Chapter One Hundred: Muse of History

  “In Shadow and Light supreme,

  From ashes rise, you dare to dream.

  Your fates entwine, though none are seen,

  In the wind breeze soft, where hopes convene.

  When Destiny Calls in twilight’s shroud,

  A tale untold, sung soft and loud.

  A great dark tide shall soon arise,

  The night will fight to claim the skies.

  Beyond the Veil, you peer with dread,

  To fight the gloom, the right must tread.

  A chasm yawns, forsaking light,

  In unknown realms, you chase the night.

  To Face the Darkness, where shadows swell,

  Your paths entwine, your fates compel.

  In murmurs heard, in signs obscure,

  The threads of destiny endure.

  As the Phoenix Falls, you see the sight,

  Lost but true, in darkest plight.

  A life fades through the twilight’s gloom,

  In dusk’s shadows, you seek your boon.

  For the Fate of All in realms unseen,

  Where secrets loom, and shadows glean.

  An ending comes, your hope expires,

  Together, you stand amidst the pyres.

  In Infinite Eternal where destinies lie,

  Beneath the stars, a Word shall die.

  In night’s embrace, the truth you seek,

  For all lives sake, the bold must Speak.”

  Her form shifted, the radiant light fading until she appeared as she had been—the ethereal glow dimming to a faint shimmer. Her eyes met his, holding an intensity that spoke of both sorrow and hope.

  “You have a long journey ahead of you, Child of the Grey,” she said, her voice carrying an echo of something ancient, something beyond time. “Remember this: to see the light, one must be willing to face the dark.”

  Jace blinked, confusion knitting his brow as he looked at her. “Wait—why do gods keep calling me that? ‘Child of the Grey’? What does it mean?”

  Clio hesitated for a moment, her gaze distant, as if she was listening to a voice only she could hear—one carried on the winds of another realm. Her head tilted slightly, a thoughtful expression crossing her face, and she seemed to be considering something carefully.

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  “But he has done so much already,” she murmured, almost to herself. “It is only fair.”

  She nodded then, a smile gracing her lips, something both kind and sad in her eyes. Leaning closer to him, she spoke, her voice lowering to a whisper—a whisper that held a weight only a goddess could command. It was a whisper that seemed to bypass his ears and go straight to his soul, resonating within him in a way no one else could hear, a secret meant for him alone.

  “That is what you are, Greyson—brother of Alexander, child of Henry and Osira, lost Prince of Roandia.”

  Her smile softened as she pulled back, her eyes searching his.

  The words hung in the air between them, not merely spoken but etched into the very essence of his being. Jace felt his heart stutter, his breath catching in his throat as the meaning of her words settled over him. A truth he had never known, yet somehow had always felt, buried deep within.

  Clio’s smile held warmth and understanding, as if she could see the torrent of emotions that now whirled inside of him. She placed her hand gently on his shoulder, her eyes never leaving his, a silent reassurance—a promise that, despite what lay ahead, he would not be alone.

  “I must go now. But know that you will never truly be without me. Your little Shadow.”

  She tilted her head slightly and gave him a wink. And that moment she was no Clio, the goddess muse of history. She was Shadow. His little Shadow.

  With those final words, she began to fade, her form dissolving into pure light, the glow softening until there was nothing left but the empty space she once filled.

  Jace clutched the shimmering drachma in his hand, its warmth pressing into his palm, a bittersweet ache swelling in his chest. Gratitude and sorrow mixed within him, tangling into a knot that tightened his throat and made it hard to breathe.

  As the last glimmers of her presence disappeared, an intense silence fell across the battlefield, almost as if the world itself had paused to honor her departure. The students around him seemed muted, the remnants of the battle—broken weapons, scattered armor, smoldering earth—now fading into the background, insignificant against the magnitude of what had just happened.

  His friends were each battered and bruised but still standing. Their faces reflected Jace’s own—tired, their eyes shadowed with loss. The demons had been vanquished, the undead horde scattered, but the victory felt hollow, its triumph swallowed by the emptiness left behind.

  Quietly, they approached, gathering around Jace as he knelt there, the drachma held tight in his trembling fingers. None of them spoke. No words could capture what they felt—no words could bring back the friend they had lost. Instead, they offered their presence, in silent support, their hands resting gently on his shoulders, their heads bowed in shared grief.

