ShadowBound: The Need For Power

After Serah and what remained of her cohort had taken in the full, gut-churning sight of the massacre wrought by the unknown dark mage, they finally called for backup to rendezvous at their location. The transmission had barely gone through before a team of Solara Knights responded—arriving in force within ten minutes, their silver-plated armor shimmering faintly in the re-lit chamber, weapons drawn and ready, only to be greeted not by battle... but by butchery.

Like Serah and her team, the backup squad was stunned by the overwhelming carnage. Blood painted every corner. The sheer magnitude of it left even seasoned veterans wide-eyed beneath their helms. The chamber reeked of copper and death.

Once the initial shock wore off, Serah gave a full debrief—her tone precise, cool, and clipped despite the lingering exhaustion. She reported everything: Blan's betrayal, the unnatural darkness that swallowed the chamber, and the emergence of a second dark mage—an unknown entity, swift and untraceable, responsible for the devastation now littering the floor. Her words were transcribed, recorded, and transmitted to command. Every detail was locked down for further investigation.

Solara's elite archivists began collecting bodies with solemn precision. Dimensional storage scrolls flickered as one corpse after another was sealed away into secured vaults—every Bleeding Smile member reduced to trace data, catalogued, and disappeared into flickering blue light. The caged victims—half-starved, dazed, eyes sunken from days of torment—were rescued and immediately treated by healers, their sobs echoing against stone.

Meanwhile, Serah's cohort was ushered to the side and treated for their minor wounds—scrapes, shallow gashes, bruises earned in the chaos. They resisted fuss, but none argued. Their eyes kept straying to the corpses, as if expecting them to rise again.

As the chamber buzzed with quiet activity, Serah wandered through it all, silent amidst the noise. The thick coat she wore earlier was gone. Now she was clad in just a form-fitting dark shirt—its sleeves rolled up to her elbows—and black tactical pants tucked into worn boots. One button of her shirt was undone, revealing a glimpse of her collarbone.

In this lighting, she walked like a flame given shape—her wavy crimson hair cascading behind her in loose locks, eyes sharp as razors. With her lean build, masculine-cut clothes, and hard-set jaw, she might've been mistaken for a soldier prince rather than a Solara knight—if not for the striking grace of her movement and the beauty that clung to her like a second skin.

'No matter how I turn it over in my mind... how could a single person do all this?' she thought, gaze hard as obsidian as she stared over the battlefield. This wasn't just slaughter... this was art. Precision. Power. Speed. And they left no trace—nothing but ruin.

It burned her. Not just the destruction—but how thoroughly outclassed she had been. The enemy hadn't even hurt them. Hadn't touched them. They'd toyed with her in the dark, danced around her flames like they were nothing, then vanished before she could land a blow.

Her fist clenched unconsciously.

"I'll catch that bastard," she growled under her breath, the words leaking from her lips like heat through cracked stone.

She continued walking, boots splashing softly through shallow pools of blood. Eventually, she came to a halt—standing in front of a familiar corpse.

It was contorted, broken, mangled beyond recognition to most—but Serah recognized it instantly.

Blan.

The traitor.

Half his face had been carved away—bone exposed, skull split. A ragged wound yawned open at the side of his neck. His left arm had been severed clean from the elbow. The foot of his left leg was gone, and the entire right leg was split vertically like a piece of firewood.

She stared down at him—expression unreadable, unreadable except for the cold gleam in her crimson eyes.

There was no remorse.

No pity.

If anything, there was a quiet satisfaction.

Had I done it, she thought darkly, I might've given him a cleaner death. But this... this was fitting.

The hatred she'd felt moments ago for the unknown dark mage softened just slightly—replaced by a twinge of reluctant gratitude.

Whoever that dark sorcerer was—they'd taken care of a snake in her ranks, and made him suffer for it.

Her lips curled into a faint, dangerous smirk.

"I guess I can be thankful for this one," she muttered under her breath.

But then she stopped mid-step. Her body froze, shoulders tensing subtly.

She felt it.

A presence.

Not among the knights. Not among the healers or even the cages.

From the tunnel.

The long, winding tunnel that led into the underground chamber— was still swallowed in shadow.

But within it, Serah felt a faint, subtle but unmistakable presence.

Her heart clenched tight in her chest.

It's them.

The second dark mage.

The one who danced in darkness. The one who turned the tide of battle. The one who left without a trace.

And Serah could feel them.

Her eyes glowed, a subtle flare of myst igniting within them.

"Hey, guys," she called back to her cohort—voice even.

They looked up from where they were being patched up.

"I've got something to take care of. I'll be back," she said coolly.

Before any of them could respond, Serah vanished—engulfed in a burst of fire, disappearing in a streak of embers down the corridor.

They blinked at the space where she had stood.

Jack stretched slightly and sighed. "Guess Princess gave herself overtime."

***

Far beyond the outskirts of Caelmoor, tucked deep within the cradle of a quiet forest, a waterfall whispered its lullaby into a shallow, wide pool. The cascade wasn't massive, but its silver streams broke off into wandering rivulets, carving lazy paths through mossy earth and smooth stones.

Through the hush of leaves and the hum of crickets, a lone figure approached—his steps uneven, a slight limp betraying his state. His silhouette moved like a shadow among the trees, blending with the darkness until the moonlight revealed more.

