Moons shadow, p.1
Moon's Shadow, page 1
Moon's Shadow
Duskblade, Book Two
Shannon Blair
NineStar Press
A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com
Moon's Shadow
eBook ISBN: 978-1-64890-920-7
Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-921-4
© 2025 Shannon Blair
Cover Art © 2025 Jaycee DeLorenzo
Published in December 2025 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.
NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
CONTENT WARNING: This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers. Depictions of internalized homophobia and scenes of graphic violence.
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the author
For everyone still healing. Things will get better.
Prologue
It was not yet dawn. The bone-chilling winds that made Moonridge’s winters so infamously harsh screamed across the sea ice of Aurora’s harbor like a host of vengeful dead. Even tucked away inside her study, shielded by the fabled impregnable walls of Aurora’s palace and layers of furs, Ilendra could feel their icy bite. She should be in bed at this hour, waiting for the sun to rise and blunt the edge of winter’s chill. Instead, she sat in a hard-backed chair designed more for its regal appearance than its comfort, burning through precious firewood and candles as she pored over the contents of the most recent missive to reach her desk.
As Moonridge’s reigning Matriarch, she would be within her rights to leave the matter until morning and see to it that the courier responsible for disturbing her rest received a sharp reprimand for rousing her at this hour. But she had assumed a letter delivered in the dead of night by a goblin courier who had no business traveling so far into elven lands deserved her immediate attention. She had assumed correctly.
The courier’s letter was almost unnecessary. The red braid it contained was a message in itself. Ilendra eyed the length of hair coiled around her hand as though it were a viper poised to strike. It shone in the firelight like blood welling from a fresh wound. A fitting comparison, when she took the severed braid’s meaning into account. A meaning that she understood all too well.
Betrayal.
The image of her father as she’d last seen him surfaced, unwelcome and unbidden, from the depths of her mind. Anguish shining in his violet eyes like unshed tears as he dragged a razor across his throat, washing away any questions surrounding the legitimacy of Ilendra’s ascension to Moonridge’s throne with the rushing torrent of his lifeblood. Ten years later, Ilendra could still hear the soft gurgle of his dying breath as his features went slack and his eyes grew vacant. The soft thud of his body crumpling almost gracefully to the floor, as composed in death as he’d been in life. Exactly as an elven Patriarch should be. And exactly as Ilendra strove to conduct herself as Moonridge’s new Matriarch.
Sparing the life of her father’s lover, Moranthus, had been a mistake. In the wake of her father’s death, his declaration of loyalty to her had seemed genuine. But it had been an act of foolish weakness to believe such loyalty could last when Ilendra was responsible for the death of a man he’d been so utterly infatuated with. The moment Ilendra set him to a task of any real significance—his long-awaited chance to escape the shame of his unseemly involvement with a man above his station—Moranthus had turned on her, reducing years of immaculate planning to a smoldering ruin of folly.
A light, hesitant knock sounded on the door. Avalanche, the hulking ice bear who served Ilendra as a symbol of office, loyal mount, and steadfast companion, raised his head off his front paws and yawned. He tilted his head in curiosity as he regarded the source of the noise from his vantage point beside the ornamental fireplace at Ilendra’s back. His glossy, white coat glimmered like fresh snow in the firelight, interrupted only by the ink blots of his eyes, nose, and paws. Beneath that soft fur was a beast strong enough to kill a grown elf with a single swipe of his paw, each foot tipped with finger-long claws and jaws lined with dagger-sharp teeth. With such a stalwart guardian by her side, Ilendra hardly had need of the two frostguards posted outside her door, standing still as living statues in their slate-gray plate armor, their faces rendered expressionless by the blank visors of their helmets.
“Enter,” Ilendra called out, her voice clear and sharp. She ran a hand over her jet-black hair, woven into an eleven-strand Matriarch’s braid. As usual, not a single hair was out of place. She allowed herself a small hum of satisfaction at the knowledge. Unlike her fool half-brothers, she hadn’t been lucky enough to inherit her father’s royal-white hair—and, much to the chagrin of her advisors, had refused to have her hair powdered or magicked white to conform to her people’s expectations of what a Matriarch should look like—but at least she knew how to conduct herself with proper decorum. And speaking of fool half-brothers…
The door to her study swung open on well-oiled hinges. Corendin, the younger of their late father’s legitimate sons, stepped into Ilendra’s study, gray eyes still bleary from sleep. Still, there was no denying the concern Ilendra saw reflected in them, or the way his dusky lavender skin looked a touch paler than usual. Receiving a summons from his Matriarch at such an early hour and with so little notice had unnerved him.
