Raven stood at the edge of the battlefield, the charred scent of smoke still clinging to the wind. Behind him, the remnants of another skirmish faded into silence—ashes, bones, magic scattered like broken glass. His sword dripped with silvered blood, his breath ragged, and his mind a hollow echo.
He didn't know why, but something inside him felt wrong.
The others called him commander. Strategist. Some even whispered savior. But none of it fit right on his skin. Not when he woke each night with phantom memories clawing at the edges of his thoughts. Not when dreams—of frost and flame, of a girl with eyes like storms—kept haunting him.
"Commander," said Elian, his second-in-command. "We received word from the Eastern Rift. The witches held the line. But they're asking for backup."
Raven nodded, eyes drifting to the horizon where the veil flickered faintly in the sky like a bleeding wound. "We send reinforcements. Only those who can withstand a psychic breach."
Elian hesitated. "The bond magic… it's acting up again. Some of the soldiers can't distinguish between their own thoughts and those of others."
Raven's jaw clenched. He didn't know why that particular piece of news twisted in his gut.
Later that night, as the war camp settled into uneasy rest, Raven walked the perimeter alone. Each step weighed with a strange ache in his bones. The veil pulsed above, thinner than ever. Almost like it remembered something he didn't.
He stopped by a mirror relic, its surface swirling with shadows. These ancient artifacts had begun to crack, unable to contain the strain between realms. As he looked in, something flickered.
A face.
Her face.
Not quite remembered.
Not fully gone.
Just pain shaped like a girl.
He recoiled, breath catching. And then—nothing. The image faded.
He didn't notice the figure watching him from beyond the trees. Lyra.
She had come not to speak, not to confront, but to see if he was truly lost. Her cloak wrapped tightly around her body, magic veiled, heart hammering.
Raven had no memory of her, but the moment he turned slightly—as if sensing her presence—her breath caught.
Some part of him still felt her.
But that part was buried beneath layers of broken fate and magic twisted by sacrifice.
Lyra stepped back into shadow.
She wasn't ready yet. Not to face him. Not to see the void in his eyes where their bond used to burn.
Not until she was strong enough to pull him back.
Or let him go.
Far away, in the heart of the veil, something stirred.
The ancient one was waking.
It had waited through centuries for the perfect bond.
And now, it would force their hands.
Raven's fingers twitched over the hilt of his blade, unaware of why his pulse raced.
Lyra touched the relic hidden under her cloak—the one tied to Raven's soul. It was beginning to crack.
Just like her.
And somewhere, between all the pain and silence, the bond trembled.
Not dead.
Not yet.
Just… waiting.