The nightmare came every night.
A shadowy figure stood over him, blade gleaming under a blood-red moon. The cold steel pressed against his chest, but the pain never came—only the echo of a name lost to smoke and silence.
"You're not ready," the voice whispered, dark and mocking.
Kael's eyes snapped open. The room was empty, save for the thin shaft of dawn light slanting across the warped floorboards. Sweat chilled his skin, and his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He waited, listening for the familiar voice that sometimes lingered after sleep, but this morning, there was only silence.
He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. The dream always ended the same way: with a question he could never answer, and a memory just beyond reach. Ten years since the night his hometown vanished, and still the past clung to him like a curse.
He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, boots thudding softly against the floor. His sword leaned against the wall, gleaming dully in the half-light. He ran his thumb along the hilt, tracing the old runes etched into the steel. The blade was all he had left of his family—a relic from a life erased by the shifting realm.
Kael dressed quickly, strapping the sword to his back. He paused at the cracked mirror, studying the face that stared back: black hair tousled, eyes the color of storm clouds, a thin scar tracing his jaw. He looked older than twenty-two, the years carved deep by secrets and survival.
A faint, electric hum pulsed beneath his skin. He flexed his fingers, feeling the magic coil tight, eager to be unleashed. He forced it down, locking it away. Magic was common enough in this city, but his kind of magic—storm-born, wild, and untamed—was better left hidden.
He slipped out of the room and down the creaking stairs, boots silent on the worn wood. The tavern below was nearly empty, save for the barkeep wiping down tables and the lingering scent of last night's ale.
Rylan waited by the door, arms crossed, a crooked grin on his face. Sunlight caught his blonde hair, turning it to gold. He tossed a coin into the air, catching it with practiced ease.
"Late again," Rylan said, eyes glinting with mischief. "You're going to get us both killed one day."
Kael smirked, voice low and dry. "Only if you stop watching my back."
Rylan laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on. The market's already waking up, and I've got a lead on something big."
They stepped into the morning haze, the city of Veylor sprawling before them. Stalls lined the cobbled streets, hawking everything from mana stones to shadowfruit. Children darted between carts, laughter ringing out above the clamor. Somewhere, a street magician conjured sparks for a handful of copper, while a pair of Stoneborn merchants argued over the price of enchanted ore.
Kael kept his gaze moving, cataloging faces and exits, the old habits of a mercenary. He felt the weight of his sword, the pulse of magic beneath his skin, and the ever-present itch between his shoulder blades—the sense of being watched.
They wove through the crowd, Rylan chattering about rumors and relics, his words tumbling over each other in excitement.
"—heard the Veilwalkers found a new passage in the shifting zone. Some say it leads to a lost city, untouched since the last realm shift. Artifacts, treasures, maybe even survivors—can you imagine?"
Kael's jaw tightened. Lost city. The words scraped against old wounds.
"Most cities that vanish don't come back," he said quietly.
Rylan shrugged. "Doesn't stop people from looking. Besides, the pay's good. And who knows? Maybe we'll find something worth the risk."
Kael didn't answer. He'd spent years chasing shadows, following whispers of places like his hometown—places that disappeared without a trace, leaving only questions and grief. Every lead ended the same way: empty ruins, faded memories, and the gnawing certainty that he was alone.
But this time, something felt different. The dream, the hum of magic, the way the city seemed to hold its breath. He couldn't shake the sense that he was standing at the edge of something vast and dangerous.
They turned down an alley, away from the noise of the market. The air grew cooler, shadows stretching long across the cracked stones. Rylan stopped in front of a weathered door, glancing around before rapping twice.
A slot slid open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes.
"Password?" the voice growled.
Rylan grinned, flashing the coin. "Storm's coming."
The door creaked open, and they slipped inside.
The room was dim, lit by a single lantern. Maps and scrolls cluttered the table, and a woman with silver hair sat behind it, fingers stained with ink.
"You're late," she said, not looking up.
Rylan shrugged. "Blame him." He jerked a thumb at Kael. "He likes to make an entrance."
Kael remained silent, studying the woman. Her eyes flicked to him, sharp and assessing.
"You're the swordmaster," she said. "I've heard of you."
"Not everything you hear is true," Kael replied evenly.
