The wind howled like a beast in mourning, sweeping down from the jagged peaks of the Nar'del Mountains. Kael Thorne pulled his crimson cloak tighter, its frayed edges snapping like wounded banners in the storm. He stood alone at the edge of a cliff, gazing down at the ruins of Veyr'hadal—the City of Echoes—long swallowed by time, now unveiled by the restless mist.
Ruinfang, the cursed blade strapped to his back, pulsed faintly, as though it too remembered this place.
He had sworn never to return.
But fate, as always, had other plans.
Behind him, hooves crunched gravel. Kael didn't turn. He recognized the rhythm—light, deliberate. Seren Velora.
"You're late," he said, his voice flat.
"I'm never late," came the reply, smooth as silk and twice as sharp. She slid from the saddle of her black mare, her cloak fluttering like a shadow made flesh. "I simply arrive when the danger gets interesting."
Kael allowed himself the faintest smile.
Seren approached the cliff's edge beside him, her eyes—silver and unblinking—fixed on the ruins. "Veyr'hadal," she murmured. "I thought it was a myth."
"Most truths are."
"And yet, here it lies. Forgotten. Waiting." Her hand brushed the dagger at her hip, the one with the phoenix-shaped hilt. "What exactly are we looking for, Kael?"
He didn't answer immediately. The wind carried voices—ancient, broken whispers. Ruinfang's hilt burned against his back.
"The gate is beneath the temple," he finally said. "The Gate of Thorns. If the prophecy is real... it begins here."
Seren's gaze flicked toward him, sharp with suspicion. "You believe in the prophecy now?"
"I believe in signs. In curses. In things that shouldn't bleed, but do." His eyes met hers. "And in whatever is stirring beneath our feet."
A sudden rumble shook the stones beneath them. From the depths of the ruin, a low roar—like a creature awakening after centuries of sleep—rose to meet the sky.
Seren's hand went to her second blade.
Kael drew Ruinfang. The sword gleamed with unnatural light, the runes along its length pulsing like a heartbeat.
The Realm hadn't forgotten them.
And neither had the shadows.
The sound settled into an eerie silence—thick, pressing, unnatural.
Seren drew closer to Kael, her eyes scanning the ruined city below. From up here, the remnants of Veyr'hadal looked like bones. Tower spines jutted from the earth like broken teeth, and ancient stone arches lay half-buried in creeping moss. The mist slithered between the remains, hiding paths and dangers alike.
"No birds," she noted, voice low. "No beasts."
"They know better," Kael said grimly. "This place was cursed long before we came."
Seren glanced sideways. "You're awfully dramatic for someone who claims to have no soul."
"I never said I had none," he replied. "Only that I traded pieces of it along the way."
The mist thickened as they descended the ridge. Ruinfang thrummed faintly in his grip, almost... eager. The last time it had done that, Kael had awakened in a field of corpses, unsure if they were his enemies—or allies.
Stone steps emerged from beneath the moss. Their boots echoed faintly on the timeworn path as they made their way through a shattered archway into the heart of the city. The silence grew heavier with every step. Veyr'hadal didn't feel abandoned. It felt... waiting.
Seren stopped beside a cracked obelisk, its surface etched with runes so ancient they seemed to shift when viewed too long.
She touched it, and her breath caught. "These aren't just warding runes. They're binding sigils."
"Something was sealed here," Kael confirmed, eyes darkening. "Something meant to stay forgotten."
A sharp wind cut through the ruins, stirring dust and whispers.
Then Kael saw it—etched into the broken plaza ahead—a circular stone seal, its pattern unmistakable. Thorns wrapped around the image of a closed eye.
The Gate of Thorns.
Ruinfang pulsed hard in his hand.
Seren stepped forward, but Kael threw out an arm to stop her. "Don't," he warned. "This gate isn't a door—it's a wound."
She stared at him. "So you've seen it before."
"In a dream. Or a memory." His voice dropped. "But dreams in this realm... bleed."
A distant cry broke through the stillness—inhuman and echoing.
Both of them turned, blades drawn.
From the far end of the plaza, the mist was moving. No—being pushed.
Something was coming.
Kael stepped in front of Seren, lowering into a defensive stance. "Whatever happens, stay close."
She didn't argue.
From the fog emerged a figure—shrouded in robes of night, its face hidden by a veil of ash. No feet touched the ground. It hovered, a low hum vibrating the stones with every passing second.
Seren whispered, "That's no wraith..."
Kael's grip tightened. "It's a Guardian."
The figure lifted an arm, and the mist twisted into clawed shapes behind it.
In a voice that didn't echo but seemed to invade their minds, it spoke.
> "The gate is sealed. The blood is not yet spilled. Return, or be forgotten."
Seren raised a dagger. "I hate riddles."
Kael didn't look away. "That wasn't a riddle."
The ground beneath the Gate of Thorns began to crack.
And Kael knew—whatever slumbered beneath Veyr'hadal had heard them.