The early morning light slid over the courtyard stones like a breath held too long. Kael stood with his back to the rising sun, sweat already clinging to his skin. The courtyard, usually empty at this hour, now swelled with the energy of assembled recruits. They circled like vultures around a sparring ring, boots scraping gravel, whispers rustling like wind through parchment. Ser Whitmer watched from a shadowed archway, arms folded, his presence a silent command to take this seriously.
Kael stepped into the ring and exhaled slowly. His body remembered what it had learned—the twisting balance of Whispercraft, the pulse-beat of shadow drawn up through his spine like liquid fire. He had trained with Bran nearly every day until recently. But Bran had been called away—another mission, another unknown. No word since.
In his place stood two recruits from the northern cohort: Jeral and Vann, brothers in everything but blood, and both already known for pushing opponents to the edge. Beside them was a third, smaller, quicker, unknown to Kael by name but not by intent. He'd seen the boy whispering near Eline last week, and now the way the trio positioned themselves was no accident—it was a challenge.
Ser Whitmer raised his hand. "Begin."
The three came at once.
Kael moved on instinct, ducking under a staff swing, twisting away from a low kick, catching the smallest one with a sweep that sent him skidding on the gravel. He didn't pursue. Not yet. He knew their game wasn't just to beat him—it was to draw something out of him. Something they suspected.
Jeral pressed in, heavy and brutal, twin daggers slicing the air. Vann flanked, using a length of chain as both weapon and distraction. Kael parried, deflected, backed into the narrowest part of the ring. His body obeyed without question now, responding with a confidence that hadn't existed a month ago. He was better. Faster. He could see their intentions before they acted.
But the whispers had returned last night.
Not from the recruits, but from the shadow itself. It had spoken during his sleep again, curling around his mind like a familiar. Not in language—but in memory. And Eline—she'd been in it. Not speaking. Watching. As she so often did now.
Jeral lunged. Kael sidestepped and pivoted, catching him in the ribs with an elbow and spinning him to the ground. A ripple of surprise moved through the ring. The crowd grew quieter.
Vann hesitated. The small one surged in again—reckless now, goading Kael with snarled insults and deliberate swings meant to frustrate. One connected. Pain bloomed across Kael's cheekbone, sharp and hot.
The shadow surged. It was there, always there, just beneath the surface—waiting to be unchained. He could feel it humming through his limbs, a song older than the walls around them.
He moved faster.
In three steps, he disarmed the smaller boy and had him on his knees. His hand raised instinctively, shaped into a binding gesture—half memory, half instinct. The other boy's eyes widened. Everyone stilled.
He could end it. End him.
His hand trembled.
And then he stopped.
The silence was thunderous. Kael's chest heaved as he stepped back. The shadows curled reluctantly away from his fingers.
Ser Whitmer's voice cut across the ring like a whip. "Enough."
The recruits slowly dispersed, though many glanced back at Kael. Some with fear. Some with curiosity. One or two with a smirk that held no kindness.
Kael turned, expecting to find Whitmer waiting, but his eyes drifted to the upper balconies instead.
Eline stood there, half-shadowed behind a column, arms crossed. She didn't speak. Didn't nod. Just looked at him—expression unreadable, posture rigid.
And then she was gone.
Later, as the training grounds emptied and dusk painted the walls in rust and gold, Kael sat alone in the weapon hall. His fingers traced the edge of the strange coin he'd found tucked beneath his sleeping mat two days ago. Old. Veiled in symbols he hadn't deciphered. But every time he touched it, the whispers grew louder.
He had not shown it to anyone.
"You're not bleeding. That's new," a voice said dryly from behind.
Kael turned. Bran stood there, travel-worn, armor dusty, a bruise blooming on one temple. Relief warred with guilt in Kael's chest.
"You're back."
Bran nodded, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "For now. The mission was bad, Kael. Something stirred out there—too close to the Veil. We lost two. And Eline... she changed the plan mid-exit. Took risks."
Kael stiffened. "She's not speaking to me. Not really."
"She's speaking to everyone less." Bran studied him. "You've changed."
Kael looked away. "So have you."
Bran gestured to the coin. "That new?"
Kael slipped it into his sleeve. "Found it. Might be nothing."
Bran didn't press. He just sighed and sat beside him on the bench. "The others are watching you. The fight today… you didn't finish it."
Kael exhaled slowly. "I almost did."
"But you didn't."
A pause.
"Do you ever feel like the shadows want something from us?" Kael asked quietly.
Bran didn't answer right away. Then, "Sometimes I think they remember more than we do."
That night, Kael dreamed again.
But it wasn't the usual warped memory of stone corridors and flickering lanterns. This dream began with the soft brush of cloth and the echo of footsteps. He stood at the edge of an unfamiliar archive, watching a figure move between tall shelves.
Eline.
She wasn't armed. Her hands moved gently over tomes bound in deep blue and bone-white. She paused, one book half-pulled from its shelf, and looked directly at him.
"I never asked for this," she said softly.
Kael stepped closer. "Asked for what?"
Her form shimmered like breath on glass. "To feel you in the shadows. To care."
The dream blurred. He reached out, but the scene shattered into something colder.
He now stood before a door he had never seen in waking life—massive, etched with sigils that pulsed faintly. The coin in his hand glowed hot. The whispers rose.
"Veilborn," the voice said. "One foot in blood. One in ash."
He turned, and the door opened inward.
Darkness greeted him—not empty, but waiting.
Kael woke with a gasp. The coin had rolled onto the stone floor beside his bed, still warm.
He stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, throat tight.
She had been in his dream. Again. And the door... he knew somehow that it was real.
Somewhere.
And it had started watching back.