Night in the city of Myrrdusk was not marked by the absence of light, but by the presence of shadow.
Shadows that moved.
That watched.
The towers here leaned like they were whispering secrets to one another. Alleyways narrowed into ribcages. Fog crawled like smoke from unseen fires, and lanterns cast a dim, purple glow—lit not by flame, but arcane crystals mined from beneath the city.
Nyxira Velshade moved through the heart of it, unseen.
She didn't need to run here. Myrrdusk was her element. Its silence. Its treachery. The shifting, unpredictable lines between what was and what was only illusion.
Her hood cast a veil over her moon-pale face, and her cloak of shadow stitched itself to the night. She was seventeen—but in her eyes burned lifetimes of pain, of paranoia, of secrets gathered like blades beneath a smile.
Born of a Spirit Elve and a Dark Elf, she had no place in either world.
Not in the high crystalline temples of the light-bound tribes.
Not in the obsidian chambers beneath the mountain, where darklings whispered blood-oaths.
She was an echo of both. A daughter of dusk.
And dusk… was neither day nor night.
Her rune—a coiling spiral at the base of her spine—burned softly beneath her tunic. It had awakened on the same night her mother vanished without a trace and her father's name was erased from every ledger.
She was being hunted.
She had always been hunted.
But tonight, she was the predator.
Nyxira's hand brushed the twin daggers at her hips, their hilts wrapped in spider-silk cord. Her fingers tingled with magic—wind and shadow, both. Illusion was not her weapon. It was her language.
She arrived at the courtyard of the Sable Spire—a place she once called home. Before Vexaria.
Before the truths.
Tonight would mark her final trial.
A raven waited on the arch above, its feathers darker than ink, eyes glowing faint violet.
"Umbros," she whispered.
It cawed once. Then vanished in a blink of black mist.
She stepped forward, and the world seemed to tilt.
The shadows deepened.
And from them emerged Vexaria, her mentor—robed in gossamer dark, her silver hair flowing like liquid moonlight.
"You returned," Vexaria said, her voice like velvet drawn across a blade.
"I never left," Nyxira replied, unsheathing one dagger. "You just stopped looking."
Vexaria smiled. "You were always meant to walk between truth and lie. But to do so, you must lose everything—including your trust."
With a flick of her wrist, four shades burst from the ground—duplicates of Nyxira, drawn from her own shadow.
Each moved independently.
Each wielded her own strengths… and fears.
The test had begun.
Nyxira danced between them, blades flashing. Illusions clashed with illusions. Wind magic distorted the air, and shadows twisted reality. She fought not with brute strength, but with unpredictability—becoming smoke, then steel, then nothing at all.
She bled.
She screamed.
But she learned.
And as she stood at the edge of collapse, a voice echoed—not Vexaria's, not Umbros'—but one born from within.
"You fear what you are. Embrace it… and see."
Her rune flared.
And so did her vision.
The illusions shattered—not with force, but clarity. She saw their flaws, their patterns, their mirrored half-truths. With a single breath, she became invisible—not cloaked, but absent, her presence erased from the senses.
One by one, she dismantled her shadows.
Not with hate.
With understanding.
The final shade—herself, broken and trembling—met her gaze.
And vanished, smiling.
Vexaria bowed. "You walk the Veil now, child. You are more than real. You are the possibility."
From the fog, Umbros returned, wings wide.
The raven alighted on her shoulder.
And in that moment, the bond was sealed.
Wind coiled around her like a lover's breath. Shadow curled at her feet like a faithful hound.
She was no longer alone.
Far in the east, a serpent slid beneath stone.
Far in the north, a wolf howled to the frost.
And far above them all, a phoenix cut through flame and sky.
The children of the prophecy had awakened.
But the world… was just beginning to sleep.