The wind howled across the desolate peaks, carrying the scent of ancient magic long forgotten by most of the world. Arlen stood at the edge of the cliff, his dark cloak snapping in the storm's fury, eyes fixed on the strange horizon. Somewhere beyond the clouds, beyond the endless rolling mist, lay the Eternal Veil, an ever-present, half-mythical barrier that separated the realms of the living and the dead.

Most believed the Veil was just a legend, a comforting tale told to children frightened of the dark. But Arlen knew better.

The Veil had whispered to him.

"You can feel it, can't you?" a voice called out behind him, cutting through the roar of the storm.

Arlen turned, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword, though he didn't draw it. Behind him stood Ilyana, her silver hair glinting in the pale light of the distant moons. Her violet eyes watched him carefully, as if she could see the thoughts playing behind his expression.

"I feel it," Arlen replied, his voice low. "The air is different. Heavier."

Ilyana approached, her boots making soft crunches on the frost-covered stones, despite the tumultuous weather. She gazed out toward the same horizon, her brow furrowing in concern.

"It's the first time I've ever felt it this strong," she said, almost to herself. "It's as though the Veil itself is… weakening."

Arlen glanced at her. He trusted Ilyana more than most, but even she didn't fully understand what had happened to him in the years before they'd met, the night the Veil had first spoken his name. He wasn't about to tell her either. Not yet.

"The council thinks it's a natural disturbance," she continued. "Just a tremor in the sky, or a fluctuation of magic. But you and I know better, don't we?"

Arlen didn't answer. His gaze returned to the distance, where the storm clouds were gathering thicker, darker. Lightning crackled within the mass, but it wasn't like any lightning he had seen before. It pulsed with a sickly green glow, the color of death magic.

"I don't trust the council," Arlen said at last, his voice like the rasp of steel against stone. "They're too blind, too complacent. They've been sitting in their towers for so long, they've forgotten the old ways. They've forgotten how fragile the world can be."

"And you think you're different?" Ilyana's voice held a challenge, her tone sharp. "You've been running from them for years, Arlen. If anyone's forgotten the old ways, it's—"

"They're coming," Arlen interrupted, his voice distant as the first ripples of magic tugged at his senses. His hand, almost unconsciously, drifted toward the dagger at his belt. "Get ready."

Ilyana's eyes widened, and she immediately fell silent. She wasn't one to question warnings like this—not anymore.

The storm intensified, the winds shrieking louder as the sky above them darkened into an unnatural twilight. What had once been faint whispers in Arlen's mind now grew louder, more insistent, as if countless voices were clamoring to break through. The air shimmered, vibrating with an energy that didn't belong to this world.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm stilled. The air became thick with a pregnant silence, and in the dead calm, Arlen heard it clearly:

A voice from beyond the Veil. No longer a whisper.

"Arlen…"

His breath caught in his throat, and the dagger he had been holding slipped from his grip, clattering to the ground. It had never spoken his name like that before. He had always been the one seeking it, but now—now it was calling for him.

Beside him, Ilyana's eyes snapped toward him. "Did you hear that?"

He nodded, though the terror in his chest was mounting. "We need to leave. Now."

Without waiting for her response, Arlen spun on his heel, grabbing Ilyana's arm and pulling her into motion. They ran down the winding path leading away from the cliff, their boots pounding against the stone as the clouds overhead began to churn once more.

But it wasn't fast enough.

A brilliant flash of green light split the sky, and from the heavens, a tear appeared. It wasn't like lightning, nor was it like any magical disturbance Arlen had ever seen. The tear shimmered with the same eerie green glow, and through it came… shadows.

No, not shadows. Spirits.

The creatures that poured through the rift in the sky had no form, no true shape. They were wraiths, their bodies swirling with a darkness that made the night seem like day. Their eyes were hollow, glowing with the same sickly green that had flashed across the sky. And there were hundreds of them.

Ilyana skidded to a halt, her mouth hanging open in shock as the wraiths descended, their ghostly forms sweeping across the sky, heading directly toward them.

"Arlen!" she shouted, her voice tinged with panic. "What are those?"

But he didn't answer. He already knew what they were. He had felt them before, long ago, in the ruins of the ancient temple where the Veil had first spoken to him. He had barely escaped with his life then, but now—now there were too many.

Too many to fight. Too many to outrun.

"We can't fight them!" he yelled, his voice barely audible above the storm. "Run!"

They sprinted, the sound of their footsteps drowned out by the shrieking of the wraiths. Arlen's heart pounded in his chest, each beat louder than the last, each step feeling heavier as the weight of the magic pressed down on him. The Veil was cracking—splintering before his eyes.

