Embrace the shadows or choose a path of light.
After defeating the evil behind the attacks on the southern lands of Caldumn, Wren and Tyran settle into their new life that begs to be calm… or so they thought.
Amid questions surrounding the Red Kingdom’s threat and the aftermath of Rhonin’s advance, Wren and Tyran receive an ominous letter from a mysterious magic kind that has remained hidden, warning of the Red Kingdom’s motives.
Left with the threat that won’t just be to the towns, but their world as they know it, Wren and Tyran begin the journey to stop the Red Kingdom at all costs. Faced with conflicting beliefs about what they should do, their relationship is tested in more ways than they can imagine.
Embrace the shadows or choose a path of light.
After defeating the evil behind the attacks on the southern lands of Caldumn, Wren and Tyran settle into their new life that begs to be calm… or so they thought.
Amid questions surrounding the Red Kingdom’s threat and the aftermath of Rhonin’s advance, Wren and Tyran receive an ominous letter from a mysterious magic kind that has remained hidden, warning of the Red Kingdom’s motives.
Left with the threat that won’t just be to the towns, but their world as they know it, Wren and Tyran begin the journey to stop the Red Kingdom at all costs. Faced with conflicting beliefs about what they should do, their relationship is tested in more ways than they can imagine.
Taking on the role of baron was just as Tyran expected. He didn’t like it.
He loves Reapford. He loves his people. He often talks about how he owes it to them to make things better after everything Rhonin—his father and previous baron—did to them. Many lost their loved ones, friends, and neighbors to his use of dark necromancer magic, transforming innocent people into reanimated soldiers in his attempt to take over the southern lands of Caldumn. But it doesn’t make Tyran’s job more enjoyable.
It’s part of what set Tyran and his father apart. Rhonin took on the role as a means to glean status and importance for himself, always being consumed with his own authority and his pure lineage. Tyran did it to take care of Reapford—to protect its people—which was one reason he joined the Reapford guard. Tyran had to remind himself almost daily since taking on the new role that he was, in fact, still protecting his town; just in a different capacity.
For me, Reapford has been a whole new adventure. I could see the shadows of our shared magic dance in Tyran’s eyes when I agreed I’d make my new home here in Reapford, with him. All the times Tyran introduced me to the people of his town with pride in his eyes, always lovingly saying, “Meet my partner, Wren,” all while I tried to tear my eyes from the jaw-dropping architecture and instead focus on making a good impression, was a dizzying happiness. What really took my breath was in the library. Much like my home of Gaelfall, and the other towns of Caldumn, the library stood at the center of town, and was meant to be a place for gathering, enlightenment, and knowledge. It was a place where wizards—who were the acolytes and scholars of each magic kind—kept history. More importantly, it was a place for the town to hold its meetings; to assess who and where aid was needed, to organize charity, and to help anyone going through hard times.
Constructed of basalt, black granite stone, and iron, it was the tallest building in town, with pointed roofs that reached toward the sky. Iron cresting adorned the slate rooftops in points, including various patterns of ivy. Many of the large windows had inlays of stained glass in various patterns, and a giant glass clock face watched over the courtyard where various gatherings and meetings had once frequently been held. Stone beasts with menacing open-mouthed grimaces were perched at the corners, guarding the treasures within.
What separated their library from those I’d visited in other towns was its emptiness. There wasn’t a wizard in Reapford, and the public wasn’t allowed to enter. It was left up to the council—a group of men upon whom Rhonin had bestowed certain powers, including the authority to make decisions about who could get access beyond the large black doors. Even though it was long closed to the public, I felt the draw to it, making it my goal to open it once again to the people of Reapford.
Unsurprisingly, Rhonin chose eight high-status, pure lineage necromancers who seemed to hold the same appalling idea that there was a defined difference between them and the rest of Reapford. Naturally, to add more distaste for how he ran things, all eight were male. Rhonin had a hard time taking information from females, which I felt in any of the interactions we had, even until the moment I drove my blade through him. If Tyran wasn’t already planning to discontinue the role of the council, I’d have asked him to make at least half of them female and of various social backgrounds and lineage.
As much as we both disliked the council, I knew they had been helpful during the transition of the baron. Beyond the obvious flaw of supporting Rhonin—and thinking they were better than just about everyone—they did have experience with advising and helping run parts of Reapford that Tyran didn’t. He said it was better to keep them in the council until we could see their true intentions. Something we both couldn’t shake was just how deeply Rhonin went to separate Reapford to become more like the Red Kingdom’s governance. In his plan to seize over our lands, Reapford would have been his inner kingdom.
