The Shadow Realm Chronicles: Maeve

Many years ago, a creeping, insidious darkness tore apart the very fabric of existence, fracturing the delicate peace between the realms. This cataclysmic event was later known simply as the Great War. It was a conflict of staggering magnitude, a blight that touched every single world and every realm within them. The air was thick with the stench of iron and ozone, and the ground continually trembled beneath the tramp of massive, opposing armies. Both sides—the defenders of the light and the forces of the shadow—grew their legions with ruthless efficiency, their sole purpose the annihilation of the other. The cost in lives was immeasurable, the casualties so heavy that entire generations were wiped out in the span of a single battle. Yet, out of this horrific bloodshed, new alliances were forged, desperate pacts between unlikely companions united by the common enemy, even as ancient, trusted alliances crumbled into dust.

No world suffered a more profound and tragic transformation than that of the Faye. Their iridescent realm, once a bastion of peace and ethereal beauty, became shadowed by the madness of its king, Julian. Once, the name Julian evoked a memory of a benevolent, loving ruler, whose laughter was as bright as the dawn. Those times were a distant, agonizing memory now. The chronicles written about him in the present day were stained with accounts of unbridled rage, sickening bloodlust, and a searing, relentless hatred. This hatred burned fiercest for his own children, the very offspring who, watching his descent, had grown to love others more than their terrifying father and, ultimately, chose to revolt against his tyrannical rule. His wrath extended to his wife, the queen, who, with a broken heart but fierce resolve, had fled with their children to protect them. And, finally, his hatred encompassed all the realms and worlds that dared to remain outside the terrifying sphere of his domination.

Julian’s obsession with his children was not rooted in paternal love, but a deep, primal need for power. Each of them was a living conduit, a master of one of the four foundational elements: the swift, invisible power of wind; the deep, transformative force of water; the immutable, grounding strength of earth; and the volatile, all-consuming heat of fire. With his children’s powers under his control, Julian believed he could become an unstoppable, singular deity of destruction.

Despite the deep resentment and profound hatred his children harbored for the monster their father had become, a fragile thread of memory remained. They, and perhaps only their exiled mother, were the sole beings who still remembered the flicker of goodness, the shadow of the man he once was, before the darkness consumed his soul. This lingering memory was both a weakness and a source of fierce strength.

Julian was not alone in his conquest. He commanded the allegiance of two immensely powerful, deeply manipulative figures: Marius, the ancient, cunning leader of the vampire clans, and Jonathan, the formidable, enigmatic ruler of The Shadow Realm. The three men were bound by the Great War’s common goal but fueled by separate, treacherous ambitions. They fought side-by-side, yet a profound, palpable distrust permeated their every interaction. Each of these three dark sovereigns was relentlessly scheming against the other two, each certain that he alone deserved to emerge as the ultimate victor, the undisputed ruler of the ravaged worlds.

Jonathan, in particular, was a maestro of machination, his mind a labyrinth of meticulously planned plots. Yet, every single dark design, every intricate web of conspiracy, ultimately revolved around one person: Maeve. Maeve was a Faye, a creature of light and magic, but she lived a deceptively quiet, almost unremarkable life within a peaceful, unassuming world—the one world that, by some miracle or powerful ward, had been entirely protected from the ravenous violence of the Great War. Jonathan cared little for the petty squabbles or grand ambitions of Julian or Marius, so long as their actions did not interfere with his paramount plan involving Maeve. Alas, interference was the very essence of their nature. Jonathan harbored great and terrible plans for Maeve and her unsuspecting family, plans he believed would be the key to his dominance. What he failed to fully grasp, however, were the profound, deeply rooted connections Maeve secretly held to the very heart of Julian’s estranged and powerful family.

The Great War had finally, mercifully, reached an uneasy conclusion, the remnants of the conflict smoking across the devastated realms. Yet, the peace was a brittle, temporary illusion. Another, perhaps even more devastating, war was already coiling in the shadows, its terrifying genesis hinging entirely upon the fate of a quiet, lonely mother named Maeve.

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Ashes and Dust

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Ashes and Dust

It was not a solo journey,
It was meant for both of us to keep.
A path shared, a mutual destiny,
A bond where promises run deep.
We walked side by side, our footprints one,
A single narrative of hope begun.

But the story broke, the path was closed,
I stood on the chasm’s crumbling brim,
As a silhouette, slowly transposed
Into the inevitable, growing dim.
The ‘we’ became an ‘I’, a hollow sound,
In this desolate, forsaken ground.

Ashes and dust are all that stay
Of the bright fire we held in trust,
A barren landscape, grey today,
Where life dissolved in the air’s cruel gust.
The physical presence is no more,
Leaving the grit of loss upon the floor.

