The quiet hiss of the dying hearth gave way to a familiar sound—the ragged, tearing shriek of the Ebonveil. Garrick bolted upright in his dream, his mind instantly trapped in a memory from two years past—a time when the black sky had already claimed half his soul.
He was standing on the battlements of the Western Frontier Fort, the salt-sweat of his body already heavy with dread. Lucan Caelis Valemont stood beside him, leaning on his staff, his smile unshakably bright.
"Siiiigggh," Lucan exaggerated a bored sigh. "Hey! Are there no monsters? I'm getting soft waiting here."
"Then find more productive ways to dull your mind," Garrick replied, his tone flat. The rare hint of amusement was absent from his voice as he swung his greatsword, Eclipsebane, through a perfect, blinding arc—a disciplined motion meant to restrain the rage simmering beneath his holy aura.
Just then, a panting soldier burst onto the wall. "Sirs! The forest of Duskveil—the creatures are scattering! They're running toward us!"
Garrick and Lucan moved to the gate, their holy power flaring to life. The scout peered out, his relief quickly turning to terror. "They're still far, but… S-sirs!"
He wasn't looking at the monsters. His gaze was fixed on the distant south, where a dark stain was spreading across the horizon.
The Ebonveil was rising again.
Lucan started to turn toward Garrick, his mouth already open to speak—but when his gaze returned, Garrick was gone.
A blur of gold, moving with impossible speed, was already halfway down the wall and running south, straight toward the encroaching purple-black fog.
"Garrick, wait!" Lucan's shout was swallowed by the wind. He grit his teeth, the worry for his brother battling his duty. He turned back to the remaining soldiers. "Protect the frontier! Hold the line until we return! That is an order!"
The soldiers saluted the last fragment of their command. Lucan hesitated for a mere breath, then cursed—and followed his brother.
The Pure White Fury.
Garrick ran with the memory of the lily garden driving him. Seren. Rowen. The cold weight of their bodies in his arms. The Veylith had taken them, and the Ebonveil had hidden the culprits. He couldn't control the rage; it was a physical force, clouding his vision, burning away his discipline.
Though his body glowed with divine light, he ran recklessly, tearing through claws and black fire that scraped his armor and drew blood. He didn't stop—not until the fog swallowed him whole.
Suddenly, he was surrounded. Not by the weak, shapeless shadows of the early days, but by humanoid Veylith—twisted, skeletal horrors that moved with cruel precision.
Garrick's golden aura exploded into pure white. A hurricane of righteous fury erupted from him, and Eclipsebane became a pillar of light. With a single, terrible swing, he cleaved through hundreds, the blow powerful enough to momentarily displace the oppressive air.
But even as the corrupted shadows dissolved into ash, the Ebonveil did not yield; it simply moved, coiling like a gigantic, living serpent.
He continued to fight, his every step seeking the eye of the storm. He killed and killed until the air ahead parted, revealing the source of the evil.
There stood a woman whose beauty was both breathtaking and terrible—her long hair a flood of midnight mist, her eyes burning with cruel promise, her hands dripping with black fire. The knowledge hit Garrick like a physical blow: Lilith, the Witch of Nightmare—a name that belonged to legend, a horror thought vanquished three hundred years ago.
From around her, drawn by her presence, came endless waves of Veylith—swarming pale horrors, shadows given flesh.
She was not floating above the ground, as the legends claimed. Her bare feet touched the earth, each step measured and graceful, the black mist curling around her ankles like living silk.
Garrick froze for only a heartbeat—just long enough for dread to bloom in his chest.
Garrick charged, but before his blade could reach her, the world shattered.
He blinked—and found himself standing in the lily garden back at his own estate. The air was fresh, the sun warm, and the birds chirped a melody of peace.
It was whole again, untouched and bright beneath the sun.
"Garrick? What are you doing standing out here with your sword?"
He turned. It was Seren. She looked exactly as he remembered—smiling softly, a question in her gentle eyes. Tears instantly flooded Garrick's eyes, a torrent of grief and relief.
"Papa!"
Rowen ran toward him, clutching a wooden sword, asking if Garrick would lift him up to the sky.
Garrick's throat tightened. He knew this wasn't real. He knew this was Lilith's illusion meant to trap him—but for a single, fragile moment, he didn't care.
For the first time in two years, there was peace.
Then—
A sudden, shattering roar of holy power ripped through the idyllic scene. The light was agony, the sound was thunder, and the garden melted away like frost under a sudden sun.
It was Lucan. He stood there, staff raised high, his entire being poured into the holy incantation that had just shattered Lilith's illusion.
But Lucan was in terrible shape. His armor was scorched, and his face was a mask of pain. The sheer number of Veylith the Witch had commanded to overwhelm Garrick while he was trapped had nearly killed his brother.
Lucan didn't wait for a greeting. His voice was ragged but firm. "Snap out of it, Garrick! You'll die just like your family! And if Seren knew this, what do you think she would say to you?"