And he had wasted little time tending to his appearance before answering her. He wore his ice-white hair draped over his shoulder in a loose, dismal attempt at the nine-strand nobleman’s braid that he was lucky to still be wearing. His elder brother, Vandorys, was living a life of exile in the goblin territories after refusing to accept Ilendra as his new Matriarch. Corendin’s more biddable temperament had spared him from sharing his brother’s fate.
Avalanche sniffed at the air as Corendin approached Ilendra’s desk, the beginnings of a growl rumbling in his chest. Corendin tensed at the sight of him and breathed a visible sigh of relief when Avalanche rested his head on his paws with a satisfied huff a moment later.
Corendin knelt before Ilendra, head respectfully inclined as he asked, “What is required of me, Matriarch?” His voice was low and soft but filled the room as effectively as if he had shouted all the same—almost an exact match for the way their father had spoken. The similarity never failed to send a chill down Ilendra’s spine. “I hope my actions have not displeased you.”
“They have not.” Ilendra fought to keep her exasperation at his groveling from showing as she spoke. It troubled her to see Corendin still so fearful of her a full decade after her ascension and his brother’s exile. A part of her wanted nothing more than to embrace him as the sibling he had always been to her and reassure him that she bore him no ill will. But to make such assurances was to undermine her own authority and diminish the gravity of his brother’s refusal to accept his new place in the hierarchy of Moonridge’s nobility. Surely, he understood that. “You may rise. A matter has been brought to my attention on which I would seek your counsel.” And a source of comfort in the wake of such an unexpected betrayal, though she could not say so aloud.
Corendin rose, eyebrows raised in a mix of surprise and curiosity as he regarded her with eyes that, for the first time in the last decade, were neither guarded nor wary. “Of course, Ilen—” He caught himself, pretending to clear his throat before he continued. “—Matriarch. How may I be of assistance?”
Ilendra shifted her gaze to her study’s door, shut tight behind Corendin by her frostguards the moment his feet had passed its threshold. It was thick enough to prevent her voice from reaching her frostguards’ ears, so long as she did not shout. And her frostguards were disciplined enough not to spread news of her conversations to unworthy ears even if they did overhear her. This was as close to a chance to speak freely as she could get as Moonridge’s Matriarch. “‘Ilendra’ is more than adequate in this context.”
“Very well, Ilendra.” A ghost
of a smile lightened Corendin’s features. “If I may ask, why is it that this matter caused you to seek my counsel? Surely your advisors are better suited to such a task?”
Because her advisors would question why she had involved Moranthus in the matter instead of leaving it in the more trustworthy and capable hands of her frostguards. Why she had promised her father’s disgraced and unsuitable lover a pardon she had no intention of granting him as a reward for completing a mission she’d expected him to fail. And she was not yet ready to face their scorn and judgmental stares.
“Because it is, to a certain degree, a family matter.” And Corendin was the only family she had left. Her mother had not spoken to her since her father’s death, justifying herself by claiming she lacked the mental fortitude to abide the presence of the woman responsible for the death of the man she had loved. Even if that woman was her own daughter.
“I see. Has there been news of Vandorys, then?” Corendin’s expression looked almost hopeful. Ilendra chose not to hold it against him for the moment.
“No, and for that, we should count ourselves grateful. This matter concerns Moranthus.”
Corendin’s eyes drifted to the braided length of red hair still wound around Ilendra’s hand. “You’ve exiled him?”
“He chose exile for himself as the penalty for an act of treason.”
“Are you certain? That seems unlike him.” Corendin’s brow furrowed. He doubted her. Of course he did. He hadn’t shared Ilendra’s distaste for their father’s base-born lover, even going so far as to attempt to intercede on Moranthus’s behalf ten years ago, when Ilendra had sentenced him to half-exile.
It wasn’t his mother who had been disgraced by their father’s decision to set her aside for a piece of trash he’d plucked out of the gutter, after all. It wasn’t his future that had been rendered uncertain by their father’s decision to sever the bond that served as his only public means of including his illegitimate daughter in his family line. It wasn’t him who’d been forced to stage a coup against his beloved father in order to preserve his suddenly precarious political standing and forcefully lay claim to a throne that should have been freely given to him.
“If you don’t believe me, you are welcome to consider the matter for yourself. It seems he was bought or coerced into assisting Warlord Gralnag, successor to Knurlath of the goblin clan Stoneheart, in backing out of an agreement between his predecessor and myself.” Ilendra pushed the letter that had accompanied the braid across her desk toward Corendin. She had no further need for it; she had all but memorized its contents. It read:
Matriarch Ilendra,
You should know that Warlord Knurlath is dead. And by now, you probably don’t need me to tell you that the deal you had with him is off. It’s nothing personal. I just know better than to trust you to deal fairly with Clan Stoneheart after you backed out of your father’s treaty. Consider this my way of returning the favor.
