The world didn't end in fire.
It ended in silence.
Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that screams just beneath your skin, the kind left behind when the gods stop answering, and the stars forget your name.
Before the silence, there was a song.
Not of music, but of meaning. A thread that wove soul to sky, memory to magic. It held the realms together, kept the boundaries from bleeding. And those who could hear it, those rare, aching few, were known as the Bound.
They were not born.
They were called.
Chosen by something ancient, older than time, older than truth. And when they listened, the Veil sang back, soft, haunting, beautiful.
Then the song stopped.
No one knew why. No one noticed… until it was too late.
The Veil cracked. Reality bled. Worlds folded into each other like paper soaked in rain. And in the space between moments, something else began to wake.
Something forgotten.
Something hungry.
Now only ruins remember the Bound. Whispers echo in places no light touches. A name, a mask, a shadow walking the edge of unraveling worlds.
The Veilwalker.
He does not remember his name.
But the Veil remembers him.
And far across collapsing dimensions, others stir, broken, brilliant, burning, with fragments of the song still echoing in their veins.
Because the world may be ending.
But it isn't finished.
Not yet.
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Some stories are written in ink.
Others are written in scars.
This is the second kind.
This is The Veil of Atherion.
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