"Monsters are born in silence—and raised in grief."
---
The Howling Peaks loomed in the distance, jagged like the teeth of some long-dead god. Snow spiraled from the cliffs even though the world below was bathed in spring, a cold untouched by seasons. Zayne's cloak snapped in the bitter wind, but he pressed forward, eyes locked on the broken silhouette of Gravemarch—the fallen fortress where secrets and corpses waited.
He had walked for five days straight.
No towns. No signs of life.
Only the occasional old battlefield buried beneath frost and moss.
Each night, he practiced a technique passed down from his mother: Cognis Drift—a meditation that let him absorb and compress knowledge from tomes and scrolls without reading them. It came at a cost, dulling emotional response the more he used it. But pain, grief, fear?
He didn't need those right now.
---
Gravemarch was larger than he expected—its spires collapsed, but its gates still half-intact. Black vines climbed up the stone walls like veins, pulsing with unnatural light. The place had been abandoned since the Siege of Tharnis, nearly seventy years ago.
But it didn't feel empty.
Zayne stepped into the gatehouse and felt a shift. The air thickened. Sound dulled.
No wind. No birds.
His fingers traced a mark carved into the stone just past the entrance.
A feather. Burnt at the edges.
And beneath it, written in old Bloodscript:
"If you see me, you're already too late."
He smiled grimly.
"Let's test that."
---
Inside the ruins, darkness clung to the corridors. But Zayne didn't need light.
With a snap of his fingers, four blue motes lit up, floating around him. A simple spell, but amplified through his modified channels—his own invention, Mana Vein Amplification. It allowed basic spells to match mid-tier power output.
As he descended, shadows peeled off the walls.
Specters.
Bound souls. Likely remnants of the fortress defenders.
But they didn't attack.
They circled him… curious.
Zayne's aura was twisted by design—half-spectral, half-living. Something he had developed through forbidden studies. That made him unreadable to lesser wraiths. Almost kin.
It wasn't mercy. It was strategy.
Still, he kept his hand near his blade, Orrenveil, a mana-threaded saber with runes carved by his mother. Not the strongest weapon, but a vessel for his will.
Then he heard it—
Breathing.
Not his.
Not undead.
Alive.
He moved silently, following the faint sound until he reached a broken atrium lit by cracked skyglass. There, standing near an altar, was a girl.
No older than him. Maybe younger.
She had short, white hair, a worn red scarf, and a bow across her back. Her eyes glowed faintly violet—not from magic, but bloodline.
A Thaelrin. One of the lost tribes of witch-kin.
Zayne stepped forward.
"I didn't expect company."
She spun, arrow drawn in less than a heartbeat.
"You're not a wraith."
"Neither are you."
They stared at each other for a moment.
Then she lowered her bow… slightly.
"What do you want?"
"I'm hunting someone."
She tilted her head. "Then you're already dead."
Zayne smirked. "I get that a lot."
---
Her name was Velka. She had been living in Gravemarch for over a year, surviving on her own and avoiding the Veilborne who sometimes returned to the fortress for rituals.
Her story was simple—parents killed by witch hunters, abandoned by both humans and her own people. She had no loyalty, no cause. Only survival.
But she knew things. Things he needed.
Including who trained in Gravemarch.
"They don't leave trails," she said as they sat beside a broken brazier. "They leave scars. The Veilborne don't recruit. They take."
"Then I'll let them take me," Zayne replied.
Velka looked at him with a mix of admiration and pity.
"You're smart. Too smart to be suicidal."
"I'm not suicidal," he said.
"I'm curious."
---
That night, Zayne allowed himself to lower his guard for the first time in days.
They talked—about their pasts, about the kinds of death they'd seen. Velka told him about a white-cloaked figure who came to the fortress three weeks ago, carrying a burned letter with a seal she couldn't identify.
It matched the one from Liora's scroll.
"She was looking for something," Velka said. "Kept talking to a mirror in one of the chambers. It wasn't a normal one. It showed things… possible things."
Zayne's eyes narrowed.
Divination mirror.
And more importantly… someone had opened it.
---
The next morning, they reached the chamber.
Dust covered everything. Blood dried into the runes on the floor. A shattered mirror lay at the center.
But one shard still glowed.
Zayne picked it up.
And saw…
His mother.
Not dead.
Alive.
Bleeding.
Chained.
Somewhere dark. Underground. The symbol behind her flickered—a rune he barely recognized.
His hand trembled.
Velka noticed.
"What did you see?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked up at the wall.
There was a mark, just visible under the dust.
Another feather. Another message.
"You were warned."
He stood slowly.
The pieces were shifting. His mother wasn't just connected—she was central. And the people who took her were not finished with whatever they started.
Zayne turned to Velka.
"I'm going to break this world open."
She stared at him. "Then you'll need help."
He smirked. "Then I guess you're hired."