(Shadowheart’s POV)

  As I watch Harald ascend the stage to perform, Lysander’s theft of Alfira’s song flashes through my mind, bringing a sharp pang of sympathy—one quickly smothered by my ingrained habits.

  Yet, the image lingers stubbornly. The devastation in Alfira’s eyes, the sheer horror dawning on her face as her precious creation was cruelly torn from her grasp, was almost palpable. Her expression crumbled slowly, hope fading like the last dying embers of a once-bright flame. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes dimming with the crushing realization of betrayal, robbed not only of her song but of her very future. Watching her, I felt a strange fluttering in my chest—uncomfortable, disquieting, a sensation that tightened around my heart, leaving me aching in altogether foreign ways.

  “Lady Shar would not approve,” I remind myself sharply. I serve the , after all. Lysander’s act could be said to be favored in the Dark Lady’s eyes. Holy, even, in a way—for he had tried to strip Alfira of hope itself!

  And yet...

  I remember as Harald stepped confidently forward, taking charge of the situation, seeking to rescue someone in need, as was his wont. I remember as Harald calmly reassured Alfira; as he volunteered to take the bard’s place in the competition. An entirely different kind of fluttering surges within me then, warm and urgent, making my stomach twist in an unfamiliar and wholly unsettling way.

  I shouldn’t care about any of them. Not about Harald. Certainly not for Alfira. The only thing that should matter to me is the mission entrusted by Lady Shar. And yet, inexplicably, I find myself caring nonetheless, and far more deeply than I dare to openly admit. The realization leaves me feeling profoundly vulnerable and dangerously uncertain.

  Then, Harald begins to play.

  From the very first notes, my eyes flutter closed almost of their own accord, and my breath catches sharply in my throat. The music is so raw, so powerful, so utterly... different.

  I do not possess many memories of listening to music—whether this is because those memories were taken away for the sake of the mission, or simply because I hadn’t listened to much music in the cloister... I do not know. And yet, I know in my heart that Harald’s music... is unlike anything I had ever experienced. It resonates deep within me, threading its way through my very soul. Each note is both delicate and fierce, a tempest contained within the eerie, beautiful tones of his... .

  My heart quickens inexplicably as the sound envelops me like a lover’s caress, compelling me to feel emotions I’d long thought sealed away. The music conjures visions—fragments of memories tantalizingly close, yet elusive; a sense of lingering just at the edge of consciousness. It feels like a word hovering just on the tip of my tongue; a strangely familiar scent one can’t quite place; a fleeting taste reminiscent of something experienced in a half-forgotten dream.

  Each note stirs within me exhilaration mixed with apprehension, for I know these memories had been locked away from me with

  intent. I know Shar had withheld them for good reason—and, one day soon, when I have completed my mission, My Lady will deem me worthy to have them returned. Yet now, under the spell of Harald’s music, I find myself dangerously yearning for their release, despite knowing that such desires are perilously close to a betrayal of my faith. The music is beautiful in a way that leaves me trembling, and I am almost frightened by its power over me. I feel… strangely vulnerable, exposed by the raw intensity of the experience.

  Then, something extraordinary happens. The moonlight itself shifts overhead, bending and refracting around Harald as if responding directly to his commands. The light dances around him like a living thing, silver beams weaving gracefully through the air in time with the melody, ethereal and enchanting.

  I am utterly enthralled—caught in a moment of pure, unfiltered awe—before the realization strikes me hard and cold. This is , the domain of Sel?ne, the hated enemy of my faith.

  Shame and revulsion surge violently through me, and I tear my gaze away, disgusted at myself for finding anything associated with the Moon Witch beautiful, much less enchanting. How could I have allowed myself, even for a moment, to be drawn in by such... ?

  Yet, even as I berate myself fiercely, I feel the undeniable pull of Harald’s music, relentless and irresistible, continuing to draw me in.

  Then, to my astonishment, Harald himself, his image splitting into countless illusory clones filling the entire stage, each clone wielding an instrument. They begin to play together, weaving a slower, but more grandiose ballad that resonates deeply within me. The lyrics speak of a man who had left his family behind in pursuit of adventure, fame, and phenomenal cosmic power, only to ultimately find emptiness and sorrow awaiting him:

  …

  

  

  

  

  The song’s mournful words slip into my awareness quietly yet profoundly, evoking a deep, inexplicable ache within my heart—as though I, too, had abandoned those closest to me.

  But… how could that be?

  I had always been alone, an orphan with no family, save the cloister itself. I had no ties to betray... Or... did I?

  For some inexplicable reason, the song’s sorrowful refrain of longing and regret for home and family feels painfully,

  personal.

  I can’t help but wonder if, perhaps, Harald himself is the subject of this tragic tale. He seems to understand its depths too well, performs it with such conviction and melancholy that it seems impossible not to believe the tale has some truth for him.

  “What remarkable skill,” I think to myself, “to be able to perform a Ballad with such profound emotion.”

