Lysander stumbled forward. His body was exhausted, but something inside him refused to rest. It was as if his consciousness was not entirely his own.
Arthur moved ahead with purpose, his pace swift, his eyes scanning their surroundings. The landscape wasn't right. It wasn't where they had been before.
"Keep moving, kid." Arthur's voice was steady but urgent.
Lysander's mark pulsed. He glanced at his hand—it was still glowing faintly, as if responding to something unseen.
"Arthur—where are we?"
"Not where we were before," Arthur muttered. "The Veil doesn't let people leave cleanly."
"So where are we now?"
"Somewhere safer. For now."
The air thickened. Not like humidity—more like weight. Like something was pressing against them from every direction.
Lysander's vision flickered. For a moment, Arthur was farther away than he should have been. Then, in an instant, he was back.
"It's not just a mark." Lysander swallowed, his throat dry. "It's still inside me."
Arthur didn't reply immediately. He exhaled, rubbing his temples.
"The first few days are the worst."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you'll see things you shouldn't. Hear things that aren't there. Feel things that don't exist."
Arthur stopped walking and turned to face him, his expression serious.
"Listen to me, kid. The Veil is not just a place. It is a will. It wants something from you."
Lysander felt something coil inside him.
"And if you don't learn to resist it, it will take you completely."
A hollow chill spread through his bones.
They set up camp near the cliffs, the fire flickering uneasily.
Arthur sat down, resting his sword beside him. Then, he sang.
It wasn't just a song—it was something older. Something echoing from forgotten ages.
Arthur's Song:
In days of old, the gods held reign,
Their mighty hands upon the chain,
They ruled the skies, the earth, the sea,
And all did bow to their decree.
But 'midst the heavens, one did yearn,
For freedom's spark, for no return—
Zephyr, wild, with wings of flame,
Sought to break the gods' cruel claim.
Oh, Zephyr, wind so free,
Flee from chains none can see!
For gods may bind, but hearts may break,
And none shall stand when earth does quake.
Yet there was more, beyond the light,
A shadow born from endless night,
Lysander, marked by fate's cruel hand,
A mortal soul, yet ever grand.
Not of the gods, nor bound by law,
He stood where none had ever saw—
For in his heart, the Veil did stir,
A force unknown, a whispered blur.
Oh, Lysander, soul unbound,
What is it you have truly found?
Not gods, nor man, nor sky, nor earth—
But something dark, of ancient birth.
The gods above did speak in fear,
Of Zephyr's flight and Lysander near,
For not all things can be foretold,
And some things rise that none can hold.
The Veil was not a god to serve,
It whispered of an ancient curve,
A secret deep beyond the light,
That gods could never dream to fight.
The gods will fall, and mortals rise,
For power shifts in darkened skies,
And in the depths where none may see,
The Unbound roam forever free.
Zephyr flies, and Lysander stands,
Marked by something none understands.
And the Veil, so ancient, so unknown,
Shall claim its place upon the throne.
Lysander's fingers curled into his palm.
"You're saying I'm… what? Cursed?"
Arthur gazed into the fire.
"No. I'm saying you are something the gods fear."
Lysander shuddered.
Then—the wind stopped.
Arthur's entire posture changed.
Lysander didn't even have time to ask.
A voice called his name.
Not from one direction. Not from the trees.
From everywhere.
Arthur's grip tightened on his sword.
"We need to move. Now."
"What? Who is that?"
Arthur's face was grim.
"It's not a 'who.' It's a 'what.'"
Lysander felt his mark pulse violently.
Then—Arthur raised his hand.
He whispered something under his breath.
The wind howled, forming a barrier around them.
But the voice didn't stop.
The barrier shuddered.
The fire flickered—and went out.
Something was here.