A Dark Fae Spicy Novella
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** The Mirrored Pair Novella & The World Guide are now available separately as e-books if you'd prefer to select only one!
THE KEEPER'S CODEX: THE SPICY NOVELLA
Witness the spicy, tragic origin myth from the final days before the veil fractured in the Novella: The Mirrored Pair. A bond that balanced on a knife's edge between saving the world and shattering it. One choice would reveal their true nature. Were they fated lovers, or fated enemies whose only destiny was to be each other's ruin?
I watched her work the room with that particular Light-born cruelty—every smile a treaty, every laugh a small assassination of someone's defenses. The Light Princess held court near the ice sculptures, surrounded by sycophants who hung on her every murmur. She wore white, the color of surrender—not because she was yielding, but because she expected everyone else to. I wondered how many Shadow children she'd already marked for death in that pretty little head of hers. "Stop staring before someone notices," Dex muttered beside me, my second-in-command tugged at his stiff Shadow delegation robes. "I'm studying the target." "You're studying her ass." He quipped. "It's a very strategic ass." I accepted wine from a passing servant, never taking my eyes off Lyra. The wine had that metallic aftertaste that was becoming common now—Veil-sickness tainting even the finest vintages. "She's placed herself perfectly—back to the wall, clear sightlines to every exit, and notice how she keeps touching that decorative pin? It's a concealed blade." "So she's paranoid." Even as she laughed at some ambassador's joke, her fingers traced the rim of her glass, she sniffed delicately—checking for residue, poison, anything off. The gesture was so subtle her admirers probably thought it was flirtation. "She's the key to their genocide ritual. I'd be paranoid too." Another smile, another subtle shift to keep the ice sculpture between her and the Shadow delegation's table. Smart girl. "Beautiful targets are still targets, Dex. Being pretty won't make her any less dead by morning." They feast and pretend while reality tears itself apart. Seven major Veil rifts this season alone. And they still think killing us will somehow stop the veil from thinning. Lyra laughed at something a Light Baron said—the sound bright and false as fool's gold. But then her eyes swept the room and found mine. Just for a heartbeat. The laugh died on her lips. "Shit," Dex whispered. "She knows exactly who you are." "Of course she does. I killed three of her cousins." I set down my wine. "Time to introduce myself." "That's not the plan. You're supposed to observe tonight, strike tomorrow—" "She's isolated herself from her guards, she's three drinks in, and she's underestimating me." I straightened my collar. "When your target gift-wraps themselves, you don't wait for a better bow." I took my time crossing to her, letting her feel me coming—each step a promise, a threat, a question. The Light fae between us parted like they'd been choreographed. I watched her track my approach in the reflection of the ice sculpture. She adjusted her stance, subtle as breathing. Her fingers found that pin again. She turned before I reached her, champagne glass catching the light like a weapon. "Prince Malakor." Her smile held the particular pleasure of a hunter finding exactly what they'd hoped for in their trap. "I was just telling Lord Brennan about the northern trade routes. You must have opinions about those." "Endless opinions." I took a glass from a passing tray and matched her casual stance. "Though I find the southern passages more interesting lately. So much more... traffic." Her eyes flickered and her lips curved. She knew I meant troop movements. "The south can be treacherous this time of year." She sipped her champagne. "All those sudden storms. Ships lost without a trace." Threat laced every word. "Only the ones that don't know how to navigate." I smiled. "Or the ones that trust the wrong lighthouses." Lord Brennan, oblivious, laughed nervously. "Well, I'll leave you two to discuss... navigation." He scurried away. "Your shadow's showing," she hissed. "Your light's blinding." I stepped closer, like we were sharing gossip. I could hear her heartbeat pick up and her body temperature rise. I dropped my voice dangerously low to force her to strain to hear me, "Tell me, Princess, do you dance?" "Depends who's asking." Her eyes darted to mine. "The Shadow Prince or the assassin?" "Tonight?" I let my eyes travel down her vulnerable body, the white material straining to hold in her curves, then back up. "Both." She swallowed but fought to regain composure. "And what kind of music is playing." "And what kind of music does the Light Princess prefer?" I crooned. "Something where I can count the beats." Her chin lifted. "I like to know exactly when it ends." "And I prefer the ones that keep you guessing." I offered my hand. "Shall we test whose rhythm wins?" She took my hand, her grip testing my strength and met my eyes. Her fire rekindled. "I should warn you—I never let anyone else lead." "Perfect." I pulled her closer. "Neither do I." The orchestra struck up a waltz—something sharp and minor key. Perfect. "Careful," she murmured as we took position, her hand on my shoulder. "People are watching." "Let them." I spun her, controlled but testing her balance. When our palms connected, fully flush, a jolt of wild magic sparked between us. The kind of discharge that only happened near major Veil