Despite their concerns and objections, I was given permission to work in the library for the purpose of getting it ready for the people of Reapford to visit once again.
The homes and businesses that surrounded the center of town were of similar construction as the library, with blackened wood, basalt, and slate rooftops with ivy-adorned iron cresting. They were all stunning. Cobblestone roads led throughout town. Patches of blue fescue lawns lined the yards; the gardens were filled with white flowers of allium and jasmine. There was an intoxicating heaviness and rich floral smell from the flora that I never grew tired of, but there was also the smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meats from the vendors that often made me pause, wanting to spend more time with the town as I made my way to the library.
One of the incredible parts was a river that ran through the center of town. I was so mesmerized the first time Tyran showed me around the town that I nearly toppled over the side of one of the two main bridges. The gentle roar of the moving water, as well as the plant and aquatic life that sprang from it was utterly fascinating.
I couldn’t help but peer into the waters, looking for any sign of fish or small crustaceans in the stiller waters around the lush grasses and plants. The river was so different compared to the coastal waters of Gaelfall: the tide going in and out, the crashing waves and sounds of birds, and smells of sea and salt—a contrast to the fresh waters and rich smell of grasses that ran through here.
There was such beauty in the darkness here, and not just the darkness in the tones of colors of buildings, but it was as if a filter remained over Reapford, a thin layer of clouds, and yet, there were smiles on the townspeople’s faces when they regarded Tyran and laughter when they shared a meal at one of the outdoor vendors. It was those things that made me see the light in the dark. It made me think of the way Tyran called me his “dark star.”
***
The title of a particularly old tome caught my attention as I dusted off its spine, drawing me out of my inner thoughts: Communicating With Departed Loved Ones. I paused. I knew there were necromancers who traveled to surrounding villages, offering this type of service for payment. Tyran mentioned how distasteful it was to accept compensation for that type of thing—to take advantage of those who are hurting and grieving. But, I couldn’t help but feel drawn to it.
What if I could speak with my parents just one more time? I had so many questions I wanted to ask them: What did they know of the shadow magic I held. What abilities did they have? Could my dad call to the shadows? Could he speak to my mom in the way Tyran and I communicated? From what I remember, my mother had mage abilities, but I couldn’t remember seeing my father’s magic. I strained to think back that far. Would my father be able to tell me more about our line of shadow magic?
Could I even ask that of Tyran? To communicate with them in that in-between? Would they already have moved on to other realms of life beyond death?
I breathed in the familiar library smell, the rich black walnut interior mixed with old books and dust. I thought about adding bergamot oil to diffuse in the space and how much it would remind me of Tyran while I was here.
Tyran was taking his meetings at the manor, his childhood home for eight short years before joining the guard, but also where his father had lived for so long. There was a mix of emotions for Tyran being back in that home, and I hoped I could help change the space enough to make it our own.
I packed my few items into my satchel and left the library as the light hung low in the sky. The towering mountains of the Great Northern Sierras seemed to keep the daylight from fully shining. Sometimes I wondered if the darkness came from our proximity to the Red Kingdom and their oppressive reign. No. This was a different dark. There was warmth and a calm to this dark. It was Tyran’s home.
The looming threat of the Red Kingdom still weighed heavily on us. Their lack of reaction to our escape bothered me. The King accused us of helping Rhonin steal the obelisk. However, Mennew, the warlock's wizard, had information that the Red Kingdom was an accomplice in Rhonin’s plans. Still, even with our escape, they never sent soldiers, no letter of issued warrant, or a hint of a warning. They acted as if their own hands weren’t bloodied in Rhonin’s plans, and perhaps the fact that we are now aware is what is keeping them from acting on our escape.
Beyond the center of town, the homes grew in size and land between. The road curved up a slow slope toward a manor that was a stark difference compared to the dark homes of Reapford below.
It was going to be Tyran’s home. Our home. I had to remind myself that this gorgeous place was mine as well.
Its white limestone reminded me of chateaus that I read about in books. The black metal roof, with its iron cresting along the pitches, also had small carved beasts clinging to its corners. Their mouths remained open to funnel the rain and mimicked the architecture in town. Large gothic, arched windows with leaded glass were trimmed with preformed gray concrete frames. It really was a beautiful brightness within this town.