He was clad in a dark leather shirt and matching pants, both weathered and flecked with grime, tucked into equally dark boots that had seen miles of travel. Draped over it all was a black cloak, its hood pulled over his head like a veil of silence.

He reached the water's edge, boots crunching softly on gravel and stone. With a shallow grunt, he forced himself to sit on a flat rock near the pool, the tension in his limbs giving way to a rare moment of rest.

Breathing slow and shallow, he began to peel off the heavy cloak. The hood fell away first, letting long strands of dark hair cascade down past his shoulders. His lower face, until then hidden behind a strange black mask, was suddenly laid bare—though not with cloth, but with shadows. The mask seemed to unravel into nothingness, dissipating into curling wisps of black mist.

Next came his shirt.

He moved carefully, wincing as he pulled the garment over his head, revealing a lean but solid frame—wiry muscles cut sharp beneath pale skin, marred with old and new scars. The moon hung high above, and in its silver glow, the truth of his condition was made clear.

The man, barely into his twenties by the look of him, sat bloodied and worn. One wound pierced his side, just below the ribs, another was carved across his shoulder, and a third throbbed in his leg. His skin was streaked with blood, his back painted with claw-like scars both faded and fresh. His jawline was sharp, his nose narrow and straight, and his eyes were twin pits of midnight—still, and unreadable.

He clenched his teeth as he straightened his posture, and in that moment, something stirred.

From beneath him, tendrils of pure shadow slithered up like sentient ink, crawling across his body. They slithered toward his wounds, coiling and pulsing with energy as they pressed themselves against torn flesh. The injuries began to close, muscles knitting, blood flow halting. Within seconds, the damage had vanished—erased without trace, as though the battle had never touched him.

With a soft sigh, he exhaled the pain. The shadows receded.

A grin slowly crept onto his lips.

"Damn," he muttered, chuckling to himself, "those bastards were a handful."

Rising from the stone, he ran a hand through his tousled hair and gazed up at the glowing moon above. It bathed the clearing in pale silver, serene and watchful.

He stepped forward, nearing the edge of the pool, his reflection shivering in the ripples. Kneeling, he cupped his hands and splashed water onto his chest and shoulders, rinsing away blood and dirt.

"Tonight's mission was a success," he said aloud, voice low and relaxed, "but I didn't expect the Kingdom's task force to show up." He chuckled again, slower this time. "They made things… complicated. Especially the princess."

His smirk deepened.

"She was feisty. And pretty. Real pretty. Don't you agree, Raven?"

His dark eyes flicked toward a nearby branch.

There, perched high above him, a raven sat—its feathers glossy black, eyes glinting with intelligence. The bird gave him a long look, blinked, and deliberately turned her head away, as if pretending he didn't exist. Her beak opened and closed soundlessly, like she was scolding him in silence.

"Oh, come on," the young man said with a grin. "She's beautiful. Even you can't deny that."

The raven offered no response, ruffling her feathers and remaining firmly unimpressed.

"What? You're not even gonna look at me now?" he said with mock offense, reaching into the pocket of his pants. "Not even if I wanted to give you this?"

He pulled something out—a small, gleaming object that caught the moonlight just right.

A golden mask.

It was shaped like a theatrical smile, unnervingly elegant, and shimmered with enchantment. The moment the raven caught sight of it, her head snapped around like a whip. She locked onto it instantly, eyes wide.

In a blur of black feathers, she dove.

The man laughed, holding out his arm, letting the bird land gracefully on his forearm. Her talons gripped him tightly as she leaned toward the mask, practically vibrating with desire.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Gold lover," he teased.

She tried to peck the mask, but he switched it to his other hand, raising a brow.

"Not so fast. What do you say?"

The raven blinked. Then slowly, her beak parted—and out came a mechanical, almost mystical voice: Love this story? Show your support on M9VLEMPYR.

"Thank… you… Marcus."

Marcus grinned from ear to ear.

"Atta girl," he said softly, and gently placed the golden smile into her claws.

The raven held it proudly, wings lifting slightly in satisfaction.

"Guess it's time to head back to the old man," Marcus muttered, brushing dust from his hands as he stood. The bird launched into the sky with its glittering prize, wings slicing the air as it vanished into the horizon.

Marcus turned to retrieve his shirt, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

Something's coming.

In one swift motion, a short sword of polished steel shimmered into existence in his grip. He spun on instinct—just in time to meet a storm.

BOOM.

A concussive force slammed into him like a runaway beast. Dust and dirt erupted skyward, trees groaned, and a shockwave rippled across the clearing. When it all settled, a deep trench had been carved into the earth, leading to the gnarled roots of an old tree.

And there—beneath its shade—was Marcus, pinned.

A woman straddled him like a predator, her crimson eyes glowing with intent. Red wavy hair spilled down her shoulders, catching the dappled light, and her long blade was bearing down on Marcus's neck with relentless pressure. He gritted his teeth, both arms locked in a desperate defense—his short sword barely holding back the descending blade.

Her other hand held a dagger, trembling just inches from Marcus's eye, only held at bay by his free hand locked around her wrist in a vice grip.

Sweat beaded on his brow. His muscles burned. Their breaths mingled in the small space between them, ragged and sharp.

Then their eyes met—hers blazing with fire, his simmering with shock and recognition.

"Serah Magna," he breathed.

Princess of the Solara Kingdom.

And with a smirk curving on her lips like a blade unsheathed, she whispered, "Got you."