Lysander was falling.
No air. No sky. No end.
Just the abyss swallowing him whole.
He twisted mid-air, panic gnawing at his gut. The temple—gone. The shattered statues—gone. Only the void stretched around him, endless and indifferent.
Then—fractures.
Cracks splintered through the abyss, glowing with a pulsing light. The same rhythm as the mark on his hand.
His breath caught.
Reflections—hundreds of them—floated inside the fractures. All of them were him.
But none were falling.
One stood at the threshold of a great city, drenched in rain.
One knelt before a ruined throne, blood dripping from his fingers.
One sat alone, somewhere Lysander had never seen—but somehow knew.
Déjà vu coiled around his throat like a vice.
"I've been here before."
But before what?
The mark on his hand burned. The fractures flickered—then snapped shut.
And then—impact.
Lysander's back slammed against solid ground. The world did not welcome him gently.
He gasped, vision swimming. The air was thick, thrumming with an unseen energy that pressed against his skin.
The sky above him was wrong.
Stars hung in the abyss, but they didn't shine. They bled—shifting like liquid, warping as if the universe itself was unfinished. The horizon bent at impossible angles, stretching, curving, refusing to settle.
This place was unfinished.
Unwritten.
The whispers returned—not words, but meanings. Half-formed thoughts. Fragments of something vast.
His mark throbbed.
Something stirred.
Not watching. Aware.
A shadow descended.
Lysander's pulse staggered.
A figure landed ahead. Silent. Unmoving.
Tattered cloth wrapped its form, faceless but not formless. Its entire being flickered in and out of existence—like a thought that hadn't yet solidified.
It held a weapon.
A veilwoven blade, shifting between states of being. There. Not there.
Then—it attacked.
Lysander barely had time to react. He staggered back as the blade tore through the air itself.
"What the hell?! It even attacks now?!"
He scrambled for distance, breath sharp, but the figure closed the gap instantly.
"What do you want from me?! Answer me!"
The figure did not answer.
It only struck again.
Lysander moved—not by choice.
His body jerked sideways, barely dodging the attack. His heart slammed against his ribs.
That wasn't him.
The mark had moved first.
"No—"
The blade came again. The figure did not fight like a person. It fought like a concept—instant, fluid, absolute.
Lysander gritted his teeth. It only knows wide swings.
That means—if I close in—
He lunged forward, twisting—
Too late.
The blade shifted mid-swing.
It did not remain a weapon. It became an extension of the figure's arm, warping toward his skull.
Death was inches away.
Lysander let go.
Not his grip—his instincts.
He surrendered. And the moment he did—something rushed through him.
The Veil did not just move him. It filled him.
His muscles coiled, twisted, moved before he thought.
His body was no longer his own.
He flipped—barely escaping death. His feet found the ground unnaturally fast.
His mark bled light.
No—not just light. Something more.
Lysander clenched his fist. Fought for control.
But the Veil did not release him.
The figure attacked again.
And this time, his body did not wait.
A blade formed from his mark.
Not steel. Not light. Something in between.
Lysander's mind reeled.
His body moved on its own, dodging, countering, striking with unnatural precision. His hand swung—the veilwoven blade meeting the figure's own.
For the first time, the figure stepped back.
But Lysander wasn't in control.
"No. No—STOP!"
He fought back. Forced himself to take back control—
His mind snapped back into place.
His body froze.
The figure's blade was already there.
Too late to dodge.
But the strike never landed.
The figure was gone.
Erased.
As if it had never existed.
Lysander stood there, breath ragged, his mark still pulsing.
The Veil had given him power.
But it had taken something, too.
The world shifted. The ground rippled.
And then—
Lysander collapsed.