  Jace’s gaze stayed on the token, the golden glow reflecting in his tear-streaked eyes. The weight of it was more than just metal; it was a promise, a memory, a reminder of what had been sacrificed and of what they still had to do. Shadow had given everything—her courage, her strength, her life—and now, what remained of her was in his hands.

  Surrounded by his friends, the haunting stillness of the battlefield pressing against them, Jace felt the full weight of it all. The real cost of this fight wasn’t measured in bruises or blood—it was in the empty spaces left behind, the people they had lost, the light that had been snuffed out. And yet, even in that darkness, something still glowed within him.

  He looked at the token in his hand, feeling the warmth it held—a flicker of resolve ignited there. He would carry her memory forward, carry her light into whatever darkness lay ahead. This was not the end, not for him, and not for her. Shadow had seen something in him, had given him hope when he had none. And now, he would honor that gift by becoming the light she had believed he could be.

  Jace slowly stood, the air thick with lingering sorrow, yet beneath that sorrow, something more—something shared. An unspoken bond, forged by the fight they had just survived. He glanced around at his friends—worn, bloodied, but still standing. He reached out, and one by one, they took each other’s hands. The touch was small, simple, but there was strength in it—a reminder that they weren’t alone, not in this moment of triumph.

  Jace smiled, a tired but genuine curve of his lips. There was still so much to process—what Clio had said, the truths he wasn’t ready to confront. He pushed it aside for now, knowing it would wait for him later. For now, this was enough.

  Together, they stood, and for just a moment, the battlefield didn’t seem so haunting. It seemed almost hopeful. They had faced the dark, and they were still here, still breathing, still together. And with the token still warm in his hand, Jace knew they were far from finished. This was only the beginning.

  The echo of silence that had followed the battle was soon broken by the sound of hurried footsteps, armor clattering, and panicked voices. Jace turned just in time to see the teachers, the High Council, and dozens of others rushing up the mountainside. Their eyes widened as they took in the chaos—students scattered across the ground, some unconscious, others groaning as they fought against the lingering pain. Healers began to move quickly among them, mending broken limbs, staunching the flow of blood. Another faculty must have found them.

  Many of the students lay where they had fallen, their bodies battered, and exhausted. The demons had left them, but not without cost. Some were too bloodied, too wounded to stand, still in need of healing, while others lay deathly still—only to respawn, blinking, but hollow-eyed from the trauma. And then there were the few who did not move, whose possession had gone on too long, or who had been struck down before the truth could be known—not all would make it back, Jace knew. Not all had been given a choice.

  Jace and his friends looked at the council members, their expressions mirroring each other—exhaustion, wariness, and something else: the raw, sharp edge of uncertainty. The High Council stood in shock, their robes dusted with the first rays of dawn, eyes darting between the wounded students and the aftermath of the battlefield. For a long moment, they said nothing. There were no words, none that would do this scene justice. Only the Archmage, his face grave, gave a short nod, as if to say everything and nothing. He turned then, directing the faculty with brisk gestures, each movement filled with urgency.

  Jace and his friends watched as the students who could still move scrambled to help their fallen, to save whoever was left to be saved. The wounded were lifted, the healers’ magic weaving among them. It was a strange kind of silence that settled over the scene—busy, but somber, as if everyone was holding their breath together, afraid to let go.

  Slowly, the morning light began to creep over the distant treetops, spilling across the mountain in soft, golden waves. It touched the broken ground, bathing the crumbled remains of battle in a glow that almost seemed to cleanse it, to wash away the blood and the soot. The light filtered through the leaves, casting long shadows that swayed gently, making it seem as if the forest were breathing again—like life was still here, somewhere beneath all the loss.

  Jace let his eyes drift to that horizon, the warmth of the rising sun washing over him. He wondered if they had done the right thing. If perhaps, allowing the demons to fester, to remain unchecked, would have been worse. He felt the weight of his doubts, heavy and stubborn, refusing to let go even as the dawn brought the promise of a new day.

  And yet, as he looked around at his friends, still standing beside him, at the students rallying to help each other, he couldn’t help but feel the glimmer of something else—hope, fragile but undeniable, like that first touch of sunlight breaking through the dark.