A breath of cold air. Sharp. Real.
Lysander exhaled. His chest ached—like his lungs were relearning how to breathe. The weight of the Veil was gone.
He was back.
But something was wrong.
He sat up slowly, every muscle stiff, his body unnaturally heavy. The mark on his arm throbbed—not in pain, but in presence. The ruins were gone.
Not destroyed. Not collapsed. Gone.
As if the temple had never existed. As if it had been erased.
A fractured piece of stone caught his eye. His reflection stared back—but it didn't move the same way he did.
A flicker.
A delay.
Something hummed at the base of his skull. Not a voice. Not a thought. Something that shouldn't be there.
Then—
Footsteps.
"Are you human?"
Lysander turned.
A man approached—fast, efficient, deliberate. His beard was streaked with gray. Scars cut through his weathered face. He moved like a man who had seen war.
But more importantly—he was armed.
Not with magic. Not with the Veil. With steel. With a gun.
"Hey!" The man's voice was sharp, commanding. "How did you survive?"
Lysander's throat was dry.
"I'm—Lysander. Who are you?"
The man didn't answer. His gaze locked onto Lysander's arm.
A flicker of recognition. Then—a step back.
Not fear. Calculation. His fingers tightened on his gun's grip.
"You were inside the Veil." His voice lowered. Tense. "And you're still breathing."
A breath. Then, to himself—"Either you're cursed… or you're something worse."
Lysander moved to stand—and reality flickered.
For an instant, the temple was there again. Whole. Alive. Watching.
The whispers followed. Closer. Louder.
"You brought something back with you."
Lysander's breath hitched. "No, I—"
"Don't lie." The man's tone was flat. Unwavering. "I can sense it."
Something inside Lysander felt heavier. More real.
"Do you even understand what you've done?"
"What does that mean?!"
The man exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It means you're about to have a very short life expectancy."
Then his expression hardened. "Follow me. I know what's happening to you."
Lysander hesitated. "But how can I tru—"
"Lysander." His voice cut through the doubt, sharp as a knife. "I don't care if you trust me. I care if you survive."
"So shut up and follow me."
Then—
The air shifted.
The temperature dropped.
A whisper curled through the space between them. Not human.
A shadow stretched at the temple's edge. Something was there.
The man's entire stance changed. His grip tightened on his weapon.
"Step back." His voice was low. Controlled. "That thing is not from our world."
Lysander's chest tightened. The mark on his arm pulsed violently. "Is it from the Veil?"
"Shut up," the man hissed. "And let me focus. One moment of vulnerability is all it takes."
Lysander studied him. His hands were steady. Firm. But—he reached for his sword instead of his gun.
"Hey. Why are you using your sword? Why not your gun?"
No answer.
Then—
"Fuck."
A realization. A shift in his stance.
His voice was quieter now. Colder.
"You don't understand, do you?"
The whispers grew louder. The presence drew closer.
The man exhaled slowly.
"The Veil never lets go."
His eyes flickered to Lysander's mark.
"And now, neither will they."
"