S
Solara was a city built of glass and gold, designed to catch every ray of the sun. The mages of the Solar Order ruled here, their power drawn directly from the light. They could heal with a touch, start fires with a glance, and banish darkness with a thought.
But they had forgotten one thing: a light that bright casts a very deep shadow.
It started on the day of the Summer Solstice. The Grand Archon was addressing the crowds in the central plaza. The sun was at its zenith. And then, a cloud moved. Not a cloud of water vapor, but a cloud of scales.
A dragon. But not a dragon of fire. A dragon of pure, light-absorbing Void. It was immense, its wingspan covering the entire city. As it blotted out the sun, panic erupted.
The mages raised their hands to strike, but nothing happened. Without the sun, their conduits were dry. Their staffs were just sticks; their incantations just words.
In the chaos, Lyra, a lowly apprentice who had failed her Illumination exams three times, looked up. She wasn't a Solar mage. She had an affinity for something else, something forbidden. Shadow-weaving.
"They are helpless," her mentor, a hiding rogue named Kael, whispered from the alleyway. "The light is gone. Now, it is our turn."
The dragon descended, its breath a freezing mist that turned the golden spires to brittle grey stone. It landed on the Great Temple, crushing it.
Lyra stepped into the square. The Archon was on his knees, begging the sun to return. The dragon laughed, a sound like crumbling mountains.
Lyra raised her hands. She didn't reach for the light. She reached for the darkness. The shadows of the buildings, deepened by the dragon's presence, began to wriggle. They detached themselves from the walls and flowed toward her, pooling at her feet like black ink.
"Hey!" she shouted at the dragon. "You're blocking my view."
The dragon turned its massive head. "A gnat speaks to a god?"
"You're no god," Lyra said, her voice amplified by the shadows. "You're just a big bully who's afraid of the dark."
She thrust her hands forward. The pool of shadow exploded upwards. It formed chains—massive, spiked links of solidified darkness. They wrapped around the dragon’s wings, pinning it to the temple roof.
The dragon roared, struggling. But the shadows of Solara were strong. They were fed by centuries of hidden secrets, of suppressed fears, of the darkness the mages had tried to ignore.
"Kael! Now!" Lyra screamed.
From the rooftops, dozens of outcasts—rogues, thieves, shadow-weavers—emerged. They didn't have sun-magic. They had knives, and crossbows, and shadow-bolts. They unleashed a barrage upon the trapped beast.
The dragon, arrogant and unarmored against the dark arts, shrieked. It gathered its strength and burst the chains, launching itself back into the sky. It was wounded, bleeding black ichor.
It fled, chasing the retreating sun over the horizon. The light returned to Solara. The mages gasped, their power flowing back.
The Grand Archon stood up, dusting off his golden robes. He looked at Lyra, who was standing amidst the fading shadows, exhausted.
"Arrest her," the Archon commanded. "She practices the Forbidden Art."
The guards hesitated. They looked at the ruined temple, then at the girl who had saved them.
"No," the Captain of the Guard said. He sheathed his sword. "We need the shadows, Archon. We learned that today. A city without shadows has no depth."
Lyra smiled weakly. Solara would never be the same. The blinding perfection was cracked. And in the cracks, real life could finally grow.