  …

  And yet, with Harald’s next song, the convenient lies I had told myself are shattered with the subtlety of an angry Minotaur in a teahouse.

  The first thing I hear is the melody – somehow even than the one I’d just heard. Then comes a curious rhythm of the drums – thrusting and energetic – while, in the background, I can hear unearthly harmonies: full of sadness and lament, and yet also… uplifting, somehow?

  The dissonance is jarring – feeling like a puzzle that doesn’t fit together.

  Like a cracked piece of pottery that can’t be made whole again.

  …

  Then, he sings the lyrics.

  And I am not prepared.

  …

  

  

  

  

  

  

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  …

  The lyrics strike me – almost physically – like a blow of a Warhammer, shattering the walls built up inside my mind. I stagger back, my legs unsteady beneath me, the Revel’s crowd spinning in a dizzying whirl of blurred colors. My chest heaves, each breath a struggle, and I press a hand to my heart, as I try to hold myself together by force of will alone.

  …

  

  

  …

  But the words around me, sinking into my very bones, their cadence a dirge that stirs something deep and unquiet within. I try to anchor myself in the present—to the fey faces around me, glowing with enchantment; to the scent of moss and wine… But the song is relentless. Each note tugs mercilessly at the frayed threads of my mind, unraveling the fragile tapestry that held it together.

  My vision fades, the Revel dissolving into an indistinct haze… and then, I am no longer there, no longer present.

  …

  I am a child again, small and trembling, standing in a room that is both vast and suffocating. The air is cold, heavy with the scent of incense and something darker—blood, perhaps, or fear. My wrists burn, bound by coarse rope that bites into my skin as I twist against it. Figures loom behind me, their presence a weight I cannot shake, their faces lost to shadow.

  I hear a voice: a whisper, soft, yet unyielding, a sound that chills me more than the cold stone beneath my bare feet.

  “Look into the mirror, child. See what you must become.”

  But, I don’t want to look!

  I don’t want to see!

  The mirror before me is a slab of darkness, its surface – a void that drinks the light and gives nothing back.

  I thrash, my small body straining against the ropes, my voice rising in a desperate plea that echoes unanswered. “No! Please, no!”

  But their hands are on me, iron-hard, pressing me forward until my nose nearly brushes the surface.

  I see nothing—no reflection, no face—just an emptiness that yawns like a grave. Terror claws at my throat, and I scream, but the sound is swallowed by the mirror’s depths.

  “You will forget,” the voice intones, calm as death. “You will become what Lady Shar demands.”

  The mirror pulses, and pain explodes in my skull—blinding, hungry, a cold blade slicing through thought and memory alike. I scream again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Each cry weaker than the last, as the agony carves away pieces of me.

  In time, I feel the essence of my being, my very name, slip away like sand through my fingers, foreign and fleeting.

  They force me to look, over and over, until I no longer know why I resist, until the tears dry and the begging fades, leaving only a hollow shell behind.

  …

  

  

  …

  Harald’s voice drags me back to the present, a lifeline cast into the abyss. The Revel snaps back into focus—the fey swaying, entranced, their eyes gleaming like jewels—but the cold lingers, a frost that clings to my soul. My hands tremble, and I press them to my sides, willing them to still, but they defy me. The song presses on relentlessly, its words a mirror to the darkness I carry within.

  Another memory surges, pulling me under brutally like a riptide.

  …

  I am older now, clad in the black robes of Shar’s service, a temple initiate forged in shadow. Two figures lay before me, fully restrained, bound spread-eagle upon specially-designed tables; their faces are blurred in my mind as though I’m looking at a painting smeared by a careless artist’s hand. The room is dim, lit only by flickering purple candles that cast long, twisted shadows across the walls.

  The prisoners call out to me, their voices desperate and pleading.

  “Jenevelle! Jenevelle, ! Don’t do this!”

  But that name stirs nothing within. There is no recognition. No pity. I am Shadowheart, an instrument of the Lady of Loss, and are Sel?nite : heretics who dare defy the Darkness.

  “The night is young,” I say, my voice a cold, steady thing, stripped of warmth or mercy.

  “You break, Sel?nite. You will accept Lady Shar’s judgment.”

  Gently, I lift the dagger, its acid-coated blade catching the candlelight in a wicked gleam. Their pleas grow frantic, a garbled chorus of fear, but I am unmoved. My hand does not falter as I carefully bring the blade down in long, shallow cuts—just as I had been taught. Once. Twice. Again and again, until their cries turn into hoarse whimpers and the air is slick with the smell of blood and their voided bladders.

  I feel… nothing.

  No remorse. No guilt. I am Shar’s instrument, and

  is my purpose.

  The faces remain indistinct, lost to the fog of my shattered mind, but the weight of their suffering settles on me like a mantle I cannot shed.

  …

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  …

  

  

  

  

  

  The lyrics wash over me, but I am unresponsive; lost in the darkness of my thoughts.

