For the first time in years, Veyrion hesitated.
Her bare feet touched the wet cobblestones without a sound. No splash, no weight. She moved like a memory—too soft, too silent, too impossible.
The woman who stepped out from the cursed carriage wore a flowing robe of deep violet, patterned with silver-threaded glyphs that twisted and shimmered like serpents when they caught the moonlight. Her skin was smooth, unblemished, with the ethereal sheen of something not entirely living. But it was her eyes—those violet, star-split eyes—that rooted Veyrion in place.
Her name slipped through his clenched teeth like a curse.
"…Aelira."
The guards on the wall looked on, too far to hear, but close enough to feel the tension shift—like the moment before a blade is drawn.
Aelira tilted her head. That same mocking smile played on her lips, a smile that once promised secrets and warmth, now promising only war. "Still watching gates, Veyrion? I thought you'd be dead by now. Or drunk."
He didn't blink. "I was both last night."
"You always did multitask well."
Her eyes scanned him like they used to—back when they stood side by side, before betrayal, before blood.
Veyrion's voice was flat. "Why are you here?"
Aelira stepped forward. He didn't move, though his grip tightened around his blade.
"To finish what we started."
"You mean the war you helped ignite?"
"I mean the truth you helped bury."
The world tilted then—not physically, but spiritually. Aelira raised her hand, palm open, and whispered something in a language older than the kingdom itself. The dead horses twitched. Joints cracked. Their heads slowly turned toward the gate, eyes glowing red now, full of unnatural awareness.
The soldiers atop the wall readied their bows.
Veyrion raised one hand without turning. "Stand down."
"But sir—!"
"I said stand down."
The undead beasts did not attack. They just watched.
Like her.
"You're still blocking it, aren't you?" she asked, looking at his chest now. "The mana. The core. You haven't awakened it yet."
"Don't need it," he replied.
She smiled wider, and something cracked in the air. "You will."
The runes on the wall began to pulse—responding not to her, but to him. Veyrion's eye flared golden. His mind accelerated, tracing hundreds of possible outcomes, dissecting her posture, the tone of her voice, the curve of her fingers. All calculations confirmed one truth:
She wasn't here to fight. Yet.
"You came through the gate without being seen. That carriage moved without force. That means someone from inside let you in," Veyrion muttered, mostly to himself. "Which means this kingdom has a leak… a big one."
She shrugged. "Your kingdom's always been broken. I'm just the one pointing at the cracks."
"You always did talk in riddles."
"And you always pretended not to understand them."
Then she turned. Walked slowly back into the carriage.
"Wait," Veyrion said.
She paused at the doorway.
"…Did you kill them?" he asked, gesturing toward the horses. "The guards? The driver?"
Her voice floated back, still soft. "No. I merely freed them."
The door shut. The wheels began to turn again—slow, steady, without aid. This time, the caravan moved away from the city, vanishing into the fog like it had never existed.
But it had.
And it left the taste of death behind.
To be continued…