The silence of the Chamber was not silence at all. It breathed.
Not loudly, not even as whisper—but as a presence. The kind Kael had come to recognize: ancient, buried, yet pressing at the edges of perception. The stone arches trembled with old power. His boots echoed against the floor like false confidence, the same floor he'd crossed weeks before with wide eyes and a spine full of uncertainty.
Now… there was purpose in his step. Doubt remained, yes—but doubt tempered by weight. By knowing.
The black-veined pillar loomed at the far end of the chamber, and Kael approached it alone. Even the guards posted at the entryway hadn't stirred as he'd passed, lost in some trance—or perhaps, the pillar willed them blind to him.
He laid his hand against the stone, as he had before.
This time, it breathed back.
"Kael."
Not spoken. Not audible. Not from outside.
It was in him.
The breath of the Veil curled into his lungs, sharp with ice and memory. Visions flickered across his eyes:
A battlefield half-swallowed in shadow.A younger version of Whitmer, screaming into the dark, his blade coated with blood not his own.A child wrapped in ash, carried by a woman in gray.
"What am I seeing?" Kael whispered aloud.
"Truth buried. Truth bound."
His knees buckled, but he didn't fall. Tenebris rose to catch him—an embrace not of comfort, but of recognition.
The coin in his pocket pulsed once—bright. Brief.
And then the whisper changed.
"She was the last who knew."
Kael blinked hard. The vision focused.
Eline.
Not as she was—but younger. Not more innocent—more resolute. She stood beside Ser Whitmer, shadows swirling behind her, her eyes lit not by magic, but by something deeper.
Understanding.
Kael emerged an hour later, his face pale, eyes dark-circled. The air bit cold, though the sun was high.
Atop the high training yard, Bran waited. His cloak was torn at the hem. Dust and dried blood lingered across one sleeve.
Kael didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Bran offered a quiet nod. "They knew we were coming."
Kael's stomach twisted. "Cultists?"
Bran shook his head. "Worse. Gloamkin that weren't feral."
Kael's blood ran cold.
That was new.
Bran stepped closer, voice low. "One of them looked straight at me and said: 'Tell the Veilblood we remember him.'"
Kael couldn't reply. His mouth had gone dry.
Later that day, Kael found her in the Archives—alone, in the oldest chamber where the paper smelled of candle ash and forgotten ink. She wasn't reading. Just staring at an old parchment laid flat across the table, half-faded.
She didn't look up when he entered.
Still, she said, "You shouldn't be here."
He didn't answer. Instead, he moved to the opposite end of the long table, not quite facing her.
"I know what you saw in the stone," she said finally.
Kael blinked. "Do you?"
Eline turned a page. Her hand trembled. Just once. "They told me I'd have to watch you. Guide you. Stop you, if—" She stopped.
Kael stepped closer.
"You were always watching," he said softly.
She looked up, at last.
"It wasn't always about orders," she said.
It wasn't a confession.
It wasn't denial.
The dream was deeper than any before.
Kael stood in a forest of white trees—each branch coated with hanging strips of dark silk. They moved without wind. The moon above him was black, and yet everything glowed with silver-blue light.
He stepped forward.
The trees whispered.
"The Veil did not fall. It was betrayed."
"The Veilbound did not die. They were scattered."
"You are not the first… but you may be the last."
Then a shape stepped from behind a tree—his own shadow. But its eyes were Tenebris's. Its voice was not his own.
"Will you serve… or sever?"
Kael turned to answer—
But woke, heart racing, throat dry, the coin in his hand burning hot.