But as they ran, Arlen couldn't shake the growing certainty that there was nowhere left to run. The Veil had been the only thing keeping these creatures at bay, and now that it was faltering, there would be no escape.

Not for him. Not for anyone....

The path twisted beneath their feet, winding down the rocky face of the cliffside as the wraiths descended faster, their ghostly forms whispering through the sky like silent death. Arlen pushed forward, pulling Ilyana with him, even as the weight of the spirits seemed to press down on them, as though the very air was thick with the presence of death itself.

"Arlen!" Ilyana's voice was sharp, filled with panic. "There's no way we're getting out of this! We need to hide!"

Arlen knew she was right. There was no outrunning them, no way to outpace the spirits now closing in. He glanced around desperately, searching for any cover. The cliffside was barren, its rocky face offering little shelter, but then he spotted something—an old ruin nestled into the mountainside below, half hidden by the swirling mists. It wasn't much, but it was something.

"There!" he shouted, pointing toward the ruins. "Get inside!"

Ilyana followed his gaze and nodded, her face pale but determined. Together they veered off the main path, skidding down the slope, the loose rocks and gravel tumbling beneath their boots. The wind lashed against them, pushing them back as they scrambled for the entrance.

The ruin was ancient, its stones weathered by centuries of exposure to the elements. It had once been a temple, or perhaps a watchtower, but now it was little more than a crumbling relic, its walls cracked and its roof partially caved in. Still, it offered shelter from the storm—and from the wraiths.

They reached the entrance just as the first of the spirits descended. Arlen shoved Ilyana inside, spinning around to face the oncoming threat. He didn't have time to think, didn't have time to prepare—he only had time to act.

With a swift motion, he drew his sword. The blade gleamed in the dim light, its edge sharp and cold. He had imbued it with protection runes long ago, hoping they would never be needed. Now, as the first wraith lunged toward him, its hollow eyes glowing with malevolent hunger, he prayed the magic would hold.

The creature shrieked as it collided with the blade, its form flickering as the runes flared to life. For a brief moment, the wraith recoiled, its shape distorting as if the magic burned it, but then it reformed, lunging again with renewed fury.

Arlen slashed at it, the edge of his sword passing through the wraith's body like mist, and though it slowed the creature, it did not stop it. The wraith let out a deafening wail, its shadowy limbs reaching for him with terrifying speed.

A blur of silver flashed past Arlen's vision. Ilyana had thrown a dagger, and it lodged itself in the center of the wraith's head, glowing briefly before the spirit disintegrated into a cloud of black smoke.

But there were more. Dozens more.

"We can't hold them off forever!" Ilyana shouted, grabbing another dagger from her belt as the wraiths swarmed toward the ruins. "What do we do?"

Arlen cursed under his breath. His mind raced as he fought to block the spirits, his arms growing heavier with each swing. The Veil was weakening, and the magic of his runes—while powerful—would not last against an army of the dead.

Then it hit him. **The Veil**. If it had been breached, then maybe, just maybe, there was a way to temporarily mend it—at least long enough to stop the wraiths from crossing over. But he couldn't do it alone.

"There's a warding spell," Arlen called out, cutting through another wraith as it lunged at him. "I can close the breach, but I'll need your help to cast it."

Ilyana's eyes widened. "What kind of spell?"

"A binding spell. It's old—older than anything we've ever used before. But it's dangerous. If it fails—"

"We die." Ilyana finished the sentence for him, her voice grim. "That's what you were going to say, wasn't it?"

Arlen nodded. "But it's the only chance we have."

Ilyana didn't hesitate. She sheathed her dagger, stepping closer to him, her violet eyes blazing with resolve. "What do you need me to do?"

Arlen could hear the wraiths growing louder, their whispers filling his ears like the chittering of insects. There wasn't much time. He turned toward the center of the ruined temple, where a circle of ancient stones lay embedded in the floor, half-buried beneath the rubble.

"We need to draw a binding circle," he said quickly, moving toward the stones. "A perfect circle. Once it's drawn, we'll need to infuse it with magic—both of us."

Ilyana followed him, her hands already moving to clear the debris from the stones. "And then?"

"Then we hope it holds," Arlen replied, pulling a piece of chalk from his pouch. He crouched down, his fingers trembling slightly as he began to sketch the intricate lines of the circle, weaving in runes of protection and binding.

The air around them grew colder, and the whispers of the wraiths became louder, more frantic. Arlen's heart pounded in his chest as he worked, his mind racing to remember the ancient incantations. He had learned them years ago, deep in the archives of the Aetherium, the secret academy where he had trained. But even then, the spell had been considered dangerous, forbidden.

