The Land of Oma never greeted me with silence.
It greeted me with joy and hugs.
Stone exhaled heat beneath my boots as I crossed the outer gate. Sunlight spilled over the terraced walls, catching on banners dyed deep crimson and ash-black, their sigils snapping softly in the breeze.
People filled the streets.
Not crowds—my people.
They noticed me the way Earth notices gravity. Heads turned. Conversations bent. Children froze mid-run before being yanked back by worried mothers. Veterans straightened instinctively, hands brushing old scars, eyes sharp with recognition.
"Prince Oma," someone whispered.
Others bowed. Some placed fists over their hearts. A few smiled—small, private smiles meant only for me.
I returned none of it openly.
The armor I wore was light, shadow-woven, drinking in the sun instead of reflecting it. The twin daggers at my hips rested easily, familiar as breath. My cloak moved when there was no wind, black fabric folding in on itself like a living thing.
Every step forward carried weight.
This land had once been refugees and ash. Now it was stone and iron and defiance. I could hear it in the sound of boots on the road—steady, unafraid. In the rhythm of hammers striking metal deeper in the city. In the cadence of voices that did not flinch when soldiers passed.
I walked through the central avenue toward the palace, my shadow stretching long ahead of me, thinner than it should have been. It twitched when I passed beneath archways, reacting to angles of light no one else noticed.
The palace gates stood open.
They always did when Everlyn ruled.
That absence struck me before anyone spoke.
I felt it in the way the guards stood—alert, yes, but uneasy. In the way the courtyard sounded wrong, the echoes too open, too hollow.
I stopped one of the sentries with a raised hand.
"Where is the Queen," I asked.
The man stiffened. His gaze flicked briefly toward the palace interior, then away.
"She… left at dawn, my prince."
Everlyn did not leave.
Not ever.
The air around me tightened.
"Where."
The guard swallowed. "The mountains."
Cold threaded down my spine.
"The old refugee camp site?" I asked.
"Yes."
My jaw clenched. "Why?"
He hesitated, then answered anyway. "To show them to our visitor."
Visitor.
My shadow rippled.
"What visitor?"
The words came out too calmly.
The guard exhaled. "The one who fell from the sky."
The world narrowed.
"Explain."
And so he did.
Not with poetry. Not with awe. With facts. With terror buried beneath discipline.
A figure falling like a burning star. The ground breaking without impact. Gold blood. Healing hands. People call him The Blood of Haven.
Each word struck like a hammer.
By the time he finished, my pulse had slowed into something lethal.
I thanked him.
I turned away.
And I disappeared.
The shadow beneath my feet opened like a mouth, swallowing me whole. Cold wrapped around my body—not absence, but compression. Space folded. Sound vanished. For a heartbeat, there was only pressure and memory.
Then—
Wind.
Mountain air cut sharply across my face, thin and biting, carrying the scent of stone and old snow. My boots struck rock. Gravel skittered outward, clattering down unseen slopes.
I stood where Oma had once hidden.
Where children had starved quietly. Where elders had frozen standing upright so others could sleep.
The mountains were gray and vast, their spines cutting the horizon into jagged teeth. Clouds drifted low, heavy with unshed rain. Far below, the valley opened like a scar, green now—but still haunted.
Everlyn sat at the edge.
Alone.
Her armor lay discarded behind her, helm resting beside her knee. She wore only dark cloth and wind-tangled hair, her silhouette sharp against the sky. She looked smaller up here. Younger.
Vulnerable.
Rage flared hot in my chest.
"Where is he?"
She didn't turn.
"Well good morning, Cousin," she said lightly. "You're looking moody today."
Her voice carried easily in the thin air.
"Also," she added, "who are you asking about?"
I inhaled deeply, steadying myself. The air burned my lungs.
"Everlyn," I said, low and firm. "This isn't a joke. Where is that Blood of Haven?"
She stood.
Slowly.
She turned to face me, eyes calm, unreadable. The wind pulled at her cloak, snapping it like a challenge.
"I have no idea what he told you," I continued, stepping closer, "but he's not who you think he is—"
"Oh," she said, bored already. "You mean my guest. He's called Arinthal"
She tilted her head.
"He's right behind you."
My daggers were in my hands before thought caught up.
I spun.
The world stopped.
He stood there.
Tall. Still. Unmoving.
Gold skin—not shining, not glowing, but dense, as the surface of a sun held back by will alone. Silver hair fell loose around his shoulders, stirred faintly by a breeze that did not touch anything else.
His eyes met mine.
And something inside me recoiled.
"What the hell—" slipped out before I could stop it.
I lunged.
The mountain vanished.
My daggers aimed for his throat, muscle memory flawless, lethal—
—and I froze.
Not restrained.
Not blocked.
Frozen because every instinct screamed at once.
"Who are you," I demanded, blades trembling inches from his skin.
He did not flinch.
He looked at the dagger near his neck as one might look at an insect perched on glass.
I swallowed.
"Here's a better question," I growled. "What are you?"
"Oma," Everlyn snapped. "He's my guest. You're also a Royal of Oma. You'd better act like it."
I didn't take my eyes off him.
"You call this thing a friendly visitor," I said. "He's not even human."
Everlyn's gaze sharpened.
"What about you, huh? Are you human?"
The question was wrong.
She stepped closer.
"You go in and out of shadows like they were doors," she continued. "Tell me, cousin—what are you?"
My daggers lowered.
One slipped from my hand, clattering softly against stone.
"You really know," I said quietly.
She did.
"You even risked the safety of Oma," I continued, anger rising again, "just to get back at me for stopping you from killing Zefar."
My grip tightened on the remaining blade.
"Did it ever occur to you," I said, voice sharp, "that I saved you that day. Zefar would've hanged you for it."
She looked unimpressed.
"Zefar this, Zefar that," she said flatly. "Let me guess. You're the only one who can kill him. You're the only one like him. The one and only Trueslayer of Oma."
She tapped her chin thoughtfully.
"Outside of Oma, you gave yourself a name," she mused. "What was it?"
Her eyes lit up.
"Oh. That's right. Warlord."
I shot Arinthal a deadly look.
He raised his hands, almost smiling.
"Hey," he said easily. "Don't blame me. I wasn't the one keeping secrets."
I turned away from him.
"So he talks," I muttered.
"You can keep disrespecting my guest," Everlyn said coolly, "instead of answering my questions. It changes nothing."
She stepped closer, voice dropping.
"Just stop acting like you really want Zefar dead," she said. "You don't have the heart to do it."
I shook my head.
Rage bait.
Nothing more.
Then—
Arinthal vanished.
Not into shadow.
Not into light.
He simply wasn't there.
And then—
He was behind Everlyn.
Close.
Too close.
My body reacted before thought, shadow flaring at my feet—
But Everlyn raised a hand.
"Today," she said calmly, "is the beginning of Zefar's reckoning."
She looked at me.
"Oma, it's time to choose a side. With the Blood of Haven backing our Kingdom, Zefar and his Summoned will finally fall."
I laughed.
It tore out of me sharp and humorless.
"Are those your words," I asked, "or his?"
Her eyes flickered.
"I guess," I continued, "he didn't tell you everything then."
I pointed my dagger at him still addressing Everlyn.
"I'll leave you in your delusions for now."
"I'll be back," I added, "once I find out what he is."
The shadow beneath me opened, and I fell into its sweet embrace.
Before their very eyes, I vanished.