The sky was torn asunder.
From the gaping rift above, tendrils of darkness spilled forth like ink dropped in water, writhing and pulsing with unholy hunger. The battlefield stilled—warriors turned their faces upward, eyes wide with dread.
Even Kuthula, impaled but still breathing, looked skyward and whispered, "It begins."
Nkosana yanked his blade free, but his attention was fixed on the breach. The whispers were louder now, not just voices—but memories, regrets, truths twisted and weaponized. The Whispering Veil had seen the cracks in every soul.
"You did this," Kuthula hissed, blood leaking from his mouth. "You lit the First Flame... and gave the Veil its doorway."
Nkosana didn't flinch. "If I opened it, I'll be the one to close it."
Behind him, Lira appeared, singed and bruised. "We need to fall back. That thing isn't just shadow—it's ancient. It remembers us."
Kaede's voice crackled through a shadow-link. "Seers are collapsing. The Veil's presence is bending time around the city. We have maybe hours before it consumes the realm."
A decision pulsed in Nkosana's chest like a second heartbeat.
"Then we go to the catacombs," he said. "The ritual—it's our last chance."
"But it requires sacrifice," Lira warned.
He nodded. "It always has." He turned to the remaining warriors, voice cutting through fear like a blade. "Anyone who stays, you stay knowing this is the endgame. If you walk with me, it's not just a battle—it's a burial. Of the old world."
Slowly, swords were raised. Fists clenched. Shadows gathered around their feet, ready to follow him into the dark.
The rift widened, and the ground trembled.
The final path had begun.
—