The gardens were on a whole other level of beauty. While much of the town's blooms were bleach-white in color, the florals in the mansion’s garden mostly consisted of deep burgundy. Dahlias, hellebore, and roses, along with short iron fencing separated the gardens into ornate spaces.
As I made my way up the walkway, the grand double front doors swung open sharply; the council members filed out with their usual disdainful glares. I gave a nod as they passed. The silence they returned shouldn’t have stung, but it did every time.
“I see the gaggle of grumps seemed to have a good meeting?” I called out in question after I’d safely shut the doors behind me.
“Oh, it was thrilling, as always,” Tyran responded with a sigh before meeting my smile.
I kissed his cheek as he moved the loose strands of my auburn hair back behind my ear.
Tyran closed the office door behind him; he would keep it shut unless having to work. I knew it bothered him that the office reminded him so much of his father, but it was the only place he could perform his duties since having formally refused to join the council in the library until it was reopened to the public.
A row of bookshelves lined the wall behind the desk, all in matching ornateness. Gold hardware and trim lined the furniture, offering a break in the dark tones everywhere. A large round table sat at the other end, with chairs that could seat ten. Were it not for the large floor-to-ceiling windows that gave way to a magnificent garden view, the room would have felt like a cave. The heavy velvet curtains were always pulled tightly back; Tyran refused to close them like his father had done.
I remember Tyran spending so much time in there when we first moved in, searching for any clues as to why his father chose to go the path he did—the path of giving up his own people to further an agenda of personal gain. To rule our lands as a single ruler and not what we’ve worked to set up between our towns and villages. One of peace. I knew the results could lead to more pain and tried to find ways to help divert Tyran from the added hurt he’d experience, but I also knew this was something he needed answers to.
Just how far did it go for Rhonin to seek out this power? And why was it so important that the Red Kingdom willingly turned a blind eye to him stealing the obelisk? Eventually, Tyran found a false bottom in one of the desk drawers that contained a parchment with the names of the specific books that were stolen from our libraries. It was sent to Rhonin, but without a signature at the bottom, his correspondent couldn’t be identified—which meant we were back to only what we knew. We also knew—with the council being so close to Rhonin—it only meant they couldn’t be trusted as to how much they knew of his plans, and even what side they were on when it came to the Red Kingdom—or Rhonin’s madness.
The office had a door to the grand entry, which was just that: grand in every sense of the word. But it was yet another part of the home that Tyran hated. Twin stairs leading up to the second floor hugged against the wall on either side of the room in which a marble table with a horrible Death Wraith statue placed atop it was standing. The statue held a scythe adorned with skulls. Its hooded robe hid its face, but the exposed hands were near skeletal. Tyran wasn’t sure if it actually was a Death Wraith, but it’s what he’d always called it growing up. I jokingly added some dried flowers to its other hand, remarking that it made it a bit more bearable to live with. The black marble floors gleamed with the reflection of golden candlelight sconces as we passed through the room towards the double doors at the other end to grab a small bite in the kitchen before heading out for the evening.
Tyran rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, and I couldn’t help but linger at his strong arms. I turned to hang up my satchel, trying to ground myself.
The kitchen was the only place with warmth to it. I imagined this was more of what Tyran’s mother would have wanted the home to look like. The dark walls and black marble flooring didn’t continue in there but instead transitioned to brick in cool brown-gray tones that lay in a herringbone pattern. White oak cabinetry and light-colored stone counters wrapped the perimeter of the kitchen.
I finished washing my hands and grabbed a plate of buttery rolls, along with some cheese to share. Our shadows danced together in pure delight beneath a chandelier as Tyran hummed a sweet melody. I couldn’t help but feel my heart skip.
“So, how did it go? Are they still pushing to keep the library off limits to us lowly peasants?”
“You know you are always welcome, but yes, they tried to say that the library should remain for higher status only.” He pursed his lips and mimicked their tone. “I told them they need to find other things to fixate on.”
His touch ignited my skin as he wrapped an arm around me while we snuggled into the breakfast nook. His warm chest pressed against my side and his scent filled me as I rested my head against the soft nook of his arm.
“Tell me about your day. Find anything interesting in the those dusty old books?”
“Oh, just the usual. Lots of skulls, death—and magic,” I replied. “I did see one book that made me pause.”
