ShadowBound: The Need For Power

Midnight cloaked Heyh in velvet shadows, the opulence of its streets dimmed beneath a hazy moon. Even the air felt quieter—still perfumed, still clean—but no longer welcoming.

Serah crouched in the alleyway just outside the eastern district, her crimson hair braided back tight beneath a hood. Beside her, Kael scanned the rooftops with a compact spyglass, muttering, "Patrols light. Two guards doing lazy loops near the front gate. They're definitely bored."

"Good," Serah said, her voice a low whisper. "Let's keep it that way."

Behind them, Elira clutched a small orb pulsing faint blue—her myst tracker calibrated to detect any irregular flow. Myla and Jorin flanked the rear, blades sheathed in leather, every step muffled.

Their target stood just ahead: Warehouse Seventeen, one of Drosmir's many "distribution centers" for imported goods. To most, it was a spice and textile depot. But the manifests didn't match weight logs. That alone made it suspicious.

"Break-in point?" Serah asked.

Myla tapped the side of the building, a section just out of lantern view. "South wall. Loose stones. We slip through there."

Jorin pulled back the thin layer of enchanted plaster covering a narrow crawlspace. They entered one by one quietly and carefully.

Inside, the warehouse swallowed them in stale, earthy darkness.

Stacks of crates reached toward the high rafters. The scent of cinnamon and dried herbs clung to the air, masking something faintly bitter beneath—like rusted metal.

Kael slipped past Serah, silently unlocking a side panel and cracking open a crate lid. "Spices," he muttered. "Standard. Stamped and sealed."

"Check for false bottoms," Serah whispered. "Jorin—lift the floor planks in the back. Elira, get your readings running."

For the next hours, the squad worked like shadows in slow motion—prying, shifting, and scanning.

Elira knelt near the center of the floor, her orb now glowing a soft green. "Leylines here are natural. No myst rerouting and no barrier glyphs. If there's dark myst here, it's not active."

Serah moved toward the northern wall, brushing her fingers along the stone. Her instincts whispered that something was wrong—but the warehouse remained frustratingly ordinary. Not even a drop of forbidden energy.

Jorin whispered from the far side, "Found a hatch—but it leads nowhere. Just cold stone beneath."

Myla added, "No hidden rooms. No blood trails. Not even a scent of fear. This place is legit. Or scrubbed clean."

Serah clenched her jaw. "Drosmir wouldn't store slaves or evidence this close to the upper ring, right?"

"Unless he somehow is aware that his secret is out and already moved everything," Kael said. "Smart bastard like him? He's probably three steps ahead."

Then—

Clang.

A loud metallic sound echoed from outside the building, as footsteps followed, then voices.

"Shit," Myla hissed. "Guards."

Kael darted to the far wall and peeked through a slit. "Four of them. Lanterns. Heading this way."

"Any elite?" Serah asked.

"Not yet. But we stay, we risk getting boxed in."

Serah nodded once. "We leave. Same way we came. Quiet and fast."

The squad moved with precision, vanishing into the shadows they had slithered in through. Just as the warehouse doors creaked open behind them, Serah was the last to duck back into the alley.

They didn't stop running until they were six blocks away, back inside the safety of their hideout walls.

Breathless, Kael pulled down his hood and groaned. "Another dead end. That's three now."

Elira shook her head. "He's either too careful… or we're looking in the wrong places."

Serah leaned against the cold stone, heart still racing. Her mind screamed for answers. The frustration scraped at her ribs like broken glass.

"He's hiding something," she said quietly. "I know he is. And I swear to the gods, I'll tear Heyh brick by brick if I have to find it."

No one disagreed.

***

Later on, as the golden rays of dawn spilled over the rooftops of the city of Heyh, Serah found herself walking amongst its waking populace. The city was stirring with life—merchants opening stalls, guards changing shifts, and common folk going about their morning routines. She moved with calm ease, blending into the rhythm of the streets, her eyes quietly scanning for anything that might help unravel the tangled threads leading to Drosmir.

