickly scrambles to straddle him. His sword’s pommel digs painfully into her inner thigh, but she squeezes her legs as tight as she can to keep him still.
“Run!” she tells the woman still lying, gaping, on the snow. Then, she draws the short knife from the soldier’s hip and presses it to his throat. Nefari leans close to the man’s face and snarls, “Move, and this blade will touch your spine.”
The woman struggles to stand, and in those precious seconds, the harvestman recaptures her.
Still with the captives on the sidelines, Patrix Eiling battles his binds as he watches Nefari threaten the soldier. By the Divine, this woman is going to get him and everyone else killed! The older she gets, the more unpredictable she becomes. He should have known better than to request her for this mission. The last time they were involved with liberating a village of invading soldiers, she had been reckless, too. At the time, he had thought it was a youthful outburst, but now he knows that isn’t true.