THE PHOENIX AND THE SHADOW PRINCESS

The city bent around Eryndor like metal under heat.

Sunlight struck the glass towers, ricocheting in fractured beams that stung human eyes but not his. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse office, watching the morning traffic coil through the streets far below. Mortals rushed, cursed, honked, bargained, begged, dreamed. They burned themselves out every day, unaware how fragile their flames were.

Eryndor envied them sometimes.

Mortals lived short, bright lives. They feared death. They treasured time. He had none of those luxuries.

A soft chime broke the silence. His assistant’s voice filtered through the intercom respectful, practiced, and just a little frightened.

“Mr. Vale, your 9 a.m. meeting is waiting in the conference room.”

Eryndor didn’t turn from the window. “Reschedule it.”

A pause. “Sir, this is the third time”

“Reschedule,” he repeated, and the intercom fell silent.

People feared him. They respected him. They never questioned him for long.

Being a demi-god came with certain advantages.

His reflection in the glass looked almost human. Almost. His dark hair, unruly and warm with faint ember-red undertones, caught the light strangely. His eyes flickered gold for an instant Phoenix fire simmering beneath the surface before returning to their usual molten brown.

He blinked once, slowly, and the glow died.

He didn’t need another rumor spreading about the strange, impossible man who ran the most powerful investment firm in the city. Humans already whispered enough. They felt danger when they looked at him, even if they couldn’t name it. Instincts older than civilization warned them of predators in human skin.

He didn’t enjoy their fear. But he didn’t correct it either.

Distance was safer. For them. For him.

Eryndor finally stepped away from the window, rolling his shoulders as if shedding invisible ash. His tailored suit moved with him expensive fabric lined with flame-resistant enchantments, just in case. His body ran hotter than any mortal’s; sometimes, under stress, pieces of him caught fire.

A Phoenix’s curse.

He’d mastered control years ago… but not entirely. Some days the past clawed up through the cracks he’d tried to seal.

Some days the fire wanted out.

He was reaching for his desk when the air went cold.

Not ordinary cold. Not human cold.

A spiritual cold, bright and sharp as a blade of ice.

Eryndor’s jaw tightened.

A voice drifted through the office, smooth as celestial choir yet heavy as a storm.

“You’ve grown careless, Eryndor.”

Feathers of radiant light materialized near the ceiling, thousands of them swirling like glowing snow before forming into a tall, armor-clad figure. Wings arched behind him, luminous and terrible, spanning wider than the room.

Seraphiel.

The archangel who had saved Eryndor’s life centuries ago. The only being he could not easily ignore.

Eryndor folded his arms. “Breaking and entering is new, even for you.”

Seraphiel’s expression remained impassive. “Mortals truly have softened you.”

“Mortals pay well,” Eryndor replied. “And I prefer a life without divine interference.”

“Yet interference is exactly why I’m here.”

Eryndor’s stomach tightened. “No.”

“You haven’t heard the mission.”

“I don’t need to.” He turned his back. “No more realms. No more divine politics. Find someone else.”

There was a pause too long, too calm.

Then Seraphiel spoke one word.

“Your parents.”

Eryndor froze.

His heart, despite being made from something far stronger than mortal flesh, stuttered. For a brief moment, heat rippled beneath his skin, threatening to blaze outward.

Slowly, he turned.

Seraphiel’s eyes brilliant, emotionless gold softened by a fraction of a degree. “Their souls have lingered between cycles for centuries. But I can free them. I can reunite them in the next life.”

Eryndor’s breaths turned unsteady. He hated that. Hated how easily this one topic cracked him open.

“What do you want?” His voice was low, guarded.

“A rebellion,” Seraphiel said. “Zariel moves against the realms. If left unchecked, he will tear the balance apart.”

Zariel. Ruler of the Underworld. Master of shadows. A tyrant with endless ambition and a talent for war.

“What does this have to do with me?” Eryndor asked, though a sinking feeling was already forming in his gut.

Seraphiel extended one hand. A shimmer of light condensed into an image the silhouette of a woman standing in black flame. Tall. Graceful. Dangerous.

“Lyra,” Seraphiel said. “Zariel’s daughter. The Shadow Princess.”

Eryndor’s brows lifted. “And?”

“You will bring her to me.”

A humorless laugh escaped him. “So you want me to kidnap the princess of the Underworld. You do realize that sounds idiotic even for you.”

Seraphiel didn’t react. “Without her, Zariel’s rebellion collapses. With her, the realms can be saved. And your parents can move on.”

Fire rippled beneath Eryndor’s skin again grief, anger, desperation, all wrapped into a flame that refused to die.

He wanted to say no. He wanted to throw Seraphiel out the window and disappear into a life without celestial strings.

But the word parents echoed in his chest, burning through every argument he tried to summon.

Finally, he exhaled.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Seraphiel’s silence was answer enough.

Eryndor closed his eyes.

Damn him.

When he opened them again, a thin ring of gold fire circled his irises.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do your mission.”

Seraphiel inclined his head once. “You leave tonight. She will not come willingly.”

Eryndor smirked coldly. “That’s the part I’m counting on.”

But as Seraphiel dissolved into light, leaving feathers and silence in his wake, one thought lingered in Eryndor’s mind

Why would the most feared archangel in existence need him to retrieve Lyra?

And why did the image of the Shadow Princess feel like the beginning of a fire he wouldn’t be able to extinguish?