Rain poured through the shattered remnants of the Grand Hall’s once-proud stained glass

  ceiling, now nothing more than jagged, colorful teeth framing the gray sky. Zin’kael Vaerra

  gasped for air, Thorne’s hand clenched tight around her throat, lifting her from the blood-slicked

  floor. Her boots kicked against the stones, slipping, finding no purchase.

  Above them, the shrieking began again.

  Zin’s eyes widened as she turned her head upward, choking on the rain and pain. High above, a

  black mass unfurled in the sky like a wound splitting the heavens. The portal tore wider, its edges

  jagged with violet lightning. Wind whipped through the Grand Hall as a pulse of dark energy

  surged from the rift, slamming into both Zin and Thorne and sending them sprawling in

  opposite directions.

  She hit the ground hard, rolled once, coughed up blood, and scrambled to her feet. Thorne rose

  as well, teeth bared, blood trickling from a new gash across his brow.

  From the gaping sky-wound came the shapes—smoke-formed steeds, obsidian-eyed and silent,

  ridden by armored soldiers cloaked in living shadow. They poured out of the portal like a flood,

  descending upon Vaeltharyn.

  Zin’s blade was in one hand, a flickering sphere of spell-light coiled in the other. Her lip curled.

  “What the fuck have you done, Thorne?”

  Thorne chuckled, wiping blood from his mouth. “My master is here.”

  Zin snorted, raising her sword. “Knew it. You were always just a lapdog in council robes.”

  That made him snarl.

  Thorne charged. Zin met him with a guttural shout, steel screaming against steel. Their blades

  collided in a shower of sparks and runes, the force of the blow sending reverberations through

  their arms. Thorne ducked a riposte, blasting Zin with a concussive burst of dark magic. She flew

  back, crashing into a crumbled column.

  She rose, bleeding from her scalp, eyes glowing blue. With a snap of her fingers, she sent a spiral

  of flame spinning toward Thorne. He countered with a wall of corrupted energy, the flames

  dissipating against it as he dove in, fists swinging.

  They fought like titans—blade to blade, then magic to magic, then hand to hand. Zin cracked a

  knee into Thorne’s ribs; he answered with an elbow to her cheek. Lightning arced through the

  hall as Zin screamed an incantation, forcing Thorne back—only for him to grab a loose stone

  and hurl it at her head. It clipped her shoulder. She howled and struck him with an upward slash

  that left a burning gash down his side.

  “You think you can stop this?” Thorne hissed, panting, blood soaking through his robes.

  “I don’t need to stop it,” she snapped. “Just you.”

  With a roar, she tackled him, their bodies crashing through rubble. She rose first, her arms

  trembling, and grabbed a broken chunk of pillar. With a grunt of pure fury, she slammed it

  against his bald head. And then again.

  Thorne let out a strangled cry and crumpled beneath her. His face now bore a grotesque dent,

  blood matting the side of his skull, one eye nearly shut.

  Greeb and Tulli, just entering the hall, froze in horror and awe. Behind them, the shadows of the

  invasion grew longer.

  Zin stood above Thorne, bloodied, hair tangled, her breath ragged. She raised a fallen blade—one

  meant to finish what the chunk of pillar had started.

  And that’s when they arrived.

  Thorne wheezed, his one good eye glaring up at her. The other was swollen shut, blood caking

  half his face from where she’d smashed the pillar shard across his skull.

  And yet… he smiled.

  There was a soft thud behind her. Then another. And another.

  Zin froze.

  Three figures had landed from the looming portal, with uncanny grace in the center of the

  shattered hall. Shadows clung to them unnaturally, bending around their forms as though afraid

  to let them go. The portal above still pulsed, its edges crackling like torn fabric resisting repair,

  but these three—they belonged to it.

  The one in the center stood tall, wrapped in blackened armor etched with runes that seemed to

  shimmer in the gloom. His face was hidden by a visorless mask, carved into the cruel shape of a

  sneering beast. His very presence seemed to twist the air, pressing down like a nightmare

  pressing into a sleeper’s chest.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  To his left, a woman—taller than any Zin had seen—with glistening brown skin and a warrior’s

  poise. Her body was carved like living sculpture, all muscle and poise, wearing crimson-wrapped

  armor that had seen battle, and won. A massive double-bladed glaive rested on her back.

  To the right, something far more unsettling: a figure draped in motley garb, hunched but agile,

  covered in bells and sashes of frayed fabric. Like a jester. His face was smeared in warpaint or

  blood—or both.

  He tilted his head and giggled, fingers twitching as though longing to pluck the strings of some

  terrible instrument.

  Thorne, bruised and laughing now, muttered, “You’re late.”

  Zin spun to face them, sword still drawn, but the raw fury that had filled her was now tempered

  with calculation.

  “So,” she said, voice hoarse but defiant, “this is your master, Thorne? The one you betrayed your

  nation for?”

