Doors of Shadows
Even silence can tremble if you listen closely enough.
The chamber felt hollow after he vanished.
Elowen sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers still curled as if his warmth hadn't fully left her skin. The room smelled of ash and sandalwood, the faintest trace of his magic lingering like smoke in a cathedral.
She didn't speak.
There was no one to speak to.
The soft rustle of her maids outside the door eventually faded. She was left alone with the hum of the palace—the deep, distant pulse of a living realm too old for her.
"I told you… some doors are not meant to be opened."
His words echoed in her mind, not as a warning… but as regret.
She had seen it.
The boy in the mirror.
The pain inked across pages.
She had touched something raw in him—and in doing so, had uncovered something raw in herself.
She pulled her knees to her chest beneath the silken sheets and lay back slowly, eyes tracing the canopy above her. Dragons carved in gold, coiling endlessly. Wings. Teeth. Flame.
She did not know when sleep took her.
Only that it was not kind.
The sky bled red.
Elowen stood in a valley of broken thrones, her gown soaked in rain and ash. Around her, shadows writhed like serpents, chanting in a tongue she could almost understand.
Ahead, Lucifer knelt in chains, his white robes soaked in black fire. Wings torn. Blood staining the cracked earth around him. The mark on her neck burned agonizing, as though it had been carved anew.
A voice spoke behind her. Cold. Female.
"You brought him here."
Elowen turned.
A reflection of herself stood there—older, colder, eyes gold.
"You love the Devil. So you will become what you love."
Suddenly, the chains around Lucifer shattered.
He stood.
And the world burned.
The mark seared like flame.
Her hands covered in blood.
Her voice screaming.
Her body falling
She shot up in bed, gasping.
Sweat clung to her skin. Her heartbeat was thunder. She stared at her hands in the dark, her throat tight with sobs she couldn't swallow.
And then she felt it.
He was there.
Sitting by the window, half in shadow.
Not glowing. Not standing. Not conjuring magic or fire.
Just… sitting.
Head bowed.
Elowen tried to speak, but the words caught.
He didn't look at her.
"You called me," he said softly.
She swallowed.
"I didn't—"
"Not with your voice," he said, finally turning his head to her. "But I felt you."
His face was quiet. Worn. Younger, somehow. There was no Lucifer in his eyes.
Only Morris.
She didn't speak.
He stood, walked to her bedside. Her breath caught.
But instead of reaching for her, instead of teasing or commanding, he knelt.
And gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"You were crying in your sleep."
His fingers trembled. Barely.
She didn't move.
He stayed there a long moment, his hand hovering near her face like he wanted to do more — but didn't trust himself to touch again.
"I've destroyed everything that's ever wanted me," he whispered.
She reached forward and placed her hand gently over his.
Their eyes met.
"You didn't destroy me," she said.
His lips parted. For a moment, he looked like he might break.
But instead, he exhaled softly, and pulled back.
He stood and walked back to the window.
"Go back to sleep," he said. "You're safe now."
"Will you stay?"
He paused.
Then nodded once.
And sat down again — not as a king, or a god, or a devil.
Just as a boy who hadn't known peace in a thousand years.
She didn't remember falling asleep again.
But when Elowen awoke, the shadows were thinner and the air quieter. The starlight that passed for morning in this realm fell soft and blue across her floor, like spilled silk.
And he was still there.
Morris sat at the edge of the chaise by her window, arms draped loosely across his lap, head turned toward the glass. His eyes were open but unfocused, distant — as though watching memories replay on the horizon.
He didn't stir when she shifted beneath the covers.
She studied him in the hush of dawn. The curve of his mouth. The elegant stillness in his hands. The tension in his shoulders that never truly left. There was no fire in him right now. No devil. Just a man who had not slept.
"You stayed," she said quietly.
He turned his head slowly. Their eyes met — gold and brown, storm and earth.
"I always do," he replied. "You just don't always see me."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Then: "Why?" she asked. "You're not my guardian. Or my lover. Or—whatever you pretend not to be. Why stay?"
He looked away again. "Because you're the only thing in this realm that makes me wonder if I still have a soul."
Her breath caught.
He stood then, slow and quiet, as if afraid the moment might shatter under his weight.
"Last night," she said, "I dreamed of you. In chains."
"That wasn't a dream."
She blinked. "What?"
He turned toward her fully now. No smirk. No mask.
"That memory you saw — of me kneeling, bleeding, the chains… It's real. It happened.""When?""Before the world forgot who I was. Before I became what they all feared I'd become."
Her throat tightened.
"They didn't just exile me, Elowen. They carved me apart. Four gods — each one tore a piece of my heart and sealed it in places I could never reach." He touched his chest lightly. "What you see of me now… it's just a fragment. A sliver strong enough to wear flesh."
"And the mark?" she asked.
He looked at her with something close to apology. Or maybe awe.
"It connected you to the sliver. But last night…" He hesitated. "It changed."
Her fingers brushed her neck instinctively.
"I felt it," she said. "Like it was… alive."
"It is."
He stepped forward.
"Elowen, you did something no one has done in a thousand years. You opened the study. You touched the door meant only for me. You looked into my curse… and didn't turn away."
She whispered, "I couldn't."
His voice dropped.
"That's why I'm afraid of you."
She flinched. "Afraid?"
He nodded, stepping closer.
"You could undo me."
She rose from the bed, standing barefoot before him in the morning hush.
"Then let me."
His breath hitched.
"No," he whispered. "Because if I fall, I won't rise again. Not as a king. Not as Lucifer. Not as anything."
They stood there, the distance between them barely a breath.
"You still think you have something to lose?" she asked, voice shaking.
"You," he said.
Silence.
Their hands reached for each other at the same time. Fingers brushing. Not holding. Not yet.
Then, as if something deeper surged beneath the surface — the mark pulsed.
A faint glow — not red, not blue — but silver.
He gasped and staggered back, clutching his chest.
She reached out instinctively. "Morris!"
His skin glowed faintly where the mark connected. Not burning — but shifting.
"It's evolving," he said, breathless. "It's binding deeper. The more we—" he looked at her, pain in his eyes, "—feel."
"You knew this would happen," she whispered. "Didn't you?"
"No," he said. "Not like this."
He turned toward the window, hands tightening into fists.
"This is more than fate now. It's... merging."
Elowen stood there, heart pounding. "Tell me what to do."
He turned to her. His voice trembled.
"Don't fall in love with me."
She stepped closer. "It might be too late."
As he vanished once more — fleeing not out of anger, but fear — Elowen was left standing in her chamber alone.
The silver mark on her neck throbbed once.
Then went still.
But in the mirror on her wall — a sliver of flame flickered where her reflection's heart would be.