“About?”
“Speaking to the dead . . . Communicating With Your Departed Loved Ones, to be exact”
Tyran stopped breathing, waiting for me to continue.
I wanted to stay there in his embrace but knew I would get too fidgety at his lack of response and sat forward to tear at another bit of bread.
“How did that make you feel?” he finally asked, and I relaxed back into him, breathing in his familiar citrus and ginger scent.
“Nervous. Curious. Not sure if I should even want to know, or ask . . .” I said softly. “I know you don’t recommend it, and that it’s not necessarily looked upon highly by your people, but I can’t help but just . . . wonder.”
He would do absolutely anything for me if I asked. I knew this. He would channel a message to my parents without batting an eye, and I felt so wholly undeserving of his love. We were different in our magic. Being a mage and wielding magic that was purely elemental didn’t carry the same burden as necromancy. The mage manipulate aura, the energy of our world and magic, into fire, frost and wind, but those with necromancer magic have the ability to use light and dark aura. It’s the dark energy that can tear at the mind, making anyone into something they eventually can't control. Something cruel. Something like what his father had become.
He kissed the top of my head, holding me tighter against him.
“I think you might need to read the book before you commit to anything. It’ll give you the full picture about what that magic does and what can happen.” He spoke softly into my hair. “So many get lost once they open that door of communication. It’s not just as simple as sending well wishes and asking them a few things. It becomes so much more. Many lose all hope in life, becoming consumed with where their departed are. Not that I expect that from you, it’s just . . .” He sucked in a deep breath, and I listened to his heart race and calm. “Some departed aren’t quite all there after their death and are lost, scared, and unsure of where they are. It can be devastating for people to hear.”
That was a lot to take in. It sent lightning through me. I knew deep down I wasn’t strong enough to handle that if my parents felt lost or scared. I swallowed thickly and nodded.
“Ready for your first night of the Gaelfall Night Market?” I asked, changing the subject to our plans for the evening.
“I am. Do you think Oona will be surprised by what we are going to ask her about?”
“Oh, she’s going to flip,” I said and went to the entryway mirror to give myself one last check. “Whether that is in sheer excitement or in a dreaded panic, I’m not sure.”
Rune-walking has always been an exhilarating method of travel to me. I love watching Tyran cast the rune on the ground and seeing it glow in faint hues of purple and green. The instant I link my fingers with his and we enter the rune, the world turns into a sepia gray. Although it moves at hyper speeds, it felt like only taking few steps as the ground races underfoot.
***
We arrived at the entrance of Gaelfall just as the long shadows stretched to their maximum size before being greeted by the twilight of the night. The fields outside the gates were growing from the spring warmth that still kissed the air around us. I could almost picture the small white and pink flowers that were going to paint the fields vivid colors within a matter of weeks. Gaelfall was a world of difference compared to Reapford. They were both beautiful, but on opposite ends of that spectrum.
We waved to some of the townspeople who were staring and with hushed whispers at the necromancer that was once again paying a visit to their peaceful town. I hoped it would get better one day, but I could tell there was already at least something softer than hatred in their eyes for Tyran.
Tulips, daffodils, and many spring bulbs had sprouted and were on the verge of blooming any day between the homes and businesses we passed the closer into town we went. Gaelfall certainly changed into a different vibrancy even as the night was near. A bright warmth clung to the ground that I had almost forgotten, now replaced by the cool chill of my new home of Reapford.
The large white quartz pillars of the library came into view as I felt a flood of familiar calm come over me. There once would have been the traumatic memories of the flames that licked at its sides, broken windows and partial roof collapse. The reanimated Butchers of Drog had nearly killed my best friend in their terror to find the ancient texts Rhonin had sent them out to find. Dark magic necromancy that shouldn’t ever have been used on those that were once at peace. Luckily, Oona made it out, but it changed her forever. She carried a renewed strength after that.
There were also times where the nerves of what we would be asking Oona would have worn on my thoughts, but that was also part of me I’d worked to change. After everything we’d been through, and the training I’d received from Bergen—Gaelfall’s Wizard and my magic mentor—as well as my father Viggo—who had once been the head of the Sentinels—I too finally carried myself with more strength and resilience. The negative inner thoughts that had kept me from feeling like I had worth beyond just my everyday work went quiet once I’d found my source of inner strength:my shadow magic, an ancient magic passed down from the three Originals of our world.