  The central figure took a single step forward. The air around him shimmered like heat off

  obsidian. And from beneath his mask, a voice came; not booming, not monstrous, but calm.

  Too calm.

  “Yes. I am the end your world feared... and the beginning it denied.”

  The ground trembled slightly beneath their feet. Distant screams rang out across the city.

  Zin held her ground. “And what are we supposed to call you?”

  The jester twirled with a shrill laugh. “He has many names! I call him Daddy Soot!”

  The muscular woman just folded her arms and said nothing, her eyes locked on Zin like she was

  sizing up a worthy opponent—or prey.

  Greeb’s knuckles tightened around the hilt of his stolen hammer, bloodied from earlier fights but

  still firm in his grip. His eyes locked onto Zin’kael—bloodied, panting, defiant—her lone figure

  standing against the triad and the nightmare beasts pouring from the portal above.

  “We have to help her,” he said, voice cracking.

  Tulli didn’t answer at first. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. Her eyes weren’t cold—but they

  were steady. Sad. “Greeb… look at them.”

  The sky was gone—only a swirling rift of black mist and stormlight filled the shattered ceiling of

  the Grand Hall. From it, the shadows of monstrous steeds and armored horrors descended like

  nightmares solidifying in the rain.

  “What do you want?” Zin shouted, breathless but unyielding.

  The man in the center stepped forward—not Thorne, not the jester, not the warrior woman. The

  Master. His voice was smooth, like oil and silk and rot.

  “Everything,” he said. “All of Vaeltharyn. And beyond.”

  The shadows behind him writhed, as if the world itself recoiled at his words.

  “You could spare yourself the pain,” he offered, arms wide. “You have power. Depth. Fire. Come

  stand at our side, Zin’kael Vaerra. Be something more than a dying flame.”

  Zin spat blood to the floor. Her eyes narrowed. “I always knew Thorne was just a mutt. But you?

  You want a queen who bites?”

  With a howl, she hurled a torrent of flame from her left palm while charging with her blade in

  her right. Magic cracked the air, warping it around her as she moved.

  She was met by force.

  The muscular woman slammed into her, absorbing the blast like a living shield. Sparks and flame

  danced across her armored skin as she roared and forced Zin back with a blow that sent her

  tumbling.

  Then the jester descended—cackling, flipping, landing on Zin’s back and pinning her down with

  inhuman flexibility. He sang something wordless as he struck her—slaps, punches, jolts of dark

  energy that made her body spasm. Zin roared, trying to claw back at them, but she was

  outmatched.

  “Greeb—” Tulli’s voice was hoarse now. “We need to go. The Alerion is our last hope. The High

  Elder said—”

  “I know,” he whispered. His eyes were wet. “I know.”

  They watched one more moment as Zin’s screams rang out—defiant, pained, refusing to break.

  Then Tulli turned, pulling him with her. Greeb didn’t resist.

  As they slipped into the burning corridors of Solsthenar, the Grand Hall behind them echoed

  with Zin’s cries of pain, her voice slowly dying out. The sky above the ruined city turned dark as

  soot.

  And behind them, Zin’kael Vaerra remained unyielding — even as darkness claimed the sky.

  * * *

  The goblins ran.

  Down cracked stone corridors, the scent of smoke and blood curling like serpents around their

  ankles. Tulli kept her head low, hair sticking to her face, one hand tight around the satchel that

  now held the Alerion, the other tugging Greeb along. Behind them, the hall fell into shadow. The

  skies above cracked and roared, coughing ash and lightning into the ruin of Solsthenar’s heart.

  They didn’t look back.

  Not even when Zin'kael screamed.

  Not even when something ancient answered.

  Outside, the once-golden banners of the High Court lay trampled in mud. Statues of scholars

  and warriors, shattered. What remained of the resistance—bloodied, scattered—was retreating to

  the deeper tunnels. The darkness that had entered Vaeltharyn was not one of war alone. It was

  conquest. It was corruption. It was the kind that fed on hope and silenced songs.

  Greeb stopped only once, his eyes wet and furious.

  “She’s still fighting,” he whispered. “Zin’s still—”

  “She bought us this chance,” Tulli said. “We don’t waste it. The Veilborn must be found. That was

  the Elder’s last command.”

  Greeb and Tulli made it to their destination breathless, and stumbled through the wreckage of

  Druvnakh, their home, now a graveyard of memories. The village—once bustling with life—was

  nothing more than charred ruins. The distant echoes of battles still carried on the wind, mingled

  with the cries of those caught in the wake of destruction.

  As they moved through the wreckage, calling for friends, for family, their voices barely made an

  impact. No one answered.

  “Oh Gods. This isn’t good.” Tulli muttered, her eyes scanning the devastation. The wind carried

  the scent of burning wood and something worse—something foul.

  Before they could process the gravity of the situation, a hand shot out from the shadows,

  grabbing them both and pulling them into the dirt.