Then voices come from the periphery,
Offering platitudes in careful phrase.
They say, “It is not personal, you see,”
A necessary turn in cosmic haze.
A consequence, unavoidable and stark,
A wheel that turns and leaves no malice mark.

They speak these words, so cold and clinical,
To soothe a wound they cannot comprehend.
Do they expect a heart, now critical,
To take this lie, this foolishness they send?
To call abandonment ‘impersonal’ then claim
It takes the searing edges from the pain?

It is a construct, fragile and designed
To shield their own complicity from view.
Lies and more lies are spun to leave behind
Their failures of commitment, wholly true.
The architects of ruin hide their face,
Behind the veil of fate or bureaucratic space.

They see my silence and begin to doubt,
Why I won’t trust their flimsy, weak assurance;
They wonder why my quiet stays throughout
Their clumsy, hollow show of endurance.
Is their concern a genuine desire to know
The depth of the betrayal’s silent blow?

Or is the query just a social art,
A reflex uttered in a scripted play?
Do they care for me, the broken, scattered part,
Or am I just a failure they wish away?
I let the fine, particulate dust stream in—
The dust of forgetting, where true wounds begin.

I scan the empty space, a vacant stare,
Where is the circle that was meant to hold?
I know they exist, breathing their own air,
In parallel worlds of comfort, brave and bold.
Not here with me, not for me in this plight,
Not in the core of this seismic, lonely night.

It was meant to be the two of us, you see,
Walking the sunset, weathering the storm.
The fundamental premise of our entity.
But I was left alone, without the warm,
Not just abandoned, but deliberately selected
For solitary confinement, unprotected.

A cold clarity begins its slow, strange birth,
The isolation may not be a curse,
But a final, hard-won gift of self-worth.
Maybe it’s best to sift these ashes terse,
Unbound by promises that turned to frail dust.
In this quiet, hard-won peace is final trust.

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The Shattered Image

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The Shattered Image

The depth of my disappointment is immense,
I truly thought you were a person of integrity,
Whose every action would align, with no pretense,
With the strong character you seemed to be.
“I thought you were better” is too mild to say;
I saw in you a loyalty I sought to find,
A moral standard now just dust and clay,
A shattered image of a perfect mind.

The thing you did, or failed to do, you see,
Was not a simple letdown; “it crushed me” whole.
It was a devastating blow to my reality,
A chasm swallowing my trusting soul.
I had invested trust and boundless hope,
An extraordinary quantity of “faith in you,”
To find it misplaced, I now must grope,
A personal failure, though the fault is true.

Our bond, which I so dearly held and prized,
Was based on a belief in shared pure light.
“I thought we were actually friends,” I realized,
Now every memory feels contaminated, blight.
Each moment shared, each secret I confessed,
Feels poisoned by the knowledge I now hold,
That “that’s a lie, and it’s always been a lie,” unblessed.
A friendship’s illusion, turning cold.

My estimation of you reached the stars,
“Maybe I thought more highly of you than you think of yourself.”
I held you past your self-imposed high bars,
More than you were capable of from your shelf.
I believed you held a goodness and a strength,
A beautiful essence that does not exist.
“Maybe I thought more of you than you truly are,” at length,
The gap between the ideal and the actual persists.

My admiration wasn’t born from my own plight,
For I appreciated what I thought you were.
I never claimed perfection, or to be the light:
“I don’t think I am special; I thought you were.”
I know my faults; I am not so grand:
“I don’t think I am great; I thought you were.”
My self-regard is low, I understand:
“I don’t think highly of myself, but I thought highly of you.”

The burden of this pain, in a dark way,
Rests on my shoulders for this foolish crime.
“I guess I was wrong to put that much faith in you,” I say.
The name of “friend” was sacred, but I wasted time:
“I guess I was wrong to call you a friend.”
My error was this desperate, naive dream,
That you would prove me right until the end:
“I guess I was wrong; I wanted you to be better.”

And so I cycle through this self-inflicted doubt,
Were my expectations too far out of reach?
“I guess I was wrong, maybe it’s just me,” I shout.
But the ultimate truth that the facts now preach:
“I guess I was wrong; I put too much faith in you.”
I took your potential for your very core:
“I guess I was wrong, believing in you,” it’s true.
I can’t believe in you anymore.

The desolate conclusion is the clear refrain:
“I guess I was wrong.” A simple, crushing sound.
For in your actions, truth gives way to pain:
“I guess I meant nothing to you” that I have found.
The end of my faith is the end of what we were.

