26 The room was dark, until he uncorked the bottle. Red light flashed up to the vaulted ceiling, away to the far columns, and forward onto the wall of interlocking sigils and the winding ribbons of narrative text. He tipped the stone flask. Fire poured out and cast light against the slender neck. The molten fluid hissed along curves and lines, writing in flame in the dusty tracks of the stone floor. Blood. Ruin. Flame. Shadow. Heart. This was the creature he needed. A perfect monster. One that would answer only to its blood, to the fire, to his blood. He knelt in front of the runes and breathed in the ancient air. Pressed his palms against the cool stone, and whispered the old enchantment. The fire retreated as he spoke, coalescing against the wall into a glowing figure. The chamber trapped his whispers, echoed them, and as his voice died away, the figure became wrapped in shadow. The man stood in the silence, slowly, his hand straying to the hilt of his sword. Two blazing, white eyes winked open. The shadow cocked its head, and stumbled forward, as if walking for the first time. The man let his hand fall as the shadow came and knelt before him. There was something strangely innocent about it: disarming, gentle, for such an instrument of destruction. “Father?” The man froze for a moment, then knelt with the shadow, and reached for its shoulder. He marveled at how sleek, and cool, and soft the darkness felt. A mane of smoke drifted about and brushed his hand. But it was the face that took him. Muted features, all but the eyes, the fiery, clear, deadly, innocent eyes. “Yes?” he replied. “Who am I?” “You are my son,” the man said, and embraced the shadow. It seemed confused, at first, motionless in his arms, and then mimicked him, putting its arms around him. It shivered, and drew closer, as if melting from his body heat, and buried its face in his shoulder. * * * THE SHADOW Corrissa L. Smith
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