  “Down!” a voice hissed.

  They tumbled into a narrow underground passage, their bodies hitting the cold, damp earth. The

  pungent smell of mildew and fear filled their lungs as they scrambled to their feet.

  In the flickering light of the underground shelter, the faces of their fellow villagers came into

  focus—goblins, Vaels, ogres, and other races, huddled together in fear. The makeshift fallout

  shelter was cramped but spacious enough to fit the survivors. Still, the air felt thick with the

  weight of loss.

  And there, in the corner, was Grandma Pigsnout, her tusked smile a welcome sight despite the

  somber atmosphere.

  “Grandma!” Tulli cried, rushing to her. “Are you okay? Where is everyone?”

  Grandma Pigsnout’s eyes darkened, but she remained composed. “A lot didn’t make it, Tulli.

  Some were taken. But... we’re here. And that’s what matters.”

  Greeb clenched his fists, trying to hold back tears. “This can’t be happening...”

  The old goblin matriarch placed a gnarled hand on his shoulder. “We fight, Greeb. Always.”

  They sat together, sharing what they witnessed, the murmurs of the other survivors surrounding

  them like a low, mournful hum. Then, after a long pause, Tulli turned to Grandma Pigsnout, her

  curiosity pushing her forward. “Grandma... the Hevel’dan...he talked about a prophecy. The one

  about the Chosen Ones. What did he mean?”

  Grandma Pigsnout’s gaze sharpened as she leaned in closer. She spoke in a low, almost

  conspiratorial tone, ensuring the others wouldn’t overhear. “The prophecy,” she said slowly, “it’s a

  thread that ties together the fate of every world. It speaks of a time when the Veil will collapse—

  when darkness will spill across all the realms, and only those born of fractured worlds and with

  fractured minds can hold it back. It says that the Veilborn... the ones chosen by the worlds

  themselves... are the only hope left.”

  She paused, the weight of her words sinking in. “The High Elder must have believed the time had

  come. I trust his instincts. We used to work together in my better years. Poor boy.”

  Greeb exchanged a glance with Tulli. They had always known they were part of something

  bigger, but this? This was beyond their comprehension.

  “And what does that mean for us, Grandma?” Tulli asked, her voice shaky. “What do we do

  now?”

  Grandma Pigsnout gave a weary sigh. “We do what we must. The Alerion might is the key. It

  always has been. It can show you the Veilborn. But you’ll need to be careful.”

  Greeb nodded, glancing down at the Alerion, which had been safely shrunk in his hands. “The

  High Elder said it would help us...”

  Tulli’s gaze shifted to the Alerion, a flicker of worry crossing her face. “It looks... damaged?,” she

  observed quietly.

  Greeb’s heart skipped a beat. They waited until the device turned normal in size, and Greeb’s

  hands trembled as he examined the surface. Small dents and scratches marred its once-perfect

  form. The delicate engravings were scuffed, and the once-glowing pulse of power now flickered

  weakly.

  “What happened?” Greeb asked, his voice hoarse. “This wasn’t like this when we left—how did it

  get damaged?”

  “I don’t know,” Tulli muttered, inspecting the device. “We did get thrown around a lot. But... we

  can't afford to lose this. It’s all we have left.”

  Grandma Pigsnout studied the device with a discerning eye, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s

  not beyond repair,” she said, though there was no disguising the sadness in her voice. “But it’ll

  take time to fix. We’ll make do. For now, we focus on surviving.”

  They both nodded, though the pit in their stomachs only grew. They had just lost so much—and

  now the weight of their responsibility felt even heavier. The outside world was still in chaos, and

  the hope that had been sparked in them by the Alerion felt much more fragile now.

  The battle raged on above them. They could hear the distant cries of soldiers, the clashing of

  steel, the heavy drumbeat of war.

  Greeb and Tulli exchanged a silent look, knowing the time for action was fast approaching. But

  they didn’t know how much longer they could hold on, not with everything they had left to lose.

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  Kibby woke with a start, groggy and disoriented. The apartment felt cold, too quiet. Her eyes

  scanned the room. She had been waiting, hoping, but now that hope felt hollow.

  Zin was gone. No note. No trace.

  The weight of the silence hit her harder than she expected. She stood, numb, her fingers brushing

  over the books, the scattered papers, the things they had shared. All of it seemed so insignificant

  now.

  Kibby walked slowly toward the door, pausing for a moment before stepping into the hallway.

  "It’s my fault," she whispered to herself, the words tasting bitter. "If I hadn’t found that book... if I

  hadn’t..." She couldn’t finish the thought.

  She stepped outside, the cool air biting at her skin. The city beyond seemed so distant now. The

  world, once familiar, felt foreign.

  Kibby stood there for a long moment, unsure of what to do next. Every step forward felt like a

  step further away from the life she once knew. And in the back of her mind, she couldn't shake

  the fear that Zin wasn’t coming back.

  Not this time.

  * * *