A cold wind swept through the Sable Path, curling around broken tree trunks and burned soil. It moaned like the dead—soft, long, and hollow. Somewhere beneath the silence, a pair of boots crushed ash and bone.
Zayne Caldris moved like a ghost between shadows, his cloak of black and blue barely rippling with each step. Even the dust refused to cling to him, brushed away by the subtle force of the concealment rune inscribed across his belt.
Three days. That's all it had been. Three days since Bellshade died, since his sister's giggle vanished, and his mother's hand went cold.
And still… no trace of the killer. No signature. No residual mana. No footprints. Nothing but that damned feather.
He now wore it on a silver chain tucked beneath his collarbone—his only lead.
But not his only weapon.
Zayne paused at a stone cairn by the roadside. Old, forgotten, and moss-covered. His hand pressed against the top and whispered a phrase in ancient Syrethian.
"Reveal thy ink."
The moss slid off like water. Carved into the stone were four letters—"LSCF."
He recognized the initials immediately: Liora's Secret Contact Funnel.
His mother had been paranoid. She was also a former Grand Arcanist of the Ivory Circle, a title she never once spoke of in Bellshade. But Zayne knew. He knew she had enemies. She was too powerful, too careful not to.
Tapping the bottom edge of the cairn, he slid a hidden drawer open.
Inside was a folded parchment sealed with violet wax—her seal.
And beneath it? A small vial of crimson ink... and a single golden sigil stone.
The stone glowed in response to his presence, vibrating faintly.
Zayne clenched it tight and tucked both the parchment and stone into his satchel.
"I'm not alone in this," he whispered.
Not yet. Not completely.
---
Far from the ruins of Bellshade, in the floating city of Valcure, cloaked figures moved behind marble walls and obsidian windows.
"He's alive," a man muttered, watching a glowing orb pulse with the faint outline of Zayne's form. "I told you, Liora wouldn't die without leaving behind a ghost."
Another figure stepped forward. She was tall, regal, and frighteningly composed. Her eyes glowed faintly blue, runes tattooed around her neckline like a chain. "Then we tighten the net. If the boy follows her trail, he'll reach the Vault of Dusk within months."
"That would be... unfortunate," another added.
"Not unfortunate. Inevitable." The woman smiled coldly. "Let him come. If he survives, we use him."
"And if he doesn't?"
The orb flickered. The image of Zayne vanished.
"Then his corpse answers our questions."
---
Back on the Sable Path, Zayne finally reached a trade outpost known as Gutter's Hollow, one of the last few border settlements before the wilderness overtook the roads. Once a bustling checkpoint for hunters and smugglers, now it stood mostly abandoned—bandit raids, plague rumors, and strange disappearances had driven most away.
He needed a contact. Supplies. And names.
The man he was looking for went by Murk—an information broker with loose morals and looser loyalty. But he owed Liora a favor, and Zayne planned to collect.
The tavern was nestled at the edge of town, half-swallowed by ivy and rot. Its wooden sign—The Crooked Fang—swayed on rusted hinges.
Inside, the air reeked of wet fur and old smoke.
Perfect.
Zayne pulled his hood lower and stepped in.
Conversations halted briefly, eyes flicking toward the newcomer. Then, as if satisfied by the absence of armor or obvious threat, the regulars returned to their drinks.
He spotted Murk in the corner, hunched over a mug, a cigarette dangling from his lip. One eye was replaced with a brass scope, the other narrowed with suspicion.
Zayne sat without asking.
Murk didn't look up. "Kid's supposed to be dead."
Zayne didn't flinch. "So's your sense of fashion. We all surprise people."
A twitch of the lips. "She said you were clever. But clever boys don't come here. Clever boys stay hidden."
"I need information."
"No shit." Murk leaned closer. "But information costs. Especially now. Word is, the Caldris family's got shadows sniffing their ashes. Expensive ones."
Zayne placed the golden sigil stone on the table. It glowed faintly.
Murk's eyes widened. "Is that—?"
"Yes."
Murk took a slow drag of his cigarette, then flicked it away. "Alright, kid. You've got one question."
Zayne didn't hesitate. "Who in this region would leave a white feather as a calling card?"
Silence.
Murk's face paled slightly.
"…You sure you want that answer?"
Zayne's voice was ice. "Say it."
Murk swallowed. "There's an old legend. A mercenary cabal called The Veilborne. They don't exist on paper. No kingdom claims them. No bounty ever sticks. But they're not just assassins—they're ghosts. Trained to erase, not kill. And their symbol?"
He tapped his cigarette box. On its cover was an old crest.
A feather.
"White. Burnt at the edge."
Zayne's jaw tensed. "Where?"
"No one's seen them in years. But… rumor says one of their ghosts turned rogue. Took refuge in Gravemarch, the fallen fortress near the Howling Peaks. Locals think it's cursed. Maybe it is."
Zayne stood. "Then I'll pay it a visit."
"Kid, you're chasing phantoms."
He turned. "Good."
And just like that, he was gone.
---
That night, Zayne camped beneath the stars, the Crooked Fang far behind him. He held the feather in one hand and his mother's scroll in the other.
The scroll would require blood to open—hers. But there was a way around that. He'd been studying forbidden sigilcraft for months. He would find a way to trick the scroll's seal, and maybe then, learn what she had tried to say before dying.
Never trust… who?
Zayne didn't sleep.
Instead, he etched new runes into his blade.
He whispered new names into the wind.
And when dawn came, he was already walking.
No longer Zayne of Bellshade.
Now just a ghost with a trail of ash in his wake.