wounds. Her eyes widened slightly. She'd felt it too. "Unless you're worried about your reputation, princess?" "My reputation is spotless." She matched my movements perfectly, predator-smooth. "Can you say the same, Prince Malakor?" "I wouldn't want to." Another spin, tighter this time. "Spotless things are so easily... stained." I gripped her waist tighter, just to hear her breathe hitch. "Is that a threat?" She snapped. "An observation. White shows everything—wine, wrinkles, blood." She glared at me and I grinned. She was marvelous to play with, so responsive. The music reached a crescendo. I dipped her, deep enough that she had to trust me not to drop her. Her weight in my hands, her throat exposed, completely at my mercy. I whispered, "It's not a threat." My lips skimmed on her extended neck. "I'm the threat, princess." Her breath caught and I pulled her up. She opened her mouth to reply but I led her out in a spin, before she could even register she was following. Then coiled her back in, her back against my chest for two beats. She turned to face me, her lips inches from mine, and her hand reaching down... until I realized she was grazing my hidden dagger with her fingertips. "Threats are just promises you're too scared to keep, Princeling." She unwound so we were just connected by one hand for a beat. And I pulled her back to my chest. Our magic hummed. "Your room or mine?" I rumbled and looked her dead in the eye. "Neither." She stepped back coldly as the music ended, and dropped into a perfect curtsy. "Some fires are better left... unlit." She turned to leave. I caught her wrist, gentle enough to seem polite, firm enough to make a point. "We're not done." "No," she agreed, not pulling away. "But we are for tonight." "The night's young." "And you're impatient." She twisted her wrist with a warrior's precision and broke my grip cleanly. "The best hunters know when to wait." "And the best prey knows when to run." She laughed, genuine this time. "And which one am I?" "I'll let you know when I decide." "Bold of you to assume you get to choose." She walked away, but called over her shoulder: "Oh, and Prince Malakor?" I smiled despite myself. "Yes, Princess Lyra?" "When I leave a room, it's not a retreat—it's a head start." A feline grin spread across her lips. "You think you're playing a game, but you're just my game piece. I make the rules. I move the pieces. I decide the outcome. You don't win or lose, Malakor. You just get to be played." She strolled out of the room, hips swaying.
THE KEEPER'S CODEX: THE WORLD GUIDE
Delve into Serenya's private collection of conflicting histories, vibrant images, secret dossiers, and firsthand accounts of the Veil-touched wilds. This is the official companion world guide to the upcoming dark fae romantasy trilogy, The Heirs of The Shattered Veil. The truth of the five fractured realms is what you find shivering in the space between the lies.
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Foreword: A Warning from the Keeper
Do not mistake this for a history. History is a story told by victors, its edges smoothed by time and its truths curated for comfort. This is not comfortable. This is a collection of fragments, gathered in secret, on a road that may have no end. The King believes that if you burn the scrolls, silence the songs, and erase the names, you can erase the truth. He is wrong. Truth is not ink and parchment; it is a memory woven into the very soul of the world. And the world is screaming. What you hold in your hands are the shards of a shattered mirror. Each piece reflects a truth—a myth, a map, a memory of a power the Crown has tried to make us forget. But be warned: the edges are sharp, and the picture they show is incomplete. To see one truth is to be blinded to another. This knowledge is a weapon, and like any weapon, it is dangerous to wield without understanding its full weight. I write this not as a scholar, but as a keeper. A memory-weaver who has seen what happens when we forget. The Veil was not the only thing that was fractured. So was our memory of who we are, and who we were meant to be. Read this with care. Men may lie. But the world never forgets. —Serenya, Priestess of the Forgotten Rites Year of the Shattered Song, 237 Two centuries since the Veil fractured Two centuries of Fae born with a Mark: Luminar or Shadowborn
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A Bestiary of the Veil-Touched Wilds
Dossier: Skal'Varin Dragons
(Contributed to the Keeper's Codex by Dreadscale of Skal'Varin)
Dreadscale
The lowlanders see a beast of scale and fury. They see a weapon to be aimed, or a monster to be slain. They see what they fear in themselves.
They do not see the truth.
A dragon is not a beast you master. It is the part of your soul that remembers how to burn.
Our histories are not written in ink; they are scarred into the peaks of Skal'Varin. In the molten heart of the world, two beings emerged from the same stone—one with the flame in his chest, the other with the flame in his breath. Man and dragon, born of mirrored spirit. They did not speak. They did not war. They simply saw one another, and knew. That was the first soulbond.
But the world below began to fray. The lowlanders forgot the old unity. They hunted for power, or for sport. So we retreated to the high peaks, to keep the sacred rites from being lost.
The Ember Wake—The Bond of The Dragon
The Ember Wake is Skal'Varin's ancient bonding ritual—those who leap from the peaks while naming their own darkness either die on impact or rise on dragon wings.
