Bonus Chapter: Rune - The Reign of Shadows

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Copyright © 2025 Beck Michaels

THE SUN WAS THE WARDEN OF HIS PRISON. No hint of light entered his dark tower, and yet Rune felt the first rays of dawn arrive, nonetheless. He clenched his jaw as tension surfaced through his body, his talons scraping deep gouges into the stone wall to brace himself. Sweat sprouted on his skin, his bones aching as though some unseen force scraped out his marrow.

Only the night granted him reprieve. None of the other gods were bound by such a weakness. One might think his father favored his brothers, but Rune knew the truth.

Better to keep him chained.

But this prison wouldn’t hold him much longer.

“After today, the world will only know darkness,” Rune said, his voice echoing in the vast chamber.

Alora did not respond.

She never did.

Her cold, lifeless body lay on a grand bed carved from stone, perfectly preserved within the glowing red dome of his magic. Golden-brown curls cascaded over lace pillows, her face as beautiful as the day he first saw her.

He liked to pretend she was only sleeping, that they were merely trapped within a dream. But the strong scent of moist rock and turned earth dragged him back to the truth.

This was a tomb.

“Dream of me, songbird.” Rune rested his clawed hand on the dome. The magic gently crackled beneath his palm, humming like a heartbeat. “Until I can return your soul to where it belongs.”

Humans were pitiful, vile creatures. Except for her. Out of every soul he had condemned, only Alora’s had been pure.

Yet she had been stolen from him too soon.

Sighing, Rune’s footsteps echoed in the empty chamber as he walked away. He briefly glanced at the mountains that he had meticulously carved into the stone walls. Argyle, Alora’s homeland. A place he had not set foot in for a century.

Leaving the chamber, he entered the pitch-black stairwell where three pairs of glowing red eyes greeted him. Rune snapped his fingers, and fire flared to life in his palm, illuminating his generals.

The Harbingers.

Hadeon’s white mane fell over his tawny features, the scales of his armor matching the jagged black horns crowning his head. The leader of his forces crossed his arms over his broad chest and nodded. “Sire.”

In contrast, Deimos had a leaner build, his cerulean hair falling in messy waves around four smaller horns that curved slightly upward. A thin tail flicked behind him, betraying anticipation for what was to come tonight.

“The army is ready, sire,” Calla reported smoothly. The twilight hue of her skin melted into the dark, if not for the cascade of lavender tresses spilling over her curved horns. She wore no armor over the sinful black dress on her lithe frame.

Not that she needed it. She was deadlier than the other two combined.

“Good.” Rune swept past them toward the stairs. “Take your positions.”

The cold touch of shadows whisked behind him as they opened a portal leading to the battlement outside. It invited the scent of sulfur and ash into the stairwell, along with the distant beating of drums. The sound pulsed within Rune’s veins. Deimos and Hadeon clanked a fist over their hearts before they crossed, and the portal closed.

“They await you in the throne room,” Calla said to his back as he climbed the stairs. Only seven words and Rune could hear the censure woven through each one. “I have kept them comfortable.”

He stopped, casting a glance over his shoulder. “You disapprove.”

“I would never contradict you, my lord.” Calla’s lips curved, exposing the tips of her fangs. “Though there may be better ways to win wars without the use of cheap tricks.”

Rune narrowed his eyes. He was in no mood for lectures.

Not today.

At the warning look on his face, Calla shrugged her delicate shoulders and examined her long sharp claws. “I merely meant that if you wish to persuade Sunnëva into becoming your queen, stealing her children falls short of romantic.”

Rune bared his fangs, but Calla was already gone, vanishing into the dark.

She wasn’t wrong.

But it didn’t matter.

He spared the sealed tomb another look. He had been a fool. No matter how much he once cared for Sunnëva, she wasn’t her.

Climbing the rest of the steps, Rune entered the throne room, its vast cavern of black rock held up by soaring pillars, writhing shadows curling along the walls. Iron candelabra stands throughout provided the only light. The air reeked of dust and decay, the growls of wargs filling the space.

A warg hound brushed against him, and he absently stroked its massive head. “Have they been well-behaved?”

In the center of the room, three small figures huddled together, cowering behind the legs of their mutant uncle. A red dome surrounded them, crackling with magic. Calla’s way of keeping them contained or protected from the demons prowling too close.

Rune swept into his shadows and sat on his throne, a towering structure of black marble adorned with dragon scales and jagged peaks. He draped himself onto it, his red eyes gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

He canted his head, observing the weeping children. They were spitting images of his brother. Pale as death, tresses like snow.

Leaning back in his throne, Rune dropped his chin onto his fist. “Do you know who I am?”

His voice carried in the chamber, making them flinch.

The eldest lifted his chin. “We do.”

Rune’s gaze locked onto the boy who spoke. Jorik’s bright blue eyes glared with a defiance unexpected. His long hair clung to the sweat on his forehead, a wooden sword clutched in trembling hands.

The brat may have taken after his father, but the boy’s icy glower reminded him too much of Sunnëva.

“They say you’re our uncle,” Jorik continued, voice steady. “The God of Shadows, and all that is wicked. But were not afraid of you.”

Rune smiled, slow and sharp.

