The Hidden Shadowmaker

The young soldier hesitated before raising the lens and looking directly in my direction. But he couldn't see me. Lowering the lens, the soldier took in my mother's apprehension and held out his hand.

"Come with me." He muttered. "Or you will die."

"I will not move." The accident was miniscule. Something barely noticeable in the millions of lenses the West had given out. But the lens the soldier held that day was broken. It was one of the few mistakes to ever come from the West. The other, of course, being their shoddy loyalty. And it was a mistake that had saved my life.

Yet my life was the only one spared. And sometime when the shadows had faded and the soldier returned to catalog our belongings, he had found me. A red-faced baby crying in a small crib made of wood and stone. And faced with the option of admitting his fault or taking me in, the Nightshade became the father of a Shadowmaker.