Ash falls like a curse over Drenvar, tapping my window with the persistence of a ghost. It's always there, a reminder of the Rift that cracked the sky ten years ago, spilling its poison into our world. I lie on my cot, staring at the ceiling where cracks spiderweb like my own fractured thoughts. The war drums from Caleth's army pulse in the distance, a heartbeat of doom that never stops. Five years ago, I'd have been out there, a sentinel standing tall against the darkness. Now, I'm just Kaelis, the failure who let his squad die in the mists. The screams still claw at me, louder than the ash, louder than the drums.
A knock shatters the silence—sharp, urgent, the kind that drags trouble with it. I groan, pulling my cloak over my shoulders, the weight of my old sentinel blade a cold anchor at my hip. Nobody visits a disgraced drunk unless they're desperate, and I'm not in the mood for charity cases. I open the door, and Lira's standing there, her market runner's scarf pulled tight against the chill. Her eyes are wide, her dark skin ashen in the lanternlight. "Kaelis," she says, voice trembling, "you need to see this."
I want to slam the door, crawl back to my bottle, but something in her gaze—fear, yes, but also trust—hooks me. "What is it?" I mutter, already regretting the question.
"It's Joren. He's… dead."
The name hits like a blade. Joren, the baker who slipped me crusts when I was too broke to eat, too proud to beg. I follow Lira through Drenvar's alleys, where the air reeks of iron and despair. The city's a rotting husk, its stone walls pitted from years of war with Caleth. Refugees huddle in doorways, their eyes hollow as the wastelands beyond. Lanterns flicker, casting shadows that twist into shapes no one names aloud. Shades, they call them—wraiths born from the Rift, stealing souls in the mists. I've seen them, fought them, lost everything to them.
We reach a courtyard near the old temple, its spires crumbling like broken teeth. A crowd circles something, their whispers sharp with fear. They part as I approach, and there's Joren, sprawled under a dying lantern. His eyes stare at nothing, wide and empty, his skin gray like he's been drained dry. A rune glows faintly on his chest, carved into his flesh—a spiral with jagged edges, pulsing with a sickly green light. My breath catches. It's the same rune from my visions, the ones that haunt me alongside her voice.
Find the truth, Kaelis, she whispers in my mind, soft as mist over ruins. Before the Rift consumes all. I don't know who she is, this woman who's plagued me since that night five years ago when my squad vanished. Her voice is both a torment and a tether, pulling me toward something I don't understand.
I kneel beside Joren, my fingers tracing the rune. It's precise, deliberate, not the work of a Shade. Those things kill with hunger, not artistry. The crowd mutters—Shades, always Shades—but I know better. This is something human, something worse. Lira grips my arm, her nails digging in. "You're the only one who knows the old runes," she says. "You can't walk away from this."
She's right, and I hate it. The runes are my curse, a skill I learned as a sentinel, deciphering the ancient scripts carved into Velnar's ruins. They're all that's left of the civilization that stood before the Rift, before the world broke. I stand, the ash stinging my eyes, and meet Lira's gaze. "I'll find who did this," I say, more to Joren's corpse than to her. The war drums throb louder, and the mists beyond the city walls seem to pulse in answer. Something's coming, and I'm already in too deep.
The next morning, Drenvar feels heavier, like the air itself is grieving. I head to the sentinel barracks, a place I swore I'd never return. The guards at the gate sneer, but they let me pass—my name still carries weight, even if it's tarnished. Inside, Captain Vren waits, her face hard as the stone walls. She's the only one who didn't spit on me after that night, though pity's worse than scorn.
"Kaelis," she says, tossing a ledger onto her desk. "You're here about Joren. Don't pretend otherwise."
I nod, keeping my eyes on the floor. "The rune on him—it's not random. It's old, pre-Rift. I need to see the body again."
Vren's gaze sharpens. "You think this isn't Shades?"
"I know it isn't." I don't tell her about the voice, the visions. She'd lock me up for madness.
She leads me to the crypt below the barracks, where Joren's body lies on a slab. The rune's glow has faded, but its shape is unmistakable. I sketch it on a scrap of parchment, my hands shaking—not from fear, but from memory. It matches the symbols I saw in the mists that night, when my squad screamed and the world turned to ash. Vren watches me, her silence heavy. "There's been another," she says finally. "A seamstress, found at dawn. Same rune."
My stomach twists. Two in one night. This isn't a lone killer; it's a pattern. "Where?" I ask.
"Near the Rift Gate." The gate's the closest point to the wastelands, where the mists are thickest and the Shades roam. Nobody goes there unless they're desperate—or hunting.
I leave the barracks, the parchment clutched in my fist. The voice stirs again: The answers lie beyond the walls, Kaelis. I want to ignore her, to drown her in cheap ale, but Joren's empty eyes won't let me. Neither will the screams of my squad, echoing through five years of guilt. I head to the market, where whispers of the murders spread like plague. A vendor, old man Torv, grabs my sleeve as I pass. "You're chasing ghosts, Kaelis," he hisses. "Let the sentinels handle it."
"They won't," I snap. "They think it's Shades, same as everyone." But Torv's eyes flicker with something—fear, yes, but also knowledge. He knows something, and I'll be damned if I let him keep it.
I corner him behind his stall, my blade at my side but not drawn. "Talk," I say. "You've seen that rune before."
Torv's hands tremble, his voice low. "Years ago, before the war. A cult, calling themselves the Veil. They worshipped the Rift, said it held power to remake Velnar. They carved those runes… then vanished." He glances at the sky, where the Rift's jagged scar pulses faintly. "If they're back, we're all dead."
The Veil. The name sparks nothing in my memory, but the voice hums, urging me forward. I leave Torv and head for the Rift Gate, the city's edge where the mists swallow the world. The war drums are closer now, Caleth's forces massing beyond the horizon. If the Veil is real, if they're tied to the Rift, then Drenvar's not just fighting a war—it's fighting for its soul.
As I reach the gate, the mists part briefly, revealing a glint of stone in the distance—a ruin, half-buried in the ash. The voice sings, clear as a bell: There, Kaelis. The truth waits. My heart pounds, not with fear, but with something I haven't felt in years: purpose. Joren's death, the runes, the war—it's all connected. And I'm the only one who can unravel it.