“Is that so?” Shadows swirled, and he whisked in front of the dome, baring his fangs with a snarl. The children screamed, scrambling back. “You reek of fear,” he hissed, his voice curling like smoke. “And you should be.”

Their uncle Fenrin leaped between him and the children, shielding them with his large body. The mutant warg growled, snapping his fangs.

Rune frowned. “Move.”

With a flick of his hand, shadows tossed Fenrin out of the dome. He crashed into the wall with a violent crack. The children shrieked as demons fell on him.

Vicious growls and snarls filled the chamber. Much bigger and stronger, Fenrin easily snapped their necks and ripped off their heads. Rune merely made more until he couldn’t keep up anymore. When Fenrin tore his claws through the last warg, he collapsed on the floor. His ribs heaved against his sides as his blood filled the crevices in the stone.

Rune coiled shadows through his fingers. “Have you had enough, Fen?”

“Leave him be, you coward!” Pushing up onto his feet, Jorik brandished his wooden sword. He stood valiantly in front of his weeping siblings, even if his short skinny legs trembled like leaves.

Fenrin growled weakly and tried to stand.

At the flick of Rune’s fingers, shadows slammed him back down and pinned him in place. “Stay.”

He wasn’t worth killing. Maybe because Rune had known Fenrin when he was human. Maybe because he was Sunnëva’s brother. Why hold on to such sentiments now?

“You best let us go,” Jorik demanded. “Our mama and papa will come for us.”

Rune grinned sharply. “Oh, I am counting on it.”

He had already received word that they were on the way with their pathetic army.

“They will destroy you.”

Rune chuckled and he circled the dome as he eyed the children. Jorik followed, keeping his siblings behind him. “I am afraid you will never see your parents again, little warrior. This is your home now.”

“Liar!”

“Yes, I certainly am, but not about this.” He dragged his claws over the dome, making it spark and crackle. “Your father is no longer immortal. Which means only one of us will survive today. I warned Jökull of what I would do if he did not heed my warning and leave through his Gate. Yet he is on his way here to save you, for he still clings to hope.”

Shadows drowned the chamber, the candles extinguishing one by one. The children whimpered, and Fenrin snarled as he fought against his restraints. Rune fed off their terror, savoring it like the finest wine, irresistible and delicious.

“Trust me, younglings,” his voice washed through the dark. “There is no such thing as hope.”

A burst of blue light blazed through the darkness. Rune reared back with a hiss, shielding his eyes as pain splintered through his skull. The triplets stood hand in hand, their small bodies glowing bright as starlight.

“Mama says good always prevails,” Jalen stuttered beside his brother. “You’re evil, so you will never win!”

Rune threw his head back and laughed.

Evil, they called him.

Perhaps he was.

Even when he once walked in the light, there was a piece of him that had always been wicked. It had grown and festered inside of him until its weight dragged him from the place he previously belonged.

Rune disintegrated Calla’s dome, and the children scattered backward with a gasp. Readying his wooden sword with shaking hands, Jorik braced to fight him.

For all his courage, Rune couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe I will send your parents a piece of you, so they know how truly evil I am.”

Conjuring a blade of ice, Jorik slashed through his braid and threw it at Rune’s feet. “There’s your piece. Stay away from my brother and sister.”

Brave little shit.

He couldn’t help being impressed.

Rune gave the boy a slow sharp grin, bearing all of his teeth. Eyes flaring red, he leaned down very close to him and murmured, “You may just be my favorite.”

Jorik turned as white as his hair.

Rune opened a shadow portal opened to a dungeon in the tallest tower. He tossed the triplets inside with Fenrin and dropped another shield around them. A special dome that only one other person could enter.

It wasn’t because Rune expected to lose or because he still cared about Sunnëva. He had no interest in harming children. They were merely bait.

His shadows gathered the small braid, placing it in his palm.

Good will always prevail…

He scoffed. If that were true, they wouldn’t be here now.

Rune conjured another portal and stepped out onto the battlement of the Shadow Keep. Screeches echoed in the sky swathed with dark clouds, where his Drakon circled. The volcano in the mountain range spewed molten lava, making the ground rumble. Hadeon and Deimos bowed their heads, and his demon archers lowered to their knees as he strode to the balustrade.

A sea of glowing red eyes looked up at him from below. Thousands at his call. The victory was theirs. He could taste it.

Freedom.

Roars rang out through the Waste Lands as demons beat on their drums and shields in a steady rhythm. Here lay the beginning of his reign. He would rise from the blood of all those who stood against him. The world will bow to him, and death itself would kneel at his feet. Because nothing—not gods, not men, nor fate—would stop him from reclaiming what he had lost.

His gaze fell on the empty spot beside him.

He could almost hear the sweet melody of Alora’s voice singing in the wind.

This was for her now.

Jökull’s army appeared in the distance, flags fluttering with the sigil of a rose. How quaint.

Rune leaped off the battlement, and his shadows took him away to a crag below, standing above his own army. He mounted his waiting horse of smoke. Shadows swirled from its mane, eyes flaming.

Lightning flashed overhead and thunder cracked, shaking the black skies as he faced off with his brother. The Heavens had bound him to the dark, the sun the only shackle that kept him from annihilating the world.

But by the end of this war, nothing would.