The words were a brutal shock. Garrick released a massive surge of pure holy aura, instinctively driving back the immediate wave of Veylith. He chanted a defensive barrier, wrapping both himself and Lucan in shimmering golden light. When he looked around, the Witch of Nightmare was gone—vanished into the depths of the Ebonveil.
Garrick turned to his brother, channeling all his remaining holy power into Lucan's terrible wounds.
"Lucan, no! I'm sorry!"
Lucan stopped the flow with a weak but steady hand. "Stop, brother. Only the Saintess can lift the Veylith's curse—or the Witch herself. We, as holy knights, can only prevent it, not reverse it. Stop… you'll only hurt yourself."
He tried to smile—the old, familiar grin—but his face was too stiff with pain.
"I should be the one who charges forward, and you should be the one watching my back," Lucan whispered, his voice fading. "But I guess this time… it's different." He looked directly at Garrick.
"Lucan, no! Don't speak, you won't die!"
"No. Listen, brother. I just have one final request." His gaze was solemn, intense—the same look he wore before any desperate battle. "Protect Lyra. Take her away from that house, please."
Lucan's strength left him. His head tilted, resting heavily against the stone. The holy barrier around them began to flicker, growing weak, then silent.
But Garrick didn't stop. Desperation drove him. He placed his hands over Lucan's chest, summoning every last drop of holy power he possessed. The light burned through the fog like dawn breaking through night.
He knew the risk—every holy knight knew it. When trying to lift a curse of that depth, two fates awaited the savior.
The first: the curse would fully transfer to them, their body blackening from within. Their hair would turn dark as the night—a mark that never fades, even if the Saintess later purifies the soul.
The second: a portion of the curse's venom would root inside them—not as a curse, but as a wound that would never heal. It would slowly eat away at their strength, causing self-inflicted pain each time divine power was used. Worse still, the one they tried to save would suffer a violent surge of corruption… and die.
Garrick prayed for the first outcome. He begged to bear the curse if it meant saving Lucan.
But fate chose the second.
Lucan's body convulsed violently, the mark of corruption glowing brighter. The holy energy in Garrick's hands burned through him, pain exploding in his veins as if his soul were being torn apart. When the light finally faded, Lucan lay still—his body calm, his eyes closed, the curse having consumed what was left of him.
Garrick fell to his knees, gasping. His body trembled from the backlash. Deep inside his chest, the side effect rooted itself—a faint, invisible scar that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Every use of power from that day forward would carve agony into his soul.
---
Garrick jolted awake, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat.
He was in the small, dark cabin—not the black, suffocating air of the Ebonveil, but the cool, silent air of the night. His skin was slick with cold sweat.
The familiar, hollow terror of the oath—the final, broken promise—was a sharp weight in his chest. Protect Lyra. Take her away.
He was the one who had survived—the one who had always protected, only to be saved by the very brother he had spent a lifetime shielding. Garrick, who had always cleaned up after Lucan's recklessness, was now paralyzed by grief, for Lucan had died protecting him—their roles reversed in the end.
Garrick stirred, the weight of sleep slowly peeling away. His body ached with every small movement, and his head felt heavy, as though he had just crawled out of a long, dark dream.
When his eyes opened, the room was washed in warm amber light—evening. The faint scent of stew and herbs lingered in the air—homely, grounding, almost foreign after the nightmare.
He pushed himself up, ignoring the protest of his body, and walked to the window. Outside, the sky was calm. In the far distance, over the mountains, a faint dark shimmer—the remnants of the Ebonveil—lingered like a scar against the sunset.
His hand clenched into a fist, the holy runes etched on his wrist tingling faintly.
"I failed you once, Lucan," he thought, his eyes burning with quiet resolve. "I won't fail Lyra."
The door creaked open.
"Uncle?"
Garrick turned. Lyra stood at the doorway, holding a small lamp. Her eyes widened when she saw him awake—and standing.
"You're awake…" she breathed, relief flooding her features. Then worry quickly followed. "You shouldn't be out of bed! You've only just woken up—Kaien said you might sleep for another day."
Garrick's lips curved into a faint, weary smile. "Seems I've disappointed him."
Lyra set the lamp down on the table and approached. "Dinner's ready. You should eat before the soup gets cold. But—" she frowned, "at least sit down first."
He let out a soft chuckle and nodded. "All right."
As Lyra helped him back toward the bed, she glanced out the window. "The Ebonveil's gone," she murmured, almost as if to reassure herself.
"For now," Garrick said quietly, his gaze drifting toward the fading horizon.
"Then rest," she said, smiling faintly. "You can worry about 'for now' tomorrow."
Garrick exhaled slowly, leaning back. "Tomorrow, then," he murmured—though his eyes never left the darkening sky, where the last traces of the Ebonveil whispered of promises unkept.
---End of Chapter 10---