The rain lashed against the high spires of Valtor's palace, drumming a steady rhythm on the stonework as if heralding the turmoil within its halls. Damen stood on the balcony overlooking the darkened city, his mind clouded with the weight of revelation. If Zyra was alive—or something close to it—then his war was far from over.
Elder Mireya had been relentless in her research since their conversation in the Grand Archives. She had sent word for him to meet her in the underground sanctum, where knowledge deemed too dangerous for the public eye was kept. The urgency in her voice had left no room for delay.
Descending into the depths of the palace, Damen moved with quiet resolve. The torches lining the stone corridor cast eerie, flickering shadows along the walls. He pushed open the heavy iron door at the corridor's end and stepped inside the sanctum.
Mireya stood hunched over a table strewn with ancient texts, her eyes scanning the pages with feverish intensity. The moment Damen entered, she gestured him closer.
"There's more," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I found another reference to the Shadow King's return. But it's worse than we feared."
Damen's stomach tightened. "Explain."
She turned the book toward him, pointing at a passage written in an ancient dialect. "This prophecy—what little remains of it—hints at a catalyst. A blood-bound soul that will awaken the Shadow King's full power."
Damen frowned. "Zyra?"
Mireya hesitated. "Or you."
The words struck him harder than any blade. He stepped back, shaking his head. "That's impossible."
"Is it?" Mireya countered. "You were both bound by the Veil. If Zyra truly lives, then something unnatural has taken place. And if the prophecy is correct, your connection to her might be the key to what comes next."
Damen clenched his jaw, his mind reeling. The battle had ended with Zyra's death. He had felt her blood on his hands, had heard her last breath. If she still walked this world, then what had truly died that night?
A sudden knock at the sanctum door sent both of them on edge. Damen drew his sword, and Mireya extinguished the nearest torch with a swift wave of her hand.
"Who goes there?" Damen called.
A pause, then a familiar voice. "It's me."
The door creaked open, and Alric, his most trusted knight, stepped inside, dripping wet from the storm outside. His expression was grim.
"We have a problem," Alric said. "The outer villages are being attacked. But not by any enemy we've faced before."
Damen sheathed his blade and stepped forward. "Show me."
The village of Drenmoor lay in ruins by the time Damen arrived. The air smelled of burning wood and blood. His horse whinnied as they approached, unsettled by the eerie silence that had settled over the battlefield.
Alric led him through the wreckage. "There were survivors, but barely. The enemy left no banners, no sign of origin. Just devastation."
Damen dismounted, scanning the bodies strewn across the ground. Some bore wounds from blades, others from something far more sinister. He knelt beside one of the fallen, his fingers brushing against the deep gashes on the man's chest—claw marks.
His blood ran cold. "These aren't ordinary soldiers."
"No," Alric said, his voice tight. "They're something else."
A distant howl cut through the night air. Damen stiffened, his grip tightening around his sword. Whatever had begun in the darkness of the past, it was rising again. And it was only a matter of time before the storm reached him.
The Whispering Blade
Later that night, as Damen and his war council regrouped in the palace, a shadow moved in the depths of the sanctum. Mireya, still poring over ancient texts, felt a sudden chill in the air. The torches flickered, their flames shrinking, as a presence made itself known.
A voice, barely more than a whisper, echoed through the chamber. "The blade calls to its master."
Mireya turned sharply, her pulse quickening. She had read of this before—a weapon long lost to time, said to hold the will of the Shadow King himself. The Whispering Blade. If it had begun to stir, then darkness was truly awakening.
Without hesitation, she rushed back to the council chamber where Damen stood with Alric and the other commanders. "There's something else," she announced. "A weapon—the Whispering Blade—has awakened."
Damen's expression darkened. "Then we need to find it before the Shadow King does."
Back in Valtor, Damen stood before the war council, his voice unwavering as he spoke.
"We must prepare for war."
Mireya stood at his side, her face solemn. "And if the Shadow King does return?"
Damen exhaled, his mind drifting back to the prophecy, to Zyra, to the horrors he had yet to face.
"Then we fight until our last breath."
As the storm raged outside, Damen retired to his chambers, but sleep would not come. His mind replayed every detail—the prophecy, the attack, the Whispering Blade. If this was the beginning, what horrors awaited them in the battles to come?
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. He turned to find a hooded figure standing at his door.
"We need to talk," the figure whispered, lowering their hood to reveal a face he never thought he'd see again.
It was Zyra.