  After an unknown period of time that couldn’t have been longer than a few minutes, I realize, with a jolt, that I am no longer standing. My knees had given way at some point, the soft moss of the Feywild cushioning my fall. My hands press against the ground, trembling, as the world tilts around me. Absently, I note that Harald blended the ending of his latest Ballad with some kind of soothing melody evoking the beauty of Elysium itself:

  …but the newly-uplifting harmonies can hardly quell the unease I now feel.

  A wetness trickles from my nose, warm and sticky, and I touch my face, expecting blood. But, when I draw my fingers away, they are smeared with thick, black streaks—tar-like, heavy, dripping from my eyes and nose in rivulets that stain my skin. I stare at them, transfixed, as they glisten in the moonlight, only to hiss and evaporate into nothingness, leaving no trace but the lingering, searing pain in my soul.

  Questions grip me; disturbing doubts that have no easy answers.

  Who had I hurt?

  Who had I lost?

  My head throbs, a dull pulse that matches the rhythm of my heart, and I press my hands to my face, trying to stem the flow of those black tears. They come faster now, a flood of shadow that marks me, exposes me as the broken thing I had become.

  I look up, my vision swimming, and see Harald on the stage. His fingers dance across the strings, while his eyes are distant, as though he too got lost in his music’s depths. The fey watch him – and me – in rapt silence, their faces a gallery of awe and unease.

  Just who was Jenevelle, I wonder? Why does that name ignite such reflexive… in me, even now, when I can barely grasp its meaning? I want to scream, to tear at my own mind until the fog lifted, but I am trapped—drowning in shadows and half-formed memories I have no context for.

  The song’s final question hangs unanswered, a question I cannot escape. It claws at me, relentless, as I rise to my feet, unsteady, the moss still clinging to my knees like a plea to stay down. My nose still bleeds: a slow trickle of black that mingles with the “tears” staining my cheeks, and my head pounds with the weight of all I had seen—or thought I had seen. The world feels distant, unreal, a haze of noise and exquisite harmonies I can’t be bothered to care about at the moment.

  One question cuts through it all, sharp and unyielding.

  Had I ever truly been ? The thought twists in my gut, a blade I can’t pull free.

  I now remember forgetting.

  Not a single moment, but a litany of them—cold hands, dark rooms, the searing pain behind my eyes as pieces of me were forcibly and methodically carved away. As a child, I’d been made to forget -- repeatedly, mercilessly. I can still hear the echo of my own screams, small and helpless, swallowed by that void Shar demanded.

  But… what if it didn’t end there? What if the practice of forgetting stretched beyond those early years, threading through my entire life… like a silent poison? I’d always told myself that I’d grown into my current role, that I had chosen my path willingly. But now, standing here with that song still ringing in my ears, I am not so sure.

  I was on a mission for Shar, wasn’t I? A sacred task, my memories sacrificed as an act of faith, a shield for operational security. That’s what they’d told me—what I’d told myself. I’d clung to that story like a lifeline, proof of my absolute devotion.

  But what if it’s a lie?

  What if I hadn’t those memories after all? What if they’d been from me—ripped from me by cloister mates, by the Mother Superior, by Shar herself – without my consent?

  The thoughts are heresy of the highest order, but I can’t stop myself from thinking them.

  slither in my mind like serpents, cold and venomous. If the Sharrans could forcibly take my past once, who is to say they couldn’t do it again? If the Mother Superior had lied, if she was the one who shaped me into this—this called Shadowheart—would I ever know? Would I… even be able to tell the difference?

  My breath hitches, the black tar dripping faster than ever as a new question swells: I try to summon the faces of my past once more—but they waver like a mirage.

  The words spin through me again, and the world tilts, dizziness crashing over me like a wave. To be alive… is to feel, to know, to . But, if my choices were pre-determined, my feelings forged, my memories a tapestry of lies—was I… even a real person?

  The implications bear down on me, crushing, and I press my hands to my temples, trying, in vain, to hold my fracturing mind together.

  I can’t endure it. I can’t continue to drift in this fog. There has to be a way out—a truth to seize.

  My gaze snaps back to the Army of Haralds on the stage, his main body’s silhouette sharp against the lights. knows—I am certain of it now. The way he carries himself; the careful choice of his words – and music; the flicker of recognition in his eyes every time he looks at me—it all points to secrets he holds close. He about my past. About Shar. About… .

  He has the answers, and I would have them. I will

  him reveal what he knows, tear the truth from him if I had to. The resolve flares within me, fierce and unyielding, a sudden spark in the void. I stand taller, the dizziness receding as purpose takes root. The moss on my knees falls away, the bleeding stops, and I wipe the remnants of black tears from my face with the pristine, unblemished skin of my trembling hand. Harald will not escape me again. I will confront him, demand the truth, and claw back whatever fragments of myself remain.

  I will find out what he knows.

  No matter what it costs me.