Colorful flames began to pop up along the market street, and I couldn’t help but already crave the spiced drink aroma that drifted our way. Even with spring being well on its way, there was something so satisfying about having a warm cider or spiced tea to keep the chill rune of night at bay. I pulled my eyes from finding which vendors and storefronts I’d want to visit first to see Oona and Endora standing together at the side entrance of the library.
“There you two are!” Oona cried out. "I was beginning to wonder if you’d decided to walk instead of your rune-travel thing,” she said with a sarcastic smile.
Endora had already come over and embraced me tightly as I laughed at Oona’s remarks.
“You both need to visit more. The house has been so quiet.”
I smiled back at Endora, thinking of my old home. It wasn’t that it was hard to make the trip, but the memory of Viggo was still ingrained in every part of that place. Sometimes it brought me comfort knowing I could still feel his presence there, but other times the ache in my heart reopened and painful sorrow came pouring out.
“We definitely need to stop in for more of your cooking, Endora,” Tyran said, as she finally let go of me and moved in to hug him next.
Oona linked her arm into mine, guiding me down the street toward the market.
“There’s something we need to ask you.” I said, but then my mind went blank as panic set into my stomach.
“Oh?” she said without looking.
“Bergen will need to be in on this, too.” I felt the heat rise from my unsettled stomach.
Before I could go on, Oona let out a chuff of breath. “I’d rather talk about work stuff another day. It’ll force you to come visit again.”
I turned my gaze back to Tyran, not knowing exactly how to press further, but he had Endora consumed in his conversation, holding her hand affectionately. The sight made me nearly stop in my tracks, wanting to squeak in utter adoration at how sweet they looked. Endora was not only the orphanage matron, but had been a caregiver for me and Viggo for as long as I could remember. She found me after my parents died and was the closest thing to a mother I had. She and Viggo had been friends in Briaroak, the village of the witches, since they were children.
I wanted to capture the image of them and this night and keep it in my memory forever.
While Oona and I caught up on her recent attempts at dating a new sentinel soldier, and how fantastically it had failed on his part. We walked through the streets, and suddenly found ourselves in a thick crowd of townspeople. Their laughter and chatter filled the air while music trickled out from a nearby tavern.
I looked down the street where it opened straight to the harbor of Gaelfall, from where we shipped out goods and exports, and to my horror noticed dark sails in the moonlight.
The air buzzed with an energy that didn’t match that of the Night Market. It felt like the hairs on my skin were standing as I watched the black sails grow larger as they came closer to our port. It felt like I was the only one who was watching them until a faint shout came from the docks. A small flicker of flames appeared from the ships and before I could piece together what was happening, they had started to launch fiery cannonballs toward us.
Gaelfall was under attack.
If The Shadows of the Kingdom were a tale told by a wandering seanchaí beside a peat fire, it would be the sort to silence the room, pint glasses suspended mid-air, as hearts leaned in to listen.
This is a story heavy with history, shadowed magic, and the clash of power and heart—a richly textured fantasy with strong notes of Sarah J. Maas, but one that charts its own winding course. Bliton’s heroine, Wren, is a mage entangled in political upheaval, ancient forces, and the sort of slow-burn romance that would have a young wan scribbling her name in the margins of her schoolbook beside his.
The world is beautifully built: Reapford and Gaelfall have the grit and grandeur of real places, like something pulled from the hollow hills of our own myths. There’s politics, ancient texts, bloodlines gone sour, and secrets worth dying—or killing—for. And Tyran? He’s got the kind of scarred-knight energy that makes you want to throw your sword at the moon and follow him anywhere, dark magic be damned.
But if there’s a flaw, it’s in the pacing and a certain overearnestness. The dialogue, at times, leans too contemporary—more Netflix than Newgrange—and the emotional beats, while heartfelt, can get repetitive. You’ll find yourself wanting more bite in the banter, more lilt in the language. Still, the book’s ambition and depth more than carry it across the threshold.
This is a tale of kingdoms in peril, lovers in shadow, and the quiet war of becoming who you were meant to be. A fine first entry in what promises to be a sprawling saga. Pour yourself a spiced cider (or a splash of poitín if you’re bold), wrap yourself in a cloak, and prepare to walk the dark roads with Wren.
🐺 Rating: 6 out of 7 Kingdoms United
(One still watches from the shadows, wary...)