ShadowBound: The Need For Power-Chapter 499: He Is Back

Back in the city of Ilis, dawn began to creep across the horizon, painting the edges of the sky in hues of gold and pale rose. The city, still half-asleep, basked in the quiet hum of early morning—its streets empty, its lanterns flickering dimly as the sun’s light slowly reclaimed them.

Atop one of the tall buildings overlooking the capital, shadows stirred—rippling like ink in water—before solidifying into two distinct figures.

Marcus and Galen emerged from the veil of darkness. Marcus now stood dressed not in his shadowed assassin attire, but in his casual wear—dark trousers, boots, and his long-sleeved shirt—looking perfectly at ease despite the night’s bloodshed. Galen, on the other hand, appeared as though he had been dragged through hell and back—his face pale, his body bruised and beaten, his breath still ragged.

"Alright, kid," Marcus said casually, stepping forward to the rooftop’s edge. His tone was light, as though they hadn’t just slaughtered an army of mercenaries hours ago. His hands were tucked into his pockets as he gazed at the distant palace. "We’re back."

Galen clutched his side as he slowly joined him, each step heavy. When he finally reached Marcus’s side, his gaze followed the same line of sight—toward the royal palace bathed faintly in the coming light. He said nothing at first, only turning his eyes briefly toward Marcus, studying him.

Marcus caught the look instantly. Tilting his head, he smirked faintly. "What? Got something on my face?" he asked, running a hand across his cheek with mock concern.

Galen exhaled sharply, almost like a laugh but too tired to commit to one. "No, you don’t," he said, his tone dry. "I was just wondering... what it took for you to reach that level. To survive a stab to the heart and still stand like nothing happened."

Marcus arched a brow, then chuckled softly as he turned his gaze back to the palace. "Ah, I see what you’re really asking, kid." His smirk deepened. "And the answer is—yes. You can reach this level. Hell, even surpass me if you’ve got the will for it."

Galen blinked, surprised.

Marcus went on, voice steady and certain. "You’ve got that kind of fire in you, whether you realize it or not. To the trained eye, it’s obvious—you’ve got the potential to be one of the strongest knights Amthar’s ever seen. But potential means nothing if you don’t work it. You’ve gotta push through the blood, through the pain, through the nights you think you’ll die trying. Do that, and surpassing your sister..." he gave a small laugh, "that’ll be nothing but a stroll through the park."

For a long moment, Galen said nothing. He simply looked at Marcus, the man who had just taken on an army and lived, and then turned back toward the palace, watching the sunlight inch higher.

In truth, before this night, Galen had never thought much about strength. He fought, yes—trained like every knight should—but he’d never cared to push beyond what was required. He’d been content in the comfort of knowing his limits. But now... after witnessing Marcus tear through an army of mercenaries with impossible skill, after seeing death so close he could taste it, something inside him had shifted.

He remembered Lucien’s blade descending. The helplessness that had crawled up his spine. The weight of knowing that even after killing three men with his own hands, he was still weak—still powerless to protect himself, let alone anyone else.

And then Marcus had saved him. Again.

Galen clenched his fists. That feeling—the fear, the weakness—it sickened him. He refused to feel it again.

Finally, a small smirk curved his lips. "Thanks for saying that," he said quietly. "I... needed to hear it."

Marcus side-eyed him with a faint grin. "You’re welcome, kid," he replied easily. "Anyway," he added, glancing at the pale glow of dawn stretching over the city, "the sun’s almost up. I can’t stick around for long."

He stepped closer, his presence towering over Galen as his tone shifted, quieter now—more deliberate. "One last thing before I knock you out."

Galen frowned. "Wait, what?"

Marcus’s expression darkened slightly, his eyes gleaming with that familiar shadowed calm. "The Nether Realm," he said. "If you want to grow stronger... go there."

"The Nether Realm?" Galen echoed, confusion furrowing his brow. The name tickled at the back of his memory—something whispered once in hushed tones, a place few dared to mention. He tried to recall where he’d heard it before, but before he could speak again, a sharp sting struck the back of his neck.

Pain flashed through him, and his vision swam.

"M–Marcus—"

"Don’t worry," Marcus said softly, his voice echoing faintly as the world around Galen began to blur. "You’ll thank me later."

Darkness claimed him before he could respond, and Galen’s body went limp.

***

As the sun rose over the city of Ilis, the body of a young man with white hair lay motionless on the cobblestones before the palace gates. His skin was pale, his clothes torn and bloodstained, and his breathing faint but present. Upon spotting him, the palace knights immediately recognized the face of their missing prince—Galen Magna, gone for several days without a trace.

Without hesitation, they carried him inside, rushing him to the royal infirmary where the healers began their urgent work to mend his battered form. Word spread swiftly through the palace corridors, and upon hearing of his return, Serah wasted no time. She hurried through the halls, breathless, her heart pounding until she reached the infirmary doors.

When her eyes fell upon Galen, lying weak but alive, she couldn’t hold back her tears. She ran to his bedside and embraced him tightly, relief washing through her like a wave. In that moment, her thoughts went to the one man who had promised her results—Marcus. Once again, he had kept his word, delivering what he called her "morning gift."

Not long after, Queen Seralyne arrived, her composure shattering the moment she saw her son. She collapsed beside his bed, cradling him in her arms, tears streaming down her cheeks as she whispered his name over and over.

Later that day, King Tharion entered the room, his expression stern and unreadable as always. He stood beside the bed, his arms folded behind his back, and spoke in his cold, commanding tone. "When you are able, you will report everything that transpired during your disappearance."

Galen, still weak, lifted his gaze to his father and spoke softly. "I... remember very little, Father. I was patrolling the alleys of Darenville, and then—everything went black. It felt like I was pulled into a dark portal."

He paused, trying to recall more. "When I woke up, I was tied to a chair... with some kind of collar around my neck. It suppressed my myst. They kept a bag over my head, so I couldn’t see anything. No food. No water. I thought I’d die there."

He swallowed hard before continuing. "Then... I heard fighting—somewhere nearby. Shouting. After that, something hit me from behind. When I woke again... I was in front of the palace gates."

Tharion studied his son carefully, his gaze sharp and piercing, but Galen’s eyes held only confusion and exhaustion. The story was strange, almost unbelievable, yet his sincerity couldn’t be denied. Whatever had happened, Galen truly had no memory of who took him or why.

Realizing there would be no answers today, Tharion gave a curt nod. "Very well. You are to rest and recover." Then, without another word, he turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

And so, the mystery of Galen Magna’s disappearance—like the shadows that had swallowed him—remained unsolved.