Prince Orthenn and his company are on their way back to Dawn’s Gate to tell their king about your kidnapping scheme. You might want to do something about that soon. As for the frostguards you sent to collect your hostage, they’re safe in my dungeon. For now. If you want them returned, just say the word and we can start talking costs. The ransom you sent for Orthenn is a good start, but seeing as there are four of them and only one of him, I’d say they’re worth a bit more.
I’ve also sent you a small gift. One of your frostguards—the big one with the nasty temper—seemed to think it was important to get this into your hands. Told me what it means too. Maybe think twice before sending your people on fool’s errands again. It doesn’t look like it’s working out for you.
I’m looking forward to your response. Truly.
Regards,
Warlord Gralnag of Clan Stoneheart
Corendin gingerly picked up the letter and scanned its contents, eyes widening as he neared the bottom of the page. “You intended to make a hostage of a prince of Dawn’s Gate.”
“His ransom was to be a swath of farmland south of the Wintersbreath. Imagine what that would have meant for our people.”
Corendin nodded his understanding. “The first expansion of elven lands in centuries. Our grandfather’s legacy reborn.”
“Exactly. It was within my grasp. If Clan Stoneheart had just delivered the boy as promised…” Ilendra paused, wincing at how close her tone had come to whining. “It matters not. I should have expected this, striking bargains with goblins. Their politics are too mercurial for them to make worthy allies. I’ve said as much myself in the past.”
“What do you expect will happen when news of this reaches Dawn’s Gate?”
Loss of trade. Demands for reparations. Increased human patrols along Dawn’s Gate’s northern border. Skirmishes when their paths crossed with Moonridge’s elven soldiers. War, if Dawn’s Gate’s king was particularly unforgiving. Civil unrest. Rebellion. “Nothing, so long as this unfortunate turn of events can be salvaged before matters spiral out of hand. Moonridge and Dawn’s Gate have both benefitted from the peaceful years of our father’s reign. King Raeburn of Dawn’s Gate will not be eager to cast that aside. That will work to our advantage.”
“And how do you intend to salvage this?”
“That remains to be decided. I had hoped you might offer some insight on the matter before I bring it to the attention of my advisors this afternoon. What course of action would you pursue if you were to find yourself in my position?” Ilendra’s true, unasked question hung heavily in the air between them: What would their father have done?
Corendin was silent for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face, before he replied, “I would distance myself from my involvement in the prince’s kidnapping, assuming there was sufficient doubt surrounding my motivations for me to do so without insulting the king’s intelligence. And I would reassure the king of my commitment to a lasting peace between our people. Unless peace is not what you desire?”
“Of course I would prefer to have peace.” Until such a time as Moonridge’s odds of winning an open war with Dawn’s Gate were more favorable, at least. But there was no need to inform Corendin of that distinction.
“Then my counsel may be of some use to you. I am glad to hear it.” Corendin’s face broke into a warm smile. “I would also offer some gesture of goodwill to assuage any lingering doubts the king may have as to my intentions. As a means of giving him something other than this unfortunate business with his son to consider when he thinks of Moonridge and its people.”
“You propose a sound course of action. I may well decide to follow it.” Ilendra felt the beginnings of a smile forming on her own face as the first inklings of a plan stirred in her mind. Perhaps she could still twist this unfortunate turn of events to her advantage. “Tell me: when was the last time Moonridge sent a delegation to Dawn’s Gate’s court?”
“Not since the late years of our father’s reign.”
“Then such a visit is long overdue, is it not? I would hardly be a worthy Matriarch if I allowed such an oversight to go uncorrected.”
“You give yourself too little credit, Ilendra.” Corendin inclined his head toward Ilendra’s hand, her fingers still clenched around Moranthus’s severed braid. “If I may ask, what do you intend to do about him?”
“Nothing.” Ilendra cast a last, baleful glance at Moranthus’s braid, then flung it into the fireplace behind her. Exile was a fate worse than death, after all. Moranthus would realize that soon enough, and when he did, Ilendra would have her vengeance for his betrayal ten times over. “Why should I waste precious resources exacting punishment on a man who is already dead to me?”
One
The Kingstone jutted abruptly out of Dawn’s Gate’s central plains, a wide, flat tower of rock in a rolling sea of grass tinted sparkling white by winter’s frost. Even glimpsing it from a hilltop a day’s ride away, Moranthus could make out the great stair carved into the Kingstone’s sides, winding upward to the castle presiding over the Kingstone’s namesake city. Plumes of smoke curled over Kingstone’s walls from the innumerable shops and houses behind them, rising into the crisp blue sky like puffs of frosted breath in the wind. Outside the city walls, scattered farms dotted the landscape for miles in every direction.
