The torches lining the ancient halls of Valtor's palace flickered, casting erratic shadows across the stone walls. Damen strode through the corridors, his mind heavy with the warning from the High Council. The Shadow Realm stirs. The words repeated in his mind, a dark whisper that refused to be ignored.
The war was supposed to be over.
Yet, deep down, Damen had known it would never be that simple.
He reached the Grand Archives, where Elder Mireya awaited him. The room was lined with towering shelves, packed with scrolls and tomes containing centuries of history, prophecy, and forgotten knowledge. In the center, an ornate wooden table bore a selection of old manuscripts, their covers worn with age.
Mireya looked up from a heavy tome as Damen approached. "I've spent the night searching our oldest records. The disturbance near the Veil is unprecedented—at least, in recorded history."
Damen crossed his arms. "And what of the unrecorded?"
Mireya's lips pressed into a thin line. "There is one account," she admitted, sliding a book toward him. "A forgotten prophecy. One that was erased from our annals centuries ago."
Damen picked up the book, its leather cover cracked and fragile. As he flipped through the brittle pages, his eyes locked onto a passage that sent a chill down his spine.
When the Veil is sealed by blood, the realms will know peace.
But peace is but the silence before the storm. And from the ashes of sacrifice, the Shadow King shall rise once more.
His hands tightened around the book. "The Shadow King… you think he still lives?"
Mireya's expression was grim. "Not lives, perhaps. But lingers."
The city was quieter than usual, an eerie stillness hanging over Valtor as Damen rode through the streets. He had insisted on leaving the palace alone, needing space from the stifling weight of duty. His horse's hooves echoed against the cobbled roads as he passed wary citizens, their eyes filled with something between admiration and fear.
He felt their stares, their hushed whispers. Some still saw him as a hero, while others questioned the price of victory. Zyra's name had not faded from their lips, and the mystery surrounding her final moments only grew in shadowed corners of the kingdom.
As he approached the outer district, a voice stopped him.
"You're looking for something, aren't you?"
Damen turned sharply, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. A cloaked figure leaned against the wall of a dimly lit alley, their hood obscuring most of their face.
"And who are you to assume that?" Damen asked cautiously.
The figure chuckled, stepping forward just enough for the torchlight to catch the lower half of their face. A smirk played on their lips. "Someone who knows the past isn't as dead as you'd like to believe."
A cold sensation crept up Damen's spine. "Speak plainly."
The stranger tilted their head. "She's not gone."
The world seemed to lurch beneath him. "What did you say?"
The figure took another step forward, their voice barely above a whisper. "Zyra. She's not gone."
Damen's heart pounded. He had buried her. Had held her lifeless body. Had felt the blade pierce through her heart with his own hands.
"She died," he said, though his voice wavered.
The stranger smiled, and in that moment, something shifted in the air. "Did she?"
Before Damen could react, the figure disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind only an echo of their words.
And for the first time since Zyra's death, doubt seeped into Damen's heart.
That night, Damen sat alone in his chambers, staring at the fire burning in the hearth. His mind raced with memories—Zyra's laughter, her fierce defiance, the way she had looked at him in her final moments.
He closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. He couldn't afford to believe in illusions. Hope was dangerous.
Yet, as the flames flickered, an unsettling thought took root in his mind.
What if she was still out there?
And what if she wasn't the same?
The following morning, Damen wasted no time. He needed answers. If there was even the faintest chance that Zyra still lived, he had to know the truth. He sought out Elder Mireya again, though this time, he found her in the secluded tower that housed the kingdom's most forbidden texts.
"I need to know everything about the Veil's magic," Damen said without preamble.
Mireya regarded him carefully. "Why?"
He hesitated. He wasn't ready to share the stranger's words, not yet. "Because I believe the war is not over."
Mireya nodded solemnly and led him to an aged tapestry that hung on the stone wall. She brushed her fingers over the fabric, and with a whispered incantation, a hidden compartment slid open to reveal an ancient tome.
"This," she said, placing it on the table before them, "contains the oldest recorded knowledge of the Veil."
Damen opened the book, scanning through diagrams and spells long forgotten. One passage caught his eye.
The Veil does not only separate worlds. It binds. And what is bound can be… reclaimed.
A terrible realization dawned upon him.
"What if Zyra was not destroyed… but taken?"
Mireya's expression darkened. "Then she may no longer be the woman you knew."
Damen left the archives with a new, chilling purpose. If Zyra had been consumed by the Veil, then the war was far from over. He needed allies, information, and above all, the truth.
His first step took him to the ruins beyond the palace walls, where the final battle had left scars upon the land. The battlefield was eerily silent, save for the crows that circled overhead.
Kneeling in the dirt where Zyra had fallen, he ran his fingers over the bloodstained ground. A gust of wind stirred the dust, and for a moment, he swore he heard a voice.
Damen…
He jerked upright, eyes scanning the desolate field. The wind whispered again, this time carrying a chill that reached into his very bones.
Find me… before it's too late.
His breath caught. He didn't know if it was real, if grief had finally driven him to madness.
But one thing was certain.
The past was not done with him.
And neither was Zyra.
As Damen rode back toward the city, a figure watched him from the shadows. Their cloak billowed in the wind, the fabric shifting unnaturally, as though darkness itself clung to them.
A pair of glowing violet eyes flickered beneath the hood.
And then, with the sound of rustling air, they vanished.