Shadow Cursed by May Sage Page 0,4

something, spewing venom.

I feel like me. Who, and what I used to be. Rystan Drusk. Not his shadow.

And I know why.

“Is everything all right, boss?” Erdun seems unsure how to approach me, sensing a difference in me, no doubt.

I didn’t know him before Whitecroft. As a rakshasa, I think he was half-wild—living on a diet of sprites stupid enough to wander into his territory, more often than not. Now, he stands awkwardly, upright on his four limbs, his pale gray skin covered in soft fur. His mouth is filled with sharp fangs, his amber eyes circled with black shadows, and his flat pink nose gives him a feline air.

I suspect he favored the shape of a tiger in the past.

Most of us aren’t what we used to be.

I nod curtly, and see him hesitate, as though he’d like to press on. He daren’t.

“Report,” I tell Iola, though I don’t need it. I was right alongside her for most of our mission to the Court of Mist.

Vlari’s home. Where she grew up. For years, it had held untold mysteries. I’d have given everything I owned for the pleasure of a visit. I listened to every rumor, read every line I could find about the northernmost unseelie kingdom to the west.

I snuck inside her manor without so much as thinking of her today. Without seeking her rooms, or recalling the one time I crossed the threshold, so long ago, introducing myself to her parents before escorting her to a ball.

A lifetime ago.

This early afternoon, I was still dead. Still unfeeling. Still unbreakable.

Now, I question everything.

I’ve always needed answers; the reason I hadn’t sought them until now was because I suspected they wouldn’t be ones I want to hear.

The semblance of a decision starts to form at the edge of my mind, but I allow myself a few moments to ignore it. After pretending to listen to Iola, I serve myself a bowl of stew, and push the broth around my bowl until there’s no delaying the inevitable.

I stand, bid my companions a good night, and mechanically walk to the one place I’ve avoided for ten years. The one place that’s been drawing me in.

I stop in front of gates manned by a mammoth of a moss-green-skinned troll and a stockier, shorter boggart with pointed teeth smeared with blood. Neither of them could have posed much of a threat to me, but they’re certainly suitable guards. I suspect one would think twice before approaching them with ill intent.

There are thousands of folk in Whitecroft. I suspect I’ve encountered them both once or twice around bonfires, but we haven’t been introduced. If they know who I am, they also know I don’t have any reason to be here, at the gates of my old school that now serves as the high queen’s keep. I’ll have to identify myself and state my purpose here.

My name opens many doors; since the lords of the realm have started coming to me with assignments, the folk see me as someone of import, someone worth befriending. That said, I don’t think either of these guards will be much impressed by me. And what is my purpose, exactly? Demanding answers of the high queen? Asking her how her comatose daughter could have possibly come to a sprite’s aid? Shouting, stomping my foot, threatening until I am heard?

I feel powerless. A state I’ve grown accustomed to, of late.

I glance back, hesitant to turn around.

The troll lifts the heavy, sharp lance in his hand, and hits the ground twice with its dull end. “Rystan Drusk at the gate,” he grunts out loud.

Then to my confusion, he and the boggart at his side both step aside, parting ways to let me enter.

When we first arrived at Whitecroft, the old school was the only edifice in the territory. The high queen, as well as the lower kings and queens of each court, took up residence here while we built more lodgings on the grounds. Now the only resident in these walls is the high queen, Ciera Bane. Vlari’s mother. Though no one but her family lives here, the hall is a constant buzz of activity. It’s where our war council is held, where the leaders decide on rations, work schedules, and ranger patrols.

I don’t approach Whitecroft Hall—ever. Not once in ten years. That means anyone can simply walk in. I dislike this notion.

There should have been questions, possibly a few threats. At the very least, they should have asked their superior whether I’m to