The Name That Would Not Fade
The village sat hollow beneath the trees.
Lights flickered behind shutters. No voices. No footsteps. The kind of silence that didn't wait for sound—it buried it.
Kaelen and Yolti skidded to a stop as the first scream rang out.
Then came the shapes.
Not one. Not two.
Four.
Riftborn tearing from the edges of the brush—bent in forms that shouldn't move, with glyphlight leaking from where their eyes should've been.
One lunged.
Yolti rolled, glyph igniting mid-air.
Kaelen drew a Veilmark slash across the ground—stone erupted upward, catching two in a flare of shattered light.
But they weren't fast enough.
The third one surged forward—
Until something crashed into its skull mid-strike.
A figure blurred through the smoke.
Black cloak.
Silver hair.
Crystal Veilmark burning.
And a mask that turned slowly, as if it knew exactly who was watching.
The Riftborn didn't stand a chance.
The figure moved like memory itself—fast, precise, final.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each creature dropped into silence before their limbs could finish moving.
And then he stood still.
In the center of it all.
The villagers peeked from windows.
Yolti stepped forward, breath caught in her throat.
Kaelen took one step, and then another—
The figure raised a hand.
Not to attack.
But to remove the mask.
Slowly. Like it hurt to lift it.
And when it came off—
They saw him.
The same eyes.
The same scar just beneath his left ear.
But colder now. Older. Sharpened by years they hadn't lived with him.
He looked at them.
Not just Kaelen. Not just Yolti.
The entire village.
And he said—
"This world has stolen something from you…
and I intend to bring it back."
"For I am Zephryn, son of Solara—
and I won't stop until we all remember."
I am proof this world cannot silence the past.