She wore her usual black leather pants, the material fitted and worn to comfort, tucked neatly into a pair of heeled boots that gave her a commanding stride. A plain white long-sleeved shirt clung to her frame, one button purposefully left undone to breathe. Over it, a long, dark coat trailed slightly behind her with each step. The coat wasn't flashy, but it added a noble weight to her presence.

Today, however, she had chosen to tame her usually free-flowing hair. Instead of letting it cascade wildly like the tempest she was known to be in battle, she had tied it into a tight, braided ponytail that swung lightly behind her. The look made her seem different, more civilian, almost distant from the version of herself that danced in flames and steel.

Though Serah was of royal blood—the princess of the grand Solara Kingdom—that identity rarely found its way into the mouths of others. She had made sure of that. In most circles and military gatherings, she was referred to as a high-ranking knight among the Solara forces. A respected position, a feared title, and a perfect cover.

That subtle shield of anonymity made this infiltration smoother than it would have been if her lineage had been common knowledge. Here in Heyh, her face was just another among the crowd. And in this dance of secrets, that anonymity was her greatest weapon.

***

Serah's steps took her eventually toward the outskirts of Heyh, where a new storage structure was being erected under Drosmir's authority. She approached the construction site with silent steps, her gaze sharp but casual. The place buzzed with laborers—sweaty, tired men hauling timber, laying stone, and shouting orders over the grind of tools.

"Get that slab up before midday, or you're all sleeping on gravel!"

The voice came from a platform perched high on rickety supports. Hendel. Round as a barrel, sweat soaking through a stained tunic, scroll in one hand like a relic, and a chipped cane in the other. He waved both with the air of someone born to command but unworthy of the title.

A nearby worker, red in the face and coated in dust, muttered beneath his breath, "He ever lift anything heavier than his damn ego?"

Another scoffed. "Bet his boots got more polish than the palace floors."

A low chuckle rippled between them, fading quickly as Hendel glanced down with narrowed eyes.

"What was that?" he barked. "Speak up, Navic!"

The man—Navic—grinned thinly and wiped sweat from his brow. "Just admirin' your commandin' tone, sir. Like poetry, really."

"Then shut up and get back to lifting before I write you a sonnet of unemployment."

The other workers snorted, and the hammering resumed.

Serah watched it all from a distance, leaning against the side of a fractured stone arch. Her arms crossed.

'They're being overworked and underpaid. Obvious from their pacing and posture. And they don't respect him. That's dangerous and perfect honestly. He's the type who'd crack under pressure and sell anyone out to save his own skin. If Drosmir's hiding something here… Hendel would be the weakest link. But still… nothing.'

Her eyes scanned the site.

'No one's using myst here. Not openly. And the material's all common. If Drosmir's laundering dark trade through this place, he's either brilliantly subtle or this is just a red herring.'

She tracked the path of workers moving timber to the back—saw how they avoided the northwest corner. Not with fear but with boredom.

'They're not hiding anything. If there were trapdoors, vaults, anything… there'd be signs. Magic traces. Movement at night. This? This is just a shell. Probably distraction.'

Her gaze flicked to the scaffolding rising beside the half-built wall.

'The timing doesn't match either. Drosmir doesn't need this much storage. Not with the others he already owns. So what's the play? Is this a decoy? Is he waiting for something?'

***

After keeping watch over the site for another full hour, Serah finally exhaled a heavy sigh and pushed herself off the wall she'd been leaning against. Her gaze lingered on the barren ruins one last time, eyes scanning every inch of it as if hoping for something—anything—to change.

"This is a dead end. Can't waste any more time here. And besides, I feel hungry," she muttered under her breath, voice edged with frustration as her boots crunched softly against the cracked stone floor while she began to walk away.

But just as she turned, a shiver crept up her spine.

She froze.

There it was—that feeling. That unmistakable, lingering weight in the air. A presence she had fought so damn hard to remember... and even harder to find.

A presence that had kept her up at night and taunted her mind for the last four long months.

The presence of him.

The insufferable dark mage.

Marcus.