ShadowBound: The Need For Power

After Marcus had left her slumped at the tree trunk, it took less than a minute before four Solara Knights, accompanied by a mage, burst through the dense forest canopy. Their golden armor shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight as they rushed to her side without hesitation, one of them instantly kneeling to check her vitals while the mage began working to seal the wound at her midsection.

As the healing spell washed over her, Serah winced, her body still rattled by the encounter. The commander of the squad—a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard, cropped buzzcut, and a single eye gleaming from beneath a worn eyepatch—stood tall over her, eyes sweeping the surrounding battlefield. When his gaze settled on the twisted corpse of the Blood Demon, his jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted to ask—how the hell did Serah end up fighting one of those alone?—but seeing her drained state, he swallowed the questions and said nothing.

As the final shimmer of the mage's healing spell faded, Serah gave a tired nod. The knights helped her to her feet. Without another word, the group began their slow trek back to Ilis, the remains of the Blood Demon slowly breaking apart, turning to ash that scattered in the night breeze.

***

By the time they reached the gates of the royal palace in Ilis under the shadow of night, Serah didn't speak to anyone. She moved quietly, her expression unreadable, and headed straight for her quarters. Her limbs were heavy with exhaustion, her mind even heavier.

She didn't bother changing—just collapsed onto her bed, letting the warmth of the sheets swallow her whole.

As dawn broke over the gleaming city of Ilis, sunlight filtered lazily through the high-arched windows of her room. Golden beams slanted across the bed, painting her resting form in soft light. Her red waves spilled over the pillow, wild and tangled.

The warmth of the morning sun crept across her cheek, coaxing a faint frown. Serah grumbled under her breath and turned her head away, trying to escape the light.

Then came the knock—steady and rhythmic against the wood.

She groaned and shifted under the covers. "Come in," she mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep.

The door opened with a quiet creak as a woman entered—early thirties, refined posture, clad in a crisp black and white maid uniform. She stepped lightly, stopping just short of Serah's bed.

"Princess," the maid said gently, her voice laced with calm professionalism.

Serah let out a muffled sound, face still half-buried in her pillow.

"The King has requested your presence," the maid added with more firmness.

That made Serah crack an eye open. One crimson iris peeked out, locking lazily onto the maid at the foot of the bed. With a soft groan, she rolled onto her back and stretched her limbs, joints popping faintly. She sat at the edge of the bed, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

Rubbing her face, Serah dragged her fingers through the mess of her hair, scratching at her scalp before slowly rising to her feet. As she moved toward the bathroom, she began unbuttoning her shirt without a second thought.

"Where is he?" she asked, pausing at the bathroom door.

"In his study, as usual, princess," the maid replied smoothly.

Serah gave a nod, stifling a yawn. "Tell him I'll be there in a few minutes," she said before stepping inside and closing the door behind her with a soft click.

The maid gave a small bow to the empty room, then turned and exited quietly, the soft sound of the door shutting behind her.

***

Steam curled thick and lazy across the tall mirror, fogging its surface with every passing second as scalding water cascaded from the marble faucet. Serah stood beneath the deluge, unmoving, eyes closed, palms pressed flat against the slick tiled wall. The torrent flowed in rivulets over her bare shoulders, traced the slope of her spine, and spilled down her legs—washing away the blood, the grime, and dried sweat crusted to her skin.

But no amount of hot water could rinse away memory.

It clung tighter than blood ever could.

Her thoughts kept circling, looping without mercy—dragging her back into the thicket of the forest. The Bleeding Smile. That serene waterfall clearing. The Redblood. And Marcus.

That insufferable, grinning bastard.

Her jaw clenched, and she let out a low breath, tilting her head back beneath the pounding stream. The water beat against her face like a cleansing storm, but it couldn't numb the phantom pain blooming in her side—dull now, nearly gone, but its ghost pulsed beneath the skin where the crimson spike had torn her open. She exhaled again, slower this time, a flicker of frustration twitching at her brow.

When her skin no longer carried the stink of smoke and scorched air, she shut the water off. Droplets rolled down her body, and the chill of the air rushed to meet her as she stepped from the marble stall. A black velvet robe waited, plush and warm. She slipped into it, cinching the waist as her damp red hair clung to her back in dripping strands.

Crossing the mist-filled room, she wiped a hand across the mirror's face, clearing a streak.

And stared.

Crimson eyes stared back—hollow, rimmed with exhaustion, but not broken. There was something else there too. Something still burning, quietly.

She leaned closer, brushing a lock of wet hair from her cheek.

"...Purebloods," she murmured, the word tasting foreign on her tongue.

