The Verdant Sanctum breathed with arcana so old it had soaked into every stone, every shadow, but tonight it breathed uneven. Vareth stilled, his breath catching. He recognized the pattern instantly; the ancient protections easing apart as if coaxed by a practiced hand, their unraveling deliberate, methodical and unmistakably skilled. Only a Magus of great discipline could move that cleanly through such ancient wards.
He touched the ring at his hand, the metal cool against his knuckle. His robes whispered with movement, the embedded runes glinting in the half-light. The stairwell curved ahead, and with it, the air thickened. Magic clung to the walls here, bound by generations, too deep for time to unmake, but something stirred beneath it, something that frayed at the edges.
He narrowed his thoughts. His hand traced a precise motion in the air, a call to the Veil. The answer came in ripples.
He moved past the towering pillars of the Grand Hall, their carved inscriptions catching the dim light, past the sealed doors of the Archivium, where knowledge older than kingdoms rested in silence. The runes etched into the stone flickered as he passed. The magic swelled in the lower chambers, dense enough to shimmer in the air, yet even here, something had shifted.
He heard a sound, barely more than a breath.
Vareth stopped at the base of the stairwell. The shadows thickened, unnatural in their stillness, closing in around a figure that did not belong. He was tall and cloaked in darkness, his presence as seamless as the silence he carried with him, each step deliberate and measured.
He didn’t need to see the face. The memory returned before the light could confirm it.
Vareth broke the silence first. "You are either arrogant beyond reason or desperate beyond measure." He raised his chin, his stance unwavering. "I felt you before I saw you. Perhaps you are losing your subtlety."
The voice that answered him was smooth and precise. "Or perhaps you are finally listening." The words hung in the air, the silence stretching around them.
“I see you are still reaching for power that is not yours to take, Kaelor."
The silence deepened, broken only by the faintest ripple in the air. Kaelor tilted his head, as if listening to something beyond reach.
“And you are still guarding it.” He answered.
Vareth held still, inevitability pressing against him. The veil had whispered of this moment long before Kaelor arrived. It had taken form long before Kaelor spoke, before his footsteps carried him into the Sanctum, before his hands closed around the Drakthyr and hung the ancient relic on his neck, but knowing did not make it easier to bear.
"Somewhere," Vareth said at last, his voice quieter now, the weight of it settling, "I failed you."
Kaelor stood still, his face betraying nothing. Then he turned to face Vareth, the corners of his lips curving, slow and cold.
"No." Kaelor stepped closer, the distance between them now measured in heartbeats. “You shaped me into something sharp. A weapon. And when I was finally strong enough to ask why,” His expression remained empty, unreadable, but his words coiled tighter with each breath. “you had no answer.”
Vareth watched in silence, his eyes tracing the edges of a face he no longer knew. The boy he had raised, the one he had believed in, was gone. Something cold settled in his chest, quiet and final. Vareth let out a slow breath. “You were never meant to be a weapon.”
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Kaelor’s fingers ghosted over the artifact around his neck, reverent in their touch. The metal pulsed with faint crimson light, reflecting in the silver of his eyes. "Then you should not have sharpened the blade."
Vareth swallowed, bitterness thick on his tongue. He had seen the shape of Kaelor’s mind, his hunger for understanding, the way he absorbed knowledge like dry wood drinking oil. He had pushed him harder than most—not from cruelty, but because he had seen what Kaelor could become if left unchecked.
Kaelor raised his head, his gaze settling with unbreakable intent. But beneath the certainty, something flickered—something older, just for an instant. It was the same look he had seen in the boy who once stood before him, untouched by war, unshaped by vengeance, and unburdened by what he would become. Then it was gone, buried beneath the weight of certainty. "I know now this was always my path, Master," He exhaled, slower this time. His fingers curled tighter around the artifact. "It was always going to come to this. You were always going to stand in my way, and I was always going to step past you."
Vareth drew a breath.
"Then you must also know," he said, voice quiet but weighted with finality, "that this ends as it always does."
Kaelor exhaled, slow and unbothered.
“Yes.” His words relaxed. “But not tonight.”
Vareth braced himself, feet steadied firm against the stone. His fingers cut through the air with precision, tracing sigils in sharp ribbons of blue light. A rune of veyl’arcanis formed, magic woven into existence with structure, shaped with discipline, honed to a singular purpose.
Vareth moved too late. Kaelor lifted a hand, and the air collapsed inward, shuddering beneath a force stripped of all form. No runes marked its birth. No syllables gave it shape. The Veil screamed—but Vareth steadied. He knew this magic. The Unbound Tongue. The heresy born of will unshaped, unrestrained. A bitter scent flooded the air.
The weight of it collapsed inward, until the air snapped and a burst of raw power tore through the space, surging outward in waves, crashing through the walls like an unbound tidal force. Cracks spiderwebbed through the pillars. Stone groaned, splintering under the weight of unraveling magic. The foundations of the Verdant Sanctum shifted as fire and shadow collided in the air.
The blast hit like a hammer. Vareth slammed into the unyielding stone, pain splintering through his ribs. Bricks and dust rained down, choking the air. His senses stirred and for a brief, breathless moment, all was still.
He strained beneath the wreckage, coughing against the dust. Every limb ached. Pain lanced through his body as he shifted, but his gaze locked onto Kaelor—nothing else remained. He was untouched, unbothered, the silver specks in his eyes catching the flickering light of the flames around. The ruins framed him, ash curling in slow spirals.
He drew in a breath, slow and deliberate. A whisper of veyl’arcanis left his lips and he traced a sigil into the air. Shadows curled around him, folding inward and collapsing into nothing. Kaelor stood motionless amid the ruin, his gaze fixed on the man who had once been his master. Dust clung to his robes, streaked his face, settled into the lines of his skin. The ashes of the place Vareth had spent his life protecting—the place where the Magi had shaped the course of empires, where kings had once knelt for wisdom, where the veil itself had been watched for centuries was now reduced to silence and dust.
“I will never bow again. Not to kings. Not to your order. Not even to the veil itself. I will break these chains, and I will break the ones you have wrapped around this world. Drakthyr will serve me now."
Vareth sighed, slow and steady, his voice without anger, only quiet certainty. "Drakthyr does not serve, Kaelor. It will not free you. It devours. It always has."
Kaelor smiled. “Then let it try.” A final whisper of veyl’arcanis left his lips. The shadows curled around him, folding inward, and then he was gone.
The Verdant Sanctum trembled. Its sigils flickered, ancient protections groaning. His breath left him in silence, swallowed by the hush. Drakthyr was no longer a relic buried in time, no longer a wound forgotten beneath the weight of ancient protections. Vareth did not move, did not break beneath the moment. Yet something settled deep within him, heavier than regret, more certain than fear.
The world would bear the weight of this night soon enough, and when it did, Vareth would be there to meet it.
“So be it,” he whispered. “This was always just the beginning.”