Ilyana knelt beside him, her hands tracing the runes with careful precision. The magic pulsed between them, faint at first, but growing stronger with each completed line. It was a delicate balance—a single mistake could mean their deaths.

The wraiths were closer now, their shadows flickering just beyond the entrance to the ruin. Arlen could feel their presence pressing down on him, the weight of their otherworldly magic suffocating. But he couldn't let it distract him. Not now.

"Almost there," he muttered, his voice tight with concentration. He finished the final rune, stepping back to examine the circle. It glowed faintly, the lines shimmering with a soft blue light.

Ilyana stood beside him, her face pale but determined. "What now?"

Arlen took a deep breath. "Now we channel everything we have into it. We have to anchor the Veil—if only for a moment."

He reached out, grabbing Ilyana's hand. She didn't pull away, her grip firm as she nodded.

Together, they began to chant. The words of the incantation were ancient, harsh on the tongue, and the magic they summoned was wild, dangerous. Arlen could feel the energy building between them, a swirling vortex of power that tugged at the edges of his mind.

The circle flared to life, the runes blazing with light. The air crackled with electricity, and for a brief moment, the whispers of the wraiths fell silent.

But the silence didn't last.

With a deafening screech, the spirits lunged toward them, their forms distorting as they collided with the barrier. The circle held, but only barely—the force of the wraiths' assault sending cracks through the shimmering dome of magic that surrounded them.

Arlen gritted his teeth, pouring more of his energy into the spell. He could feel the Veil just beyond the barrier, fragile and torn. It was like trying to hold back a flood with nothing but his bare hands.

Ilyana's voice faltered, her grip on his hand tightening as the wraiths pressed harder. "Arlen, I don't know if we can—"

"We have to," he said through clenched teeth. "Just a little longer. We can do this."

But even as he said the words, he knew the truth. The Veil was too damaged. The binding spell wasn't going to hold.

And then, just as the barrier began to fracture, something happened. A voice—soft, gentle—echoed in the back of Arlen's mind. It wasn't the whisper of the wraiths. No, this was different. Familiar.

**"Let go, Arlen,"** the voice said. **"Let go, and I will guide you."**

The voice was soft, too soft to be part of the chaos swirling around them. It didn't belong to the wraiths or to the storm. It belonged to something else—something older, deeper, and much more dangerous.

Arlen froze, the words repeating in his mind like a command. He didn't recognize the voice, but it stirred something deep inside him, something he had tried to bury. The Veil had spoken to him before, but never like this. It wasn't just a whisper now; it was a presence, a force that demanded to be heard.

**"Let go, Arlen."**

He hesitated, the weight of the binding spell pressing down on him. If he let go of the magic now, the wraiths would overwhelm them. The circle was already cracking, and they were hanging by a thread. But the voice… there was something in it, something that called to him in a way he couldn't ignore.

Ilyana's grip on his hand tightened, her knuckles white as she fought to maintain the spell. Her voice was strained, barely holding onto the incantation. "Arlen, what are you doing? Don't stop!"

He blinked, shaking off the fog that clouded his mind. "I… I heard something," he stammered, his focus wavering as the weight of the magic threatened to crush him.

"You heard something? Now?" Ilyana shot him a look, disbelief and fear mingling in her eyes. "If you stop now, we're dead. Focus!"

Arlen clenched his jaw, forcing the voice to the back of his mind. He had to focus. He had to stay grounded. But even as he tried, the presence grew stronger, pushing against the edges of his consciousness.

**"Let go,"** the voice insisted. **"You cannot hold them back alone. Trust me."**

Arlen squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The energy swirling around them was growing too strong, too wild. The wraiths were pounding against the barrier now, their screeches echoing through the ruins, their forms flickering with the sickly green light of death magic.

The spell wouldn't hold much longer. He could feel it unraveling beneath his fingertips, the power slipping away like sand through an open hand. They were out of time.

He looked at Ilyana, her face pale, her brow furrowed in concentration as she poured everything she had into the spell. She was strong, but even she couldn't hold the circle alone. And if he let go…

"Arlen!" she shouted, her voice breaking through the storm. "Whatever you're hearing, it's not real! You have to focus! We can still—"

**"Now, Arlen."**

The voice surged through him with such force that his entire body went rigid. There was no ignoring it now. It was part of him, intertwined with his very soul. And in that moment, Arlen realized what it was.

It wasn't just the Veil speaking to him. It was something beyond the Veil—something waiting on the other side.

A pulse of magic rippled through the air, and Arlen gasped, his hand slipping from Ilyana's grasp. The binding circle flickered, the runes dimming as the spell began to collapse. The wraiths shrieked, sensing the weakening barrier, and lunged toward them.

