Being born of shadows and living in them had its own advantages.
Any fantasy novel worth its salt would swear to this: shadows are the true keepers of secrets.
They see everything, record everything, and people treat them like nothing—like mere voids, empty spaces where light simply fails to reach.
No one ever asked the darkness for permission to hide their sleazy secrets. Why bother? Shadows were made for swallowing sins, right? Silent, obedient accomplices that made you feel safe enough to do the unforgivable.
No one ever bargains with the dark for silence.
Everyone just assumes shadows exist to serve: to cloak their ugly deeds, swallow their filth, grant them the illusion of safety so they can sin without fear.
And accomplices, yes—they absolutely were. Willing, silent partners in every crime.
But they are no slaves.
