The moon had returned to silver,
but the shadows had not fully left.
Sabian could not stop thinking about Seradyn.
Each night, while the kingdom healed and Aylania helped replant the gardens, he would sit by the edge of the forest, staring into the trees.
He remembered Seradyn’s face — tired, wounded, and not angry anymore, just… lonely.
One evening, Sabian slipped away.
He didn’t tell Aylania.
He didn’t even tell the King.
He followed a quiet path deep into the woods, until he reached the old stone shrine where Seradyn had been taken after the battle — guarded, but no longer chained.
Seradyn sat alone beside a cold fire, his cloak patched, his staff gone. He looked up when Sabian arrived.
“You came,” Seradyn said, voice low.
“I want to understand,” Sabian replied. “Why you did what you did. Why you hate the kingdom so much.”
For a long time, Seradyn said nothing. Then he patted the ground beside him.
“Sit, boy. I’ll tell you a story.”
Night after night, Sabian returned.
He heard stories of Seradyn’s childhood — of how he had once been the King’s friend, a little brother, how he felt cast aside when the royal family grew strong, and how his magic twisted with bitterness.
He spoke of loneliness like it was an old friend.
He never said sorry.
But in between the cold stories and hard truths, something else happened.
Seradyn taught Sabian how to feel the silence in the trees.
How to shape shadow magic — not to harm, but to hide.
How to listen deeper than words.
“You’re more like me than you think,” Seradyn whispered once.
“You want to be seen. Not just as a prince — but as yourself.”
Sabian didn’t answer.
During the day, he felt clear. Strong. Like himself.
But each night, it got harder.
His dreams filled with whispers.
His thoughts tangled like vines.
He began to pull away from the castle.
From Thalen.
From Aylania.
And she noticed.
Aylania stood in the garden, holding a moonflower that refused to bloom.
She hadn’t seen her brother in three days.
“Where are you?” she whispered.
She tried not to cry, but her hands trembled when she placed the flower back into the earth.
That night, she went to Thalen.
“He’s slipping away,” she said. “And I can’t reach him.”
Thalen frowned. “The forest is deep, child.
And some mirrors don’t show your face — they show your fears.”
That same night, Sabian stood beside Seradyn in the shrine, watching the fire crackle.
“You could stay here,” Seradyn said, voice soft and tempting.
“The kingdom only loves the hero they want you to be.
I see who you are.”
Sabian hesitated.
In the flames, he saw his reflection flicker —
but it wasn’t him.
It was a shadow version.
Eyes darker.
Voice colder.
Power blooming where warmth once lived.
He stepped back.
“I came to understand you,” Sabian said slowly. “Not to become you.”
Seradyn’s eyes narrowed. “But I’ve shown you everything.”
“No,” Sabian replied, his voice shaking. “You only showed me what you wanted me to see.”
He turned and ran —
through the trees,
through the shadows,
chasing the moonlight.
Aylania felt it before she saw him —
a soft tug in her chest, like sunlight pushing through a crack in the clouds.
She ran to the forest’s edge just as Sabian stumbled out.
He looked tired. Pale.
But his eyes were clear again.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She didn’t ask questions.
She just hugged him tight.
Back in the shrine, Seradyn sat alone once more.
The fire was out.
The shadows returned.
But for a moment, he had tasted something close to family.
And he missed it more than he cared to admit.