"Arlen!" Ilyana's voice was sharp with panic, but he barely heard her.

The world around him blurred, the storm fading into the background as the voice enveloped him, pulling him deeper into its grasp. It was no longer a whisper; it was a torrent, a flood of ancient power that surged through him with unstoppable force.

He stumbled back, the chalk circle beneath his feet glowing with an otherworldly light. His vision swam, and for a brief moment, he saw beyond the ruins, beyond the storm—beyond the Veil.

There, on the other side, something vast and incomprehensible loomed. It wasn't a creature, not in the way he understood it. It was a presence, an ancient force that existed beyond the boundaries of life and death. It pulsed with a dark, twisted energy, its form constantly shifting, as though it was made of shadows and forgotten memories.

And it was watching him.

**"Let go, and I will guide you,"** the voice said again, but now Arlen understood.

It wasn't offering help. It was demanding control.

"No," Arlen whispered, his voice barely audible.

The presence surged, pushing against his mind with overwhelming force. He could feel it, pressing against the fragile boundaries of his consciousness, trying to seep in, trying to take hold.

Arlen's knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, his sword slipping from his hand as the weight of the presence bore down on him. He could hear Ilyana shouting, but her voice was distant now, swallowed by the storm.

The wraiths were almost upon them. The barrier was gone. He could feel their cold, deathly magic crawling toward him, eager to claim him, to drag him into the endless dark beyond the Veil.

But even as the world around him began to collapse, Arlen reached deep inside himself, grasping at the last threads of his will. He couldn't let it end like this. He couldn't let the presence take him. Not now. Not ever.

With a sudden surge of determination, he forced the voice back, pushing it away with every ounce of strength he had left.

"Get… out…" he growled through gritted teeth, his entire body trembling with the effort.

The presence resisted, its dark tendrils tightening around his mind. But Arlen pushed harder, his will like a blade cutting through the fog that clouded his thoughts. Slowly, painfully, the pressure began to lift.

The voice faded, retreating into the shadows, though its final words echoed in his mind.

**"You cannot escape me, Arlen. Not forever."**

And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the presence was gone.

Arlen gasped, his vision clearing as the world snapped back into focus. The ruins, the storm, the wraiths—it all came rushing back in an instant, and the reality of their situation hit him like a hammer.

The wraiths were almost on top of them, their forms swirling with malevolent energy. Ilyana was standing over him, her dagger drawn, her face pale with terror.

"We're out of time!" she shouted, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet. "We have to go, now!"

Arlen's legs felt like lead, but he forced himself to move, staggering toward the crumbling archway at the back of the ruins. The wraiths were so close now, their whispers filling the air, their hollow eyes glowing with hunger.

Just as they reached the archway, a massive gust of wind swept through the ruins, nearly knocking them off their feet. The air shimmered with dark magic, and Arlen turned, his heart pounding in his chest.

At the center of the ruin, where the binding circle had been drawn, a figure stood.

It was cloaked in shadow, its form barely visible through the swirling mist. But there was something unmistakable about it—something that sent a chill down Arlen's spine.

The figure stepped forward, its movements slow and deliberate. Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but Arlen could feel its eyes on him, watching, waiting.

"I told you," the figure said, its voice soft but carrying with it the weight of eternity. "You cannot escape me."

Ilyana gasped, her grip on Arlen's arm tightening. "What… what is that?"

Arlen didn't answer. He couldn't. He knew who—**what**—it was.

It was a herald of the Veil, a harbinger of the world beyond.

And it had come for him.

The figure stood in the center of the ruined temple, its presence suffocating the air around them. Arlen's heart pounded in his chest as the shadows seemed to ripple and pulse with the creature's every movement. The wraiths that had moments ago been so intent on tearing them apart were now frozen in place, hovering just beyond the reach of the figure's influence, as though they too feared what stood before them.

Arlen's mind raced. **A herald of the Veil.** He had heard stories—whispers in the ancient texts—of beings that walked between worlds, servants of the deeper forces that governed the realms of life and death. But they weren't supposed to interfere with the living. They weren't supposed to be here.

"Ilyana…" Arlen whispered, his voice tight with fear. "Run."

"What?" she hissed, her eyes darting between the figure and Arlen. "I'm not leaving you—"

"I said run!" Arlen shouted, his voice sharper than he intended. He grabbed her by the arm and shoved her toward the archway at the back of the ruin. "Go! Now!"

Ilyana hesitated for only a second, her eyes wide with uncertainty. But she saw the look in Arlen's eyes, the desperation in his voice. She nodded once, turned, and sprinted for the exit, her footsteps echoing against the stone as she disappeared into the mist.

