Chapter 4

  Lumenhaven, the wind didn't howl like it did in the poorer cities.

  It whistled

  It slid between stone columns, white in colour, and teal coloured glass arches. It's like the wind belonged there, and only there, catching in the carved runes that lines the academy courtyard and pulling a faint constant hum from the resonance embedded in the walls. Everything here felt engineered, and included and the lights.

  Above the courtyard, suspended lanterns drifted lazily like pale jellyfish, each one glows with the signature Lumenhaven cast, cool blue, clean and soft, as if daylight had been strained through ice. Their light didn't flicker the way fire did. It held steadily. Watched slyly.

  Freya crossed the courtyard alone, she is a slender pretty girl, her crimson dress flutters around her legs. A single black ribbon tying her hair back into a long controlled pony tail, several strands have come loose and now hang lazily over her face.

  Freya as always kept her gaze low not wanting to draw attention, Clutching the strap of her worn leather bag. Around her, clusters of students laughed and chattered, she never knew if they were laughing at her, but she never wanted to wait and see. The sound of laughter like static against her stoic silence. She never felt like she truly fitted in here, not in the courtyard, not under these lanterns. Not in a city that was built like a promise, and run like a warning.

  Freya often walks through the courtyard feeling watched or observed, sometimes walking out of the courtyard she would look back and see teachers watching, at her? Maybe, but either way she feels nervous.

  A group of older boys shoved past, knocking her shoulder. She stumbled but kept walking, too used to it to react. The laughter trailed behind her like a shadow.

  Then, as she reached the archway leading out of the courtyard, two older boys stepped into her path.

  “Hey, Freya,” one sneered.

  Vargo, tall, smug. Hair slicked back in a way that shows he thinks he is better than everyone. The crest of his family pinned on his lapel, like it was a title he achieved by more than just being born.

  “Get lost, Vargo,” Freya muttered, brushing past him.

  “Well, that’s not very polite,” said the other one, Seb.

  Seb with his shoulder length blonde hair tied up into a small ponytail as the other hairs drift in front of his face, he seems less well off but still has a family crest pinned to himself. Even in a post war world people try and grasped to any kind of hierarchy and class.

  “Just skathin leave me alone.” She quickened her pace, her heart thudding.

  Seb’s grin widened. “Careful what you say, Freya. The Shoven might hear. You’re almost eighteen, aren’t you? They wouldn’t hesitate to throw you in the dungeons.”

  Vargo snickered. “Yeah, I heard people die down there. They don’t even move the bodies, just leave them to rot for the next poor soul.”

  Freya's jaw clenched. “Whatever, can I just go home?”

  “Of course you can,” Vargo said, smirking. “If you can get your bag back.”

  Before she could react, he yanked the strap off her shoulder and tossed it over her head to Seb.

  “Hey!” she shouted, lunging for it, but Vargo stuck his foot out.

  She hit the ground hard, her palms scraping against the stone. The boys laughed, tossing the bag back and forth while she scrambled to her knees.

  “Give it back!” Freya snapped, scrambling to her knees. “This isn’t funny!”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Vargo teased, holding the bag out as if to return it. When she reached for it, he pulled it back and watched her fall again. “Did you really think it’d be that easy?”

  Freya glared at them, her eyes narrowing. “I said, give it back. This is your last chance.”

  Seb barked a laugh. “Or what? You gonna cry, little short arse?”

  They both howled with laughter. Freya stopped reaching. She went still, completely still.

  The blue lantern-light washed across her face, making her look paler faced than she really was. Her breath slowed. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Okay,” she said quietly. “You were warned.”

  She took one slow breath… and vanished. For a heartbeat, panic flared inside her, because she knew if she had been seen using magic she could be reported, but she had dealt with this constant bullying for too long.

  Both boys froze. The laughter died. Seb looked at Vargo, his eyes wide. “Where’d she go?”

  Before he could finish, Vargo’s body went rigid, his skin drained pale, his eyes frozen open. A living statue.