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100%

100%

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I thought you were my certain shield,
The one true, steadfast, loyal friend.
A naive conviction, now revealed,
That you would stand until the end,
No matter the storm, the challenge faced,
Your full resolve, completely placed.

I sought a fierce, unwavering vow,
A pure defense, holding nothing back,
A perfect pledge, as you know how,
To guard my ground along the track.
A hundred percent, my only plea,
Undeniable fealty.

But that fierce certainty is gone,
A shattered faith, a painful lie.
I wake to realize at dawn,
I lack the worth that merits why—
I’m not enough, I see it clear,
To warrant that support so dear.

The wound of ‘sorry’ is a slight,
A shallow balm that cannot mend
The hollow ache of broken light;
It will not bring the hurt to end.
For others hold a higher seat,
They taste the loyalty I greet.

And so, the starkest truth remains,
A bitter draught I must consume:
To face the isolating rains,
To walk alone within the gloom.
I must accept, in every plight,
I stand completely by my light.

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The Illusion of Kinship

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They claim the name of “friend,” a title bright,
Yet stand as distant as the stars’ cold light.
Their voices, once a vibrant, clear refrain,
Now reach the ear as faint, distorted pain,
Lost, perhaps, in some far, forgotten bar.
They speak of history, of shared delight,
A woven tapestry of days gone by,
But in this stark and unforgiving now,
Only their deep, loud silence makes a vow—
A painful echo, truer than their word.

A Hollow Bond

What lingers is a hollow, empty shell,
A bond without true grace or truth to tell.
A fleeting shadow, swift to disappear,
Leaving no trace upon the heart held dear.
How dare they wear that loyal title still,
When constant absence proves against their will
A bond untrue, a pretense built on air?
Friendship’s true essence is betrayed by care
And presence that they utterly withhold,
A story of detachment, stark and cold.

Unkept Promises and Letting Go
This fragile friendship rose on broken ground,
Of promises unkept, no solace found.

Aspirations whispered, never meant to bloom,
Commitments scattered to an early tomb.
A frail construction, easily swept wide
By life’s small currents, or convenient tide.
The time has come for separation’s plea,
A painful truth that sets the spirit free.
So cherish those whose actions speak of grace,
Whose faithful presence keeps its steady pace.
And with resolve, and self-respect’s strong hand,
Let go of those who fail to understand
The burden shared, the joy, the vital art,

Required to keep a true bond in the heart.

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When is it enough?

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When is it Enough?

How long must the open hand remain,
When the other will not meet its strain?
The core dilemma of the human tie,
A painful question of loyalty,
Endurance, and how much self-worth you’ll spend,
To reach a silence that will never end.

How long does the title of “friend” hold true?
When shared history’s debt is overdue,
And the present moment is marked by cold harm,
Or the chilling indifference of a broken charm?
When does the label become a hollow sound,
A testament to what was, not what is found?

Is the sacred practice of prayer still right,
For a soul unconcerned with your day or night?
Does intercession become a painful toll,
A thankless rite for a disregarding soul?
The spirit’s commitment is tested and frayed,
By the walls of betrayal that have been laid.

When they tarnish your name with calculated lies,
How long do you absorb the pain behind your eyes?
When they won’t speak, a barrier high and stout,
How long do you knock before you turn about?
When they treat your existence as insignificant air,
How much can your spirit’s dignity bear?

The waiting is a sacrifice you choose to make,
A pause of your own joy for a lost past’s sake.
But waiting is a cost that drains the will,
A stalling on the path that you must fulfill.
The battle shifts from effort out to inward plea:
Do you still pray? Or is detachment the key?

Is it wrong to move on, to finally not care?
When self-preservation demands a boundary there,
Does moving on become a vital act of grace,
To win back your self-respect in this bitter space?
The heart refuses to comply, that is the pain,
To stop caring is loss, a required emotional wane.

Why does the guilt of leaving cling so tight?
A fear of failing the endless-giving rite.
The mandate to be patient, to forever yield,
While your own peace lies ravaged on the field.
Yet, being “the better person” has a true cost,
It means protecting dignity before all is lost.

When is it enough? When will it ever cease?
The answer is internal, the reclaiming of peace.
Enough is when the cost of staying makes you bleed,
When waiting becomes self-destruction’s silent deed.
Enough is when your own well-being takes the lead,
And moving on is liberation—a necessary creed.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

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The Shadow Realm Chronicles: Maeve

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

I Don’t Know How to Feel

I don't know how I feel about it.
I don’t know what to say.
I don’t know what to do.

Is this really what you want?

Why is it affecting me so much?
Why am I questioning things so much?
Why does this bother me so much?


Why am I waiting for the floor to come out from under me?
Why?