The Rift Gate looms like a scar on Drenvar's edge, its iron bars pitted with rust and memory. Beyond it, the mists swirl, thick as grief, hiding the wastelands where the Shades prowl. I stand there, my sentinel blade heavy at my hip, the parchment with Joren's rune crumpled in my fist. The war drums from Caleth's army throb closer, a reminder that time's running out. Torv's words about the Veil—a cult worshipping the Rift—gnaw at me, but it's her voice that drives me forward. There, Kaelis. The truth waits. She's in my head again, the woman from my visions, her words a beacon in the dark.
I slip past the gate guards, their eyes too tired to care about a disgraced sentinel sneaking into the wastelands. The mists swallow me immediately, cold and damp, clinging to my skin like regret. The air smells of ash and something sharper, like blood left to rot. My boots crunch on the cracked earth, and I keep one hand on my blade, its runes faintly warm under my fingers. They're not like the killer's rune—those are jagged, angry. Mine are old, carved by sentinels to ward off Shades. I hope they still work.
The ruin I saw from the gate is my only lead, a shadow in the mists maybe a mile out. Getting there means crossing the wastelands, where the ground is littered with bones and broken machines from before the Rift. I move fast, keeping low, my heart pounding not just from the danger but from the memories clawing up. Five years ago, I led my squad out here—six of us, laughing like fools, thinking we could hunt a Shade and come back heroes. We found one, alright. Its eyes were voids, its touch ice that burned. I was the only one who made it back, my blade slick with their blood, not its. I still don't know why I survived.
A sound cuts through the mist—a low wail, like wind through a broken flute. I freeze. It's a Shade, close. My fingers tighten on the blade, and I whisper the old sentinel chant under my breath, more habit than faith. The wail grows louder, and the mist parts, revealing it: a figure of smoke and shadow, taller than a man, its edges fraying like torn cloth. Its eyes glow faintly, two pits of nothing that pull at my soul. I raise my blade, its runes flaring, and the Shade hesitates, hissing.
"Come on, then," I growl, my voice steadier than I feel. It lunges, faster than thought, its claws grazing my arm as I dodge. Pain sears through me, but it's the cold that's worse, a numbness that whispers give up, let go. I swing the blade, slicing through its form, and it screams, dissolving into wisps. The runes did their job, but my arm's trembling, the wound shallow but aching like guilt.
I keep moving, the ruin closer now. It's a tower, half-collapsed, its stones etched with symbols older than Drenvar. The voice hums, urgent: Inside, Kaelis. Hurry. I climb through a shattered archway, the air inside heavy with dust and silence. My lantern casts jagged shadows, revealing walls covered in runes—hundreds of them, spiraling like the one on Joren's chest. My breath catches. This is no coincidence. This is their temple, the Veil's sanctum.
I kneel, tracing a rune on the floor. It pulses under my touch, and the voice floods my mind, clearer than ever: They've woken the Rift's heart. Stop them, or Drenvar falls. A vision hits me—flashing images of cloaked figures chanting, a glowing crystal pulsing in the dark, and Joren's face, screaming as his life drains into that spiral rune. I stagger, clutching the wall, my guilt roaring back. I failed my squad, and now I'm failing Joren, failing Drenvar. But the voice doesn't let me sink. You are enough, she says, and for a moment, I believe her.
Footsteps crunch outside. I douse the lantern and crouch behind a fallen pillar, my blade ready. A figure steps into the ruin—a woman, cloaked, her face hidden by a hood. She carries a staff etched with runes, and her movements are too precise, too calm for this place. "I know you're here, Kaelis," she calls, her voice sharp as a blade. "You're chasing shadows you don't understand."
I don't move, but my mind races. How does she know my name? Is she Veil? I grip my blade tighter, but her next words stop me cold. "The seamstress was my sister," she says. "I want the killer found as much as you do. Come out, and we talk."
I hesitate. Trust is a luxury I can't afford, but her voice carries pain, not deceit. I step out, blade lowered but ready. "Who are you?" I demand.
She pushes back her hood, revealing a face marked by scars, eyes fierce with grief. "Mira," she says. "I was a scholar of the old runes before the war. I know the Veil's signs. They're back, and they're using the Rift to kill."
I study her, searching for a lie. Her scars tell a story of survival, like mine. "Why trust me?" I ask.
"Because you're here," she says simply. "You saw the rune and didn't run. That's more than most."
She's right, but I don't say it. Instead, I show her the parchment with Joren's rune. Her eyes widen. "This is a siphon," she whispers. "It draws life to feed the Rift. The Veil used them before they vanished. If they're active again, they're building something—something big."
"Like what?" I ask, though I dread the answer.
"A weapon," she says. "Or a gate. Something to control the Shades, maybe unleash them on Drenvar."
The war drums echo in my mind, louder now. Caleth's army, the murders, the Veil—it's all connected, and the Rift is the key. Mira points to a carving on the wall, a map of sorts, showing tunnels beneath Drenvar leading to a chamber. "That's where they'll be," she says. "The Rift's heart."
I want to argue, to walk away, but Joren's empty eyes haunt me, and the screams of my squad won't let me rest. "Then we go there," I say. "But if you're lying, Mira, you'll regret it."
She nods, unafraid. "Follow me. But be ready—the Shades guard the tunnels."
We leave the ruin, the mists thicker now, the war drums a constant pulse. As we trek toward Drenvar's underbelly, my mind churns. Mira's story fits, but it's too neat, too convenient. The voice in my head is silent now, and I wonder if she's warning me or waiting. My guilt whispers that I'm doomed to fail again, but Mira's scars, her resolve, mirror my own. Maybe I'm not alone in this.
The tunnels are a maze of stone and shadow, carved before the Rift, their walls slick with damp and rune-light. A Shade's wail echoes ahead, and Mira grips her staff, its runes flaring. "Stay close," she whispers. I nod, my blade ready, my heart heavy with the weight of what's coming. The truth is down here, but so is the past I've been running from. And I'm not sure which scares me more