  “Vargo!” Seb screamed. His breath came fast and shallow. “Freya? What’s going on?”

  A sound like a roar filled the alley, a spinning rush of heat and energy. Seb turned just in time to see a ball of fire hurtling toward him.

  He dove to the ground, screaming.

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  The flames skimmed the top of his hair, singeing it before crashing into the cobblestones. A whirl of fire spun across the ground, leaving glowing embers in its wake.

  From nowhere came a soft, bubbling laugh. Freya shimmered into visibility, her red dress glowing faintly in the dying light. Her legs trembled slightly, like her body was angry at what she'd forced it to do.

  Seb pressed his back against Vargo’s frozen body, panting. A dark wet patch spread down his leg.

  “Oh gods, oh gods, no, what is this...”

  “Well,” she said, grinning, “that’s embarrassing. You’ve wet yourself. Imagine if Vargo saw you now.”

  Seb’s jaw dropped. “You’re insane!”

  Freya smirked and closed her eyes again. A flicker of light passed over her, and Vargo gasped back to life, blinking rapidly.

  “What happened? I... I couldn’t move! I saw fire, Seb, why’ve you wet yourself?”

  Freya couldn’t help it, she laughed, not sweet, not cruel. The sound bright and fearless this time. She brushed past Seb, grabbed her bag off the ground. She felt sharp with relief and adrenaline and something she didn't want to admit felt good.

  Seb stared after her in shock, trying to make sense of what just happened. Then, behind him, footsteps echoed.

  A tall man approached from the shadowed lane beyond the courtyard edge, where the academy's clean stone met older brick. His coat was long and brown, tattered around the edges, flaring behind him in the wind. His hair was tied back into a rough ponytail. Stubble shadowed his jaw. A cigarette glowed in his mouth, warm orange against the city's cold blue light. The cigarette highlighted his jaw.

  He looked out of place in Lumenhaven.

  Which for some reason meant he belonged here more than anyone.

  “Bloody kid,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’d hardly believe she’s nearly eighteen.”

  Seb turned, still pale. The man flicked the cigarette into the gutter and offered a hand.

  Seb reached out shakily, letting him pull him up. “Thank you. Sorry, who are you?”

  “Name’s Lazarus. Lazarus Theun.” His voice was calm but heavy with something unspoken. “Heard someone screaming. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “She... she could’ve killed me,” Seb stammered. Nothing like this had ever happened in the city, not since before the Shoven came. “She just… vanished. Then there was fire, and Vargo froze, what was that?”

  Lazarus dusted off his coat, expression unreadable. “That,” he said, “was magic. Elemental magic, to be precise. At its weakest form.”

  Seb blinked. “Magic? That’s just stories. My gran told those to...”

  “They’re not stories.” Lazarus cut him off, voice low. “They say when someone turns eighteen, the power awakens, stronger than before. But no one’s seen it since the Shoven invasion. People used to call it a gift from the gods.”

  “The gods?” Seb frowned. “But the gods can’t give power like that.”

  Lazarus gestured for him to walk. They moved through narrow alleys, their footsteps echoing off the walls. “No, perhaps not. But the legend says six children were born with something special, chosen to restore balance. If it’s true, that girl might be one of them.” For the first time in years, Lazarus felt something dangerously close to hope.

  “Freya?” Seb’s voice cracked. “Her? You’re serious?”

  They turned a corner, a group of Shoven walk past, but they aren't your usual grunts in Lumenhaven. They are advisers, they have never truly taken over Lumenhaven but they watch from the shadows, pulling on the strings of oppression but never truly taking over, which can be more unsettling. Some Shaherens are loyal to the Shoven, not out of respect but out of fear, to protect their families and friends.

  “Vile creatures,” Lazarus muttered.

  One of the Shoven, a hulking scaled brute, broke formation and leaned close, his breath reeking of sulfur. “What did you just say, worm?”

