Drusniel slipped through the bamboo grove, each step silent and precise. His blade, forged in the depths of Umbra’kor, caught what little light filtered through the canopy. Ahead, his sister’s pale hair stood out against the gloom, a stark reminder of their shared heritage.

The drow siblings circled each other, feet ghosting over the forest floor. Drusniel’s mind raced, recalling his training with the Shadowblades. In Umbra’kor, combat was more than survival—it was politics, religion, life itself.

Steel met steel. The clash reverberated through the misty air. Drusniel’s arms shook as he pushed against Shyntara’s strength. She’d always been the better warrior, a fact that burned in his gut like acid.

He gritted his teeth and shoved hard, spinning into a flurry of strikes. Shyntara flowed around his attacks like water in a subterranean stream. Her alabaster hair whipped through the air as she dodged and weaved. Always just out of reach. Always one step ahead.

Frustration mounted in Drusniel’s chest. He’d left Umbra’kor to prove himself, to find the magic he knew lurked within his blood. But here he was, still struggling against his sister’s shadow.

He pressed forward, searching for an opening. There – a gap in her defense. Drusniel lunged, certain of victory.

At the last instant, Shyntara twisted. Drusniel’s blade sliced empty air. An elbow slammed into his sternum. He stumbled back, lungs emptying in a rush.

Cold steel kissed his throat. Drusniel went still, pulse hammering in his pointed ears. Shyntara’s slender fingers adjusted their grip, the edge biting deeper. He raised his eyes, meeting a gaze as frigid and unforgiving as the underground rivers of their homeland.

“Getting sloppy, little brother.” Shyntara’s lip curled, not a single strand of hair out of place. In that moment, she embodied everything a drow warrior should be – deadly, graceful, and utterly without mercy.

Drusniel glared as she lowered her weapon. “If I could use my magic, I would’ve had you.”

Shyntara’s laugh was sharp and humorless. Her blade slid home with a decisive click. “Still clinging to that fantasy? Magic only flows through noble blood, and ours has grown thin and feeble.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Drusniel looked away, jaw working silently. In Umbra’kor, magical ability meant power. Without it, he’d never rise above his station. Never earn a place on the Council of Matriarchs. Never prove his worth to their family.

“You’re wasting your time up here,” Shyntara continued, her voice softer now. “Come home, Drusniel. Accept your place. There’s honor in serving as a Shadowblade.”

Drusniel’s fists clenched at his sides. “I won’t go back to being nobody. I know I have power. Annariel sees it. He’s helping me unlock it.”

Shyntara’s eyes narrowed. “That boy from House Vrinn? He’s using you, brother. Whatever he’s promised you, it’s a lie. You know how our families feel about each other.”

“You’re wrong.” Drusniel turned away, staring into the misty bamboo forest. “Annariel is different. He understands what it’s like to be overlooked, to have your potential ignored. We’re going to change things, Shyntara. For both of us.”

“Change things?” Shyntara scoffed. “You sound like a child. The only change in Umbra’kor comes through blood and betrayal. Your… friendship… with Annariel will only bring ruin to both your houses.”

Drusniel shook his head. “You don’t understand. We’re not playing by the old rules anymore. I’ll come back to Umbra’kor with power that will make even the Matriarchs tremble. And when I do, I won’t forget who stood by me.”

He felt Shyntara’s hand on his shoulder, surprisingly gentle. “I hope you’re right,” she said softly. “For your sake. But if you’re wrong… don’t expect mercy from the Council. Or from me.”

Drusniel nodded once, sharply. He understood the warning in her words. In the cutthroat world of drow politics, failure meant death. But he’d come too far to turn back now.

As Shyntara melted back into the shadows of the bamboo grove, Drusniel touched the hilt of his sword.