The moon was buried beneath a skein of clouds when Kael stood once more at the crest of the obsidian stair.
By now, he had committed the map to memory. He had read it until the ink blurred. He had considered burning it.
Instead, he folded it once, tucked it inside his sleeve, and stepped into the dark.
Each tread of the stair seemed to inhale light, its polished surface devouring the flickering torch he carried. Cold sweat clung to his neck. With every turn downward, the silence grew heavier. As though the weight of buried centuries lay pressed against the walls.
When he reached the base this time, no one was waiting. No Bran. No voice. Just the humming echo of the Veil-sensitive runes carved along the hallway stones—more reactive than before. They shimmered faintly in his periphery, responding to his proximity like breath on cold glass.
He followed the curve deeper, his steps careful, until the hidden path branched away—just as the map had shown.
The door was there.
And it was wrong.
Unlike the rest of the compound's architecture—military stone, iron barwork, simple wards—this door pulsed. Not metaphorically. It breathed. Seamless black stone, carved in glyphs older than the Order itself, veins of faint silver drifting through like lightning caught in granite. At the center was a handprint, recessed and unmistakably human.
His.
Kael did not want to reach for it.
But he did.
The moment his palm made contact, the runes lit up in a ring. They didn't blaze. They didn't sear. They welcomed him. A deep pressure stirred behind the door, and the ancient stone slid open—not outward or inward, but down, melting into shadow.
And Kael stepped through.
The chamber beyond was circular, domed like the inside of a cathedral. Smooth black walls reflected no light. A low thrumming filled the air, like a giant heartbeat somewhere miles below. In the center of the room stood a pillar—not carved but grown from twisted Veilstone, translucent with ink-like shadow flowing just beneath its surface.
As he approached, glyphs bloomed across it. Names. Faces. Fragments of the past. And then…
His own face.
Kael reeled back, but the pillar did not flinch. Instead, the shadows shifted and spoke.
"Veilblood."
The word was not audible. It arrived in his head, dense and liquid and enormous.
He stumbled.
"You are mistaken," he whispered aloud.
"He who hears the Dusk. Who carries Tenebris."
"No—"
"He who ends the circle. Or begins it again."
Kael wanted to scream. He wanted to run.
Instead, he reached forward—and the moment his fingers brushed the pillar, the shadows pulled him in.
He stood in a memory not his own.
The sky was wrong—red with black swirls, as if bleeding. Armored warriors shouted in tongues long dead, and beasts crawled across the field—hulking, silver-eyed, born of nightmare.
At the center, stood him. Or someone wearing his face. Or rather, the origin of it.
The figure roared, shadow bursting from their back like wings. Around them, soldiers fought and fell. Beside them stood a woman—tall, lithe, with green eyes bright like firelight.
Eline?
No.
But a twin of her. Or ancestor. Or echo.
The vision shattered.
Kael collapsed to the ground of the chamber, gasping.
He lay there for a long time, trying to keep the room from spinning.
He was not alone in his blood. And what lay beneath this place was older than the Order. The Whisperers did not guard secrets—they built atop them.
When he finally emerged, the torch long spent, Kael surfaced into the chilled hush of early dawn. His clothes were damp with sweat. His hands shook. Something in his eyes had changed.
He didn't return to the barracks.
He went to the practice yard.
He needed to move, to silence the scream still spiraling through his ribs.
There, at the far ring, two recruits were sparring—Oran and Yuel, both barely older than Kael himself. They paused when he entered.
One of them murmured, "You're not supposed to be down here."
Kael picked up a practice blade. "Then stop me."
He took on both of them—Oran with the spear, Yuel with the dual blades. At first, it was controlled, even. But Kael had no patience for rhythm anymore. Every clash sent sparks through his limbs. Every step uncoiled the chaos in his chest.
He swept Oran's legs and struck Yuel in the ribs—hard enough to leave bruises.
They staggered. He pressed on.
Another step. Another.
Yuel fell. Oran backed away, wheezing.
Kael raised the blade again—too high.
Then he saw her.
Eline. Standing at the edge of the ring, her expression unreadable, arms crossed.
He froze.
The blade trembled.
Oran's eyes widened in fear.
Kael lowered it.
Silence swallowed the yard.
He turned, and without a word, walked away—past Eline, who said nothing. Who followed him only with her gaze.
That night, Kael didn't sleep.
Not really.
Instead, he sat in the dormitory long after lights-out, eyes fixed on the ceiling beams, shadows crawling slowly over the wood.
At some point, he saw her again.
Not Eline. The other one—the echo in his vision. She stood across the dark, arms folded, head tilted.
"You still think you are alone?" she whispered.
Kael closed his eyes.
And the coin, now beneath his pillow, pulsed with heat.