Arlen turned back toward the herald, his body trembling as the figure took another step forward. He could feel the coldness emanating from it, a chill that cut through him, seeping into his bones. There was no escape from it. No running. No hiding.

The herald raised its hand, and the shadows around it seemed to deepen, swirling in a dark vortex that hovered in the air. "You opened the Veil, Arlen Valeran," it said, its voice like the scraping of stone against metal. "You brought death across the boundary. Now you must face the consequences."

"I didn't mean to," Arlen said, his voice shaking as he backed away. "The Veil was already damaged—I was trying to stop it!"

The figure tilted its head, the shadows shifting around its hood. "Your intentions are irrelevant. The Veil is no longer stable, and you are the key to its restoration. Or its destruction."

Arlen's breath caught in his throat. "What do you mean?"

The herald lowered its hand, and the wraiths that had been hovering at the edge of the ruin began to move again, circling slowly, their hollow eyes fixed on Arlen. But they didn't attack. They were waiting—waiting for the herald's command.

"The balance has been broken," the herald said, its voice calm but filled with an undercurrent of menace. "The Veil is unraveling, and the barrier between life and death is thinning. You have seen it, felt it. The breach is growing. And soon, the world of the living will be consumed."

Arlen's heart raced, his mind reeling with the weight of the herald's words. "How do I stop it?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The herald's hand moved slowly, pointing at him. "You cannot stop it," it said. "But you can choose. The power to repair the Veil lies within you. But that same power can tear it apart."

"I don't understand," Arlen said, his voice shaking. "What power? What are you talking about?"

The herald took another step forward, and the air seemed to grow even colder, the very fabric of reality rippling around it. "You have always known," it said, its voice low and echoing. "You have felt it, hidden deep within you. The power of the Void. It is what calls to you now. It is what will decide the fate of this world."

Arlen's stomach dropped. **The Void.** The forbidden magic. The ancient power that had been sealed away, locked beyond the Veil. No one was supposed to access it. No one was supposed to wield it.

"No…" Arlen whispered, shaking his head. "I'm not… I don't have that power. I'm not—"

"You cannot deny what you are, Arlen Valeran," the herald said, its voice cold and absolute. "The choice is yours, but the time is running out."

Arlen felt his pulse quicken, his mind racing as the implications of the herald's words sank in. He didn't want this. He hadn't asked for this. But deep down, in a part of himself he had always feared, he knew the truth. The power had always been there—lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment it would be unleashed.

But if he accepted it, if he embraced the Void…

The Veil would never be the same.

"I won't do it," Arlen said, his voice hardening as he stood his ground. "I won't tear the Veil apart."

The herald's hood shifted, as if it were smiling beneath the shadows. "We shall see."

Before Arlen could react, the shadows around the herald surged forward, enveloping him in a dark cloud of suffocating magic. The air was ripped from his lungs, and he felt himself being pulled into the darkness, his vision blurring as the world around him spun out of control.

And then, with a violent jolt, everything went black.

---

Arlen awoke in silence.

The cold stone beneath him was damp, the air thick with moisture. He groaned, pushing himself up on his hands and knees, his head spinning. His body ached, and his vision was blurry, but he was alive. Somehow, he had survived.

He blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. He was no longer in the ruins. The jagged cliffs, the swirling mist, the howling wind—it was all gone. Instead, he was in a cavern, the walls slick with water and the air thick with the smell of earth and stone.

He staggered to his feet, his heart pounding as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. How had he gotten here? Where was Ilyana?

And then he heard it—a voice, soft and distant, calling his name.

"Arlen…"

He turned, his breath catching in his throat. The shadows on the far side of the cavern shifted, and a figure stepped forward, its form barely visible in the darkness.

It wasn't the herald.

It was something else. Something worse.

Arlen's blood ran cold as the figure drew closer, its face hidden beneath a hood, just like the herald's. But this presence was different. Darker. More ancient. The air around it crackled with a power so immense that Arlen could barely breathe.

The figure stopped just a few feet from him, and then, slowly, it raised its head, revealing eyes that glowed with a sickly green light.

"You have come far," the figure said, its voice soft but filled with the weight of ages. "But your journey is only beginning."

Arlen's mouth went dry, his pulse racing. "Who are you?"

The figure smiled, its teeth sharp and glinting in the dim light.

"I am the one who waits in the dark," it said. "And I have been waiting for you."

Before Arlen could react, the figure reached out, its hand brushing against his chest. A surge of cold magic shot through him, and the world around him shattered, the cavern collapsing into darkness.

And then he was falling—falling into the Void.