  Lazarus forced a smile. “Nothing, sir. Just complimenting my friend here on his tie.” He stepped aside calmly, eyes never leaving the Shoven's. The Shoven grunted and returned to the group.

  When they were clear, Seb exhaled hard. “That was close.”

  Lazarus chuckled dryly. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

  He paused at a set of stairs leading to a rundown apartment block and jingled a ring of keys. “You want a drink? I could use some company.”

  Seb hesitated but nodded. “Sure.”

  Inside, the apartment was chaos, clothes strewn across the floor, cups piled in corners, the faint smell of stale smoke. On a table sits a map of Shahero and a faded photo of two people hugging, creases across it like it had been shoved into a pocket. Sat on the chair is an old Shoven helmet, cracked across the top. The room almost feels like a war room, plans and ideas for Lazarus to take them down.

  Seb frowned. “You live here alone?”

  Lazarus didn’t answer right away. He pulled two cups from a cupboard and poured a dark ale. “Used to belong to my parents,” he said finally.

  Seb’s curiosity got the better of him. “Where are they now?”

  Lazarus stared into his cup. “Gone.”

  The silence stretched until Seb muttered, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

  “It’s fine.” Lazarus took a slow drink, his eyes distant. “There was a riot in Melnock. We were there on holiday. I was ahead of them in the crowd. The Shoven stopped them… my mother resisted. They shot her. My father told me to run.”

  His voice cracked. Seb leaned forward, saying nothing.

  “I heard the gunshots. I didn’t look back.” Lazarus’s eyes glistened. “By the time I reached the cruiser, I was alone.”

  Seb swallowed hard. “I’m… sorry. No one should go through that.”

  Lazarus gave a faint smile. “You learn to live with ghosts.” He refilled both cups, his hand shaking slightly. “Those Shoven swine took everything. One day, I’ll make them pay.”

  Seb hesitated. “You think Freya could help you do that?”

  Lazarus looked up sharply. “Not help. Finish it. If we just drive them away, they’ll find another world to ruin. I want to end them.”

  Seb nodded slowly. “Then I’ll help. My parents hate them too. Maybe… maybe the Chosen really are real.” He wasn't proud of who he'd been in that courtyard, but he knew he didn't want to be anymore.

  Lazarus placed a hand on Seb’s shoulder. “Careful what you wish for, kid.”

  They talked until the light faded from the windows. Finally, Seb stood, startled by the time. “I’ve gotta go, my parents will kill me. Here...” he scribbled something on a scrap of paper. “My address. I only live a district away.”

  Lazarus nodded. “Thank you, Seb. Maybe fate brought us together for a reason.”

  They stepped outside. The streets were empty now, lit by floating lamps that drifted lazily above the cobblestones. One of them followed Seb as he walked away.

  “I’ll visit tomorrow!” Seb called over his shoulder.

  “You’d better!” Lazarus shouted back. “It’s my eighteenth birthday tomorrow.”

  Seb stopped mid-step. Eighteenth? He frowned, thinking of Freya.

  “No… he couldn’t be…” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Then he walked on, the lamp’s pale light gliding silently beside him.

  Behind him, Lazarus stood beneath the blue glow, a faint smile playing across his face, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Somewhere across the city, unseen and unknowing, the first threads of the Chosen had begun to tighten.

  Thanks for reading!

  Every time someone spends a few minutes in the world of Shahero, it honestly means more than I can properly put into words. Seeing people follow the journey of Tyron, Samantha, Lazarus, Freya, Cid, and Zara makes all the hours of writing worth it.

  If you enjoyed the chapter, feel free to leave a comment or follow the story. I read every comment, and it genuinely helps the story reach more readers here on Royal Road.

  A few people have also asked how they can support the project as I work toward eventually publishing the book. If that’s something you’d like to help with, there’s a support link below that goes toward editing and preparing the story for print.

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  Question for readers:What moment in this chapter stood out to you the most?

  See you in the next chapter.

  — Matthew Cooke-Sumner