We do not choose our dragons. We choose to be worthy of them. The dragonborn are not chosen for strength of body—any fool with muscle can swing a blade. They're chosen for their courage to speak truth of their own shadow, to look in the mirror and not lie about what stares back. This is the strongest warrior: one who refuses the comfort of self-illusion.
When you stand at the peak's edge, the thin air strips away every lie you've wrapped yourself in. The leap isn't about bravery—many a brave soul has shattered on impact. It's about surrender to what you truly are beneath all the pretending. As you fall, you must name your shadows aloud, speak every ugly truth you've hidden from. The dragon listens. If you lie, even to yourself, you die. If you speak true—if you can face your own darkness without flinching—then you are chosen as bond worthy.
Fire doesn't test us. Fire is what answers when someone finally stops lying about what burns inside them. Most who leap die learning they couldn't bear their own truth. The rest of us? We're the ones who named our monsters and found they had wings.
The Soul-Fires (Ancient Dragons)
Distant cousin to the phoenix
The eldest dragons who've survived countless centuries by burning away everything unnecessary—including most of their flesh. Now mostly bone and ember, held together by will alone. They speak only truth, and their words literally burn lies out of the air. Born of the mountain's granite soul, their scales are like obsidian and cooled lava. They are the anchors, the guardians. Their fire does not just burn; it melts stone.
To bond with a Soul-Fire is to accept constant ego death as a way of life, only the bravest warriors attempt it. Because every conversation you have with your dragon will shatter every illusion you've ever held about yourself.
"I did not feel wings catch me. I felt the mountain itself rise to meet me." —Eyewitness account of a Soul-Fire bonding.
The Mirror-Fires
Born of sun's rage and storm's fury—solid muscle, obsidian scales, wings that beat with thunderous force. They are the warriors, instruments of passion and ruin. Their fire is a torrent of pure, blinding annihilation.
Their scales carry a unique mirroring frequency. Look at a Mirror-Fire and their obsidian hide reflects not your face but your nature—specifically the part you're desperately pretending doesn't exist. The coward sees their cowardice. The fraud sees their lies. The hero sees the selfishness beneath their nobility. No interpretation, no mercy, just the truth you've been running from.
They nest in the mid-peaks where altitude sickness makes everything questionable. Most who claim to have seen their "true self" in a Mirror-Fire's scales were oxygen-deprived, hallucinating, possibly dying. This doesn't make what they saw less true.
Moody and violent by nature, they attack or ignore based on criteria only they understand. To bond with a Mirror-Fire is to accept that everyone who looks at you will see a glimpse of their own denied truth reflected in your presence. You become a walking confrontation.
Their fire can forge nations or break them. The dragon doesn't care which. They are passion without conscience, power without apology, truth without comfort.
The Mist-Walkers
The rarest. Born not of the mountain or the sky, but of the Veil's own breath. They are the ghosts of the peaks, their scales the color of storm clouds and twilight. They do not breathe fire, but a shimmering, silver mist that can mend a wound or unravel a mind. They remind us that truth is an illusion, just as duality is. As soon as you try to grip on to it, your grip is the very thing that transforms it from truth to lie. To bond with one is to be tethered to the fragile thread that tethers all worlds.
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Mirror-Fire Mating Rituals—Field Observations
The Mirror-Fires mate once. Not once per lifetime—once across all lifetimes.
The Recognition: When Mirror-Fires find their match, they circle each other for days, sometimes weeks, reflecting infinite versions of their potential futures together. They see every timeline—where they fail each other, where they triumph, where one dies saving the other. Only when both dragons accept every possible ending do they descend together.
The Binding Flight: They rise to where air turns to void, beyond where even dragonborn can follow. There, they breathe their first fire together, into the empty space between stars. This flame burns across all dimensions. It affects the version of them in every timeline, spatial point or realm: a bond has been made that death nor ego can sever.
The Truth: Mirror-Fire pairs don't just mate—they merge histories. Once bound, if one dies, the other doesn't mourn. They wait. Sometimes a year, sometimes centuries. They know their mate will return, wearing different scales, bearing different scars, but carrying the same soul. They always recognize each other.
Offspring: Their eggs appear to be obsidian mirrors. Look into one and you see not the dragonling inside, but who you were the moment you first felt love. The eggs hatch only when both parents breathe on them together—proof the bond survived another turning of the world.
The Promise: Mated Mirror-Fires refuse to fly alone. Even hunting. Even in war. They move as paired shadows, two bodies thinking with one mind that exists across all possible worlds.
We know this because the old pairs tell us, in the way dragons tell things—through shared visions that feel more real than memory. They show us love that transcends form, realm, even death itself.
The mountain teaches that nothing is permanent.
The Mirror-Fires prove the mountain wrong.
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