The cheers weren't for her. They never were.
Zyera stood just behind the gleaming hero, cloaked in a half-shadow that always seemed to cling to her no matter how brightly the sun shone. The crowd chanted his name—Lucien—over and over, their voices echoing off the golden palace walls like a drumbeat of praise. And beside him, she stood still, silent, and unseen.
"Another victory, thanks to Lucien the Lightbringer!" the announcer called out from the balcony. "And his faithful ally, the Midnight Fighter."
A few claps. Scattered. Empty.
Midnight Fighter.
Zyera clenched her fists behind her back. Her wrists still glowed faintly with the aftershock of the spell she cast—the spell that saved the city—but no one noticed. Not Lucien, who had been knocked unconscious halfway through the battle. Not the nobles, who praised his glowing sword. Not the people, who only saw her black hair and quiet eyes.
She turned, slipping away before the celebration could trap her in a mask of smiles.
That night, under the moon, Zyera stood on the palace balcony, singing quietly to herself. Her voice drifted like wind through the leaves, soft and aching. As always, when she sang, her hair shimmered—strands glowing like moonlight spun from silk, dancing with soft lavender light. It was her only secret. Her only peace.
“I saved them,” she whispered to the stars. “So why does it feel like I’m disappearing?”
A sudden chill slid down her spine.
Too late, she sensed the magic—an enchantment creeping through the shadows like smoke.
She turned. A figure cloaked in darkness reached for her. A sharp sting struck her wrist. She gasped, eyes wide as a thick, metallic bracelet clamped around her skin—and all her magic vanished like a breath in winter.
"Wh–" she tried to scream, but the world tilted sideways. Her vision swam.
The last thing she saw was the moonlight tangled in her hair as her knees hit the ground.
She woke in a cold cell.
Stone walls. Iron bars. A flickering torch on the far side casting shadows that crawled. Her wrists still bore the heavy, magic-suppressing cuffs—unbreakable and humming with cruel enchantment.
Then she saw him.
Across the cell, slouched against the wall, sat Dematica.
Horns. Crimson eyes. A tail coiled like a serpent behind him.
Her breath caught. Instinct screamed at her to strike, to run—but she had no power.
He looked up, clearly just waking too. His eyes glowed faintly.
“You’re the Midnight Fighter,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Didn’t expect you to get caught.”
She glared. “Didn’t expect to wake up next to a monster.”
He smirked. “We’ve got that in common.”
YOU ARE READING
Midnight and the Demon King
FantasyZyera was born with the rare gift of mastering all kinds of magic-light, shadow, elemental, healing, and more. But instead of rising as a celebrated hero, she became the nameless "Midnight Fighter," a silent savior in the shadow of a golden-haired h...