She smiled, thin and cold. "We'll see."
She unrolled a map, tapping a spot marked with a red X. "This is the entrance to the new shifting zone. My scouts say the ruins are intact. If you find anything—artifacts, journals, relics—I want first pick. The rest is yours."
Rylan leaned in, eyes shining. "And the pay?"
"Half up front, half when you return. If you return."
Kael's gaze lingered on the map. The location was close—too close to the place where his own city had vanished. His pulse quickened, magic stirring in response.
"We'll take it," he said, surprising himself.
The woman nodded, sliding a pouch of coins across the table. "You leave at dusk. Don't be late."
They stepped back into the alley, the weight of the task settling over them.
Rylan grinned, slapping Kael on the back. "See? Easy money."
Kael forced a smile, but his mind was elsewhere. The dream, the lost city, the promise of answers. He could feel the storm building inside him, the magic pressing against his ribs.
Not yet, he told himself. Not unless there's no other choice.
As they made their way back through the city, Kael caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye—a shadow that didn't belong, slipping between the buildings. He tensed, hand dropping to his sword.
"Something wrong?" Rylan asked, following his gaze.
Kael shook his head. "Just nerves."
But the feeling didn't fade. If anything, it grew stronger, a prickling at the base of his skull. He scanned the rooftops, the alleys, the faces in the crowd. Nothing.
They reached the edge of the city as dusk fell, the sky bruised with purple and gold. The shifting zone loomed ahead, a wall of mist and silence. No birds sang here, no insects buzzed. The world held its breath.
Rylan checked his gear, whistling softly. "You ready?"
Kael nodded, drawing his sword. The blade felt heavier than usual, the runes pulsing faintly in the twilight.
They stepped into the mist.
The world changed.
Colors faded, sounds muffled, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old secrets. Shadows twisted at the edge of vision, shapes half-seen and quickly forgotten. Kael's magic surged, wild and restless, begging to be unleashed.
He pressed forward, senses straining. The ruins rose before them, blackened stone and shattered glass, overgrown with thorn and vine. It looked nothing like his hometown, but something in the air felt familiar—a weight, a memory, a promise.
They moved carefully, picking their way through the rubble. Rylan muttered under his breath, eyes darting from shadow to shadow.
A whisper brushed Kael's ear, cold and sly.
"You're getting closer, little storm."
He froze, heart pounding. The voice was unmistakable—Silas, the shadowbound entity that haunted his dreams and waking hours alike.
Rylan glanced back. "You hear something?"
Kael shook his head, forcing his voice steady. "Just the wind."
But Silas's laughter lingered, soft as silk. "You want answers? You'll have to bleed for them. That's the price."
They reached the heart of the ruins, where a fountain stood dry and cracked. Symbols covered the stone—old runes, half-erased by time. Kael knelt, tracing them with trembling fingers.
A flash of memory—his father's face, eyes hard with resolve. The blade, the blood, the promise.
"You're not ready."
Kael jerked back, breath ragged. The runes glowed faintly, reacting to his touch.
Rylan crouched beside him. "What is it?"
Kael swallowed hard. "A warning. Or a key."
Before Rylan could reply, the ground trembled. Shadows writhed, coalescing into a figure—tall, faceless, cloaked in darkness. Its eyes burned with cold fire.
Kael's sword was in his hand before he could think. Magic crackled along the blade, lightning dancing in the air.
The shadow lunged.
Kael moved on instinct, blade meeting darkness with a clang of steel and thunder. The force of the blow sent him staggering, but he held his ground. The magic surged, wild and hungry, and for a moment he let it slip free—a bolt of lightning arcing from his blade, searing the shadow.
The figure shrieked, dissolving into mist.
Rylan stared at him, eyes wide. "Kael… what was that?"
Kael's breath came hard and fast. He sheathed his sword, the magic fading reluctantly.
"Nothing," he lied, voice flat. "Just shadows."
But Silas's voice echoed in his mind, cold and triumphant.
"Now the hunt begins, little storm. And your father's dagger is the first clue."
Kael looked at his trembling hands, lightning scars fading beneath his skin.
He had survived the shifting once. He would do it again.
But this time, he would find the truth—no matter the cost.