Shadow Whispers

Chapter 1

To Miss Amelia Thornecroft,

This letter serves as formal notification of the passing of your father, Darion Thornecroft.

The Royal Council extends its acknowledgement and offers the customary condolences.

— The Royal Council

As I stared at the letter in front of me, I expected to cry, to feel something—anything. But it didn't happen. The envelope, despite its weight, didn't stir the grief I anticipated. Why should it? I knew what I had done.

I'm not sorry. He got what he deserved. It had been a long time coming, and I was simply waiting for the right moment to act.

Sitting up in bed, my brown curls falling in soft waves down my back, I crumpled the letter and tossed it across the room without a second glance. To my left, I could see the faint light of the sun barely breaking through the thick gray clouds outside.

It's never sunny here in the kingdom of Silverpeak. Not since the day I was born. Not once have the sun's rays pierced through the thick gray clouds that hang low in the sky, as if the heavens themselves are in mourning. It's always been this way—cold, muted, and without light.

I rose from the bed slowly, my body stiff with the weight of the world pressing down on me. Walking toward the wardrobe to my right, I went through the motions without thinking, as if I were on autopilot. It's Thursday, the day I go to the market with the little money I have left. I dread it, but it's a necessity, and in this life, there's nothing but survival.

I grabbed my usual clothes—black trousers, a white long-sleeved collared shirt, and a black coat to match. It's a strange combination for a woman, but no one cares much about what's usual around here. People wear what they must, when they must. In this part of the town, you never really know what to expect, and fitting in has never been an option. So I wear what's practical, what's simple, and what hides my shape.

I walked toward the bathroom and stopped as I caught a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror. The girl staring back at me was unfamiliar, yet all too familiar. Her hazel eyes were empty—no trace of guilt, no sign of regret. Some might say there was even a certain tiredness about her, like she had shed her past entirely and was left with the full cruel truth of the world. A scar carved across her high cheekbone, one I still can't look at without flinching from the memory of how it came to be. Her hair, wild and untamed, sat in a big, curly mess atop her head, but it didn't matter.

I didn't care.

I quickly splashed water on my face, feeling the coldness bite into my skin. Grabbing a ribbon, I tied half of my hair into a messy bun, leaving the rest to fall loosely around my face.

I don't have much of a place to call home. My apartment is no more than a cramped room the size of a small closet, with barely enough room to breathe. The bathroom is a joke, and the kitchen is little more than a space where you can barely move without bumping into something. The living room, or what's left of it, was once where I slept, back before I did what I did to my father. But that was before. Now it's just another room in a place that feels as lifeless as I do.

I bent down to put on my boots, the worn leather creaking under my fingers as I stood up. I grabbed an apple from the counter, wiped it on my shirt, and took a bite, savoring the sweet, tart taste that for a moment felt like the only real thing in this world. With a heavy sigh, I grabbed my satchel and keys, the cold metal weighing down my palm as I locked the door behind me.

The streets outside were as dreary as ever, the air thick with the scent of wet pavement and decay. The world feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to change. But I know better. Change doesn't come. Not for people like me all that matters is survival.