She didn't know what twisted her gut more—that Marcus clearly had knowledge she didn't... or the inconvenient truth that she wanted to find him again. If not for answers, then just—

Her brow furrowed deeper.

"Ugh," she groaned, dragging her fingers across her temples and rubbing the tension from her brow.

Ten minutes later, she emerged from her chambers dressed sharply in the formal uniform of the Solaran elite: phantom-black battlewear adorned with gold-lined seams, the fitted leather coat brushing just below her thighs. Her red hair was tied loosely at the nape, and her crimson eyes were sharpened now, alive with focus.

The marble corridors of the royal estate stretched wide and tall, every inch echoing with polished grace and quiet power. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting colored light across her path. Guards bowed as she passed; servants lowered their gazes. Courtiers whispered behind gloved hands.

She ignored them all.

Her boots clicked in rhythm as she approached the far wing—the King's study. The old blackwood door stood slightly ajar, the scent of parchment, ink, and steeped tea wafting through like a memory.

She knocked once, a polite formality, then stepped inside.

The room was cavernous, lit with floating globes of arcane light and stacked floor-to-ceiling with tomes and scrolls. At the center, behind an obsidian desk carved with Solaran runes, sat her father—Tharion Magna, King of Solara. His posture regal, fingers ink-stained, expression unreadable. Sharp cheekbones framed a face carved by both age and wisdom, and his red eyes flicked up to meet hers as she entered.

"How are you feeling?" he asked without lifting his head from the parchment.

"Better than last night," Serah replied smoothly, hands folding behind her back with a practiced ease.

"That's good to hear."

The room lapsed into a moment of silence, broken only by the faint rustle of parchment. Then Tharion leaned back in his chair, finally setting the quill down, his crimson gaze narrowing ever so slightly as he studied his daughter.

"I read the report from last night's operation at the Bleeding Smile hideout."

Serah remained still, offering nothing.

He continued. "Blan's betrayal almost cost you your life. Your team's lives. But as fate would have it—if we can call it that—an unknown dark mage appears and single-handedly wipes out the entire Bleeding Smile. Including Marrow Jyn. All right under your noses. Is that report accurate?"

There was a beat of pause.

"Yes," Serah said, voice even.

Tharion's gaze remained fixed on her, his tone carefully measured.

"Well, fortune favors the bold, I suppose. The Bleeding Smile is no more, which means we no longer have to worry about our people being kidnapped, tortured, and left looking like butchered livestock. That much is a relief."

He paused, voice sharpening slightly.

"But let's not romanticize it. This 'dark mage' may have killed his own, but that doesn't make him different. Not to me. If anything, it could've just been a move to clear competition. A turf war in the shadows."

Still, Serah said nothing.

After a moment, Tharion leaned forward, folding his hands over the desk.

"Now... care to explain what compelled you to abandon your cohort after reinforcements had already arrived at Caelmoor? Only to be found later, alone, at the outskirts—fresh from a fight with a Blood Demon?"

His voice was calm, but his eyes gleamed like twin blades.

Serah inhaled softly, then spoke.

"When the Bleeding Smile bodies were being recovered, I sensed the familiar presence of the dark mage and I decided to follow it. Tracked it into Caelmoor, but he moved faster than I expected, and before I realized it, I'd crossed into the outskirts."

"I considered calling for backup, but once I saw that he was injured, I acted to detain him. However, before I could engage with him properly, a Blood Demon appeared—pursuing him, from what I witnessed. But he managed to escaped, making me the new target for the demon."

She delivered the words cleanly, with no tremble or overexplaining.

Tharion stared at her for a long moment, searching for a crack. But all he found was a controlled flame.

"Well," he said at last, leaning back with a soft exhale, "I wouldn't put it past a dark mage to orchestrate something like that. Perhaps it was all a trap. Lure the Solaran princess into a fight she couldn't win and let the Blood Demon finish what he couldn't."

He paused.

"But clearly, he underestimated my daughter."

His voice was quiet pride.

Serah allowed herself the barest smirk.

"Now then," Tharion said, straightening once more. "Did you notice any features? Mannerisms? Anything at all that might help us identify this dark mage in a crowd?"

"Nothing useful," Serah replied. "He wore a mask. His fighting style was exactly what I've come to expect from his kind. Unrefined, brutal, and barbaric."

Tharion scoffed, shaking his head. "Of course. Nothing new."

He reached for another sheet of parchment, scanning it idly.

"In any case, good work. You and your team held your own, and you returned alive, at least some of you. Take the week off. Rest. And also, your brother, Galen, returns from the Crimson Knight Academy today for his break. I'd like you to greet him at the gates."

Serah nodded. "Understood."

"You may go."

With that, she turned crisply on her heel and stepped out of the study, the echo of her boots vanishing down the corridor behind her.