Ophelia's Point of View
The pain in my body hadn't faded, but the fire in my spirit had only grown.
That night, I wandered the temple's quieter halls in silence, cradling my bruised arm and listening to the echo of my own footsteps. Horace padded beside me, silent as a shadow, his golden eyes flicking toward every doorway.
I didn't know what I was looking for.
Only that something was pulling me deeper.
And then—I heard voices.
Muffled. Urgent. Coming from beyond the wooden archway of the SanctumChamber, where only high priests and select scholars were allowed after dark.
I pressed myself against the wall and listened, heart steady.
"…you felt it too, didn't you?" said a raspy voice. "The darkness clinging to the boy. It's grown thicker. Hungrier."
"You shouldn't call him a boy," another voice replied tightly. "He's the Crown Prince of Yeneva. Speaking of him that way is treason."
"Oh please," the first scoffed. "Treason? Open your eyes. The royal family has been covering this for years. Every high seer that's ever examined the prince has vanished, fallen ill, or changed their testimony. Doesn't that strike you as… convenient?"
A heavy silence.
Then the second voice spoke again—lower now.
"There were rumors. That when the prince was born, a fragment of the dark veil slipped through during the eclipse. A celestial misalignment. Something old... touched him."
"Touched him?" the first hissed. "The child was marked. And the archives—those buried scrolls in the RoyalRecordWing —they mention it. The Black Seal of Elnir. But no one dares speak of it now. The Queen herself forbade even whispering the word 'curse'."
My breath caught.
A curse? From the veil?
Could this be part of the imbalance?
My hands clenched tightly around the fabric of my sleeve.
"His condition is getting worse," one of the priests muttered. "He hides it well, but I've seen it. The way his shadow stretches wrong at dusk. The way his eyes change when no one else is looking."
A chair scraped against the floor. "You're playing with death by speaking this aloud. If anyone finds out, you'll end up like the others."
A beat of silence.
Then the first priest said darkly, "If the darkness consumes the prince completely… it won't just be the royal line that ends. Yeneva may fall with him."
They began to move. I stepped back, retreating into the side hallway with Horace slipping behind me. We ducked behind the thick velvet curtain of the stairwell as the chamber doors opened and two robed figures passed.
Their faces were unreadable.
But I would never forget their words.
I crouched in the dark, heart pounding.
The prince is cursed. The royal family is hiding it. And the truth... is buried in the Royal Archives.
Somehow, I knew this wasn't just a mortal secret.
This was tied to the very veil I had been sent to investigate. To Noel's death. To the growing darkness that was bleeding through the realms.
And I had to get to those archives.
....
The next day
.
Dawn crept into the sky in shades of bruised lilac and rose.
The temple's silhouette stood tall behind me—cold, indifferent, and sacred in name only.
I stood at the edge of the outer courtyard, a single satchel over my shoulder, hidden beneath a plain travel cloak. The bruises from the punishment hadn't fully healed, but the ache no longer held power over me.
Horace weaved between my legs, meowing softly as if to ask: Are we really going?
"Yes," I whispered, my eyes on the mist-covered horizon. "It'stime."
I didn't belong here.
Not anymore.
Not among the marble walls where faith had become fear. Where the holy forgot kindness. Where truth was buried beneath gold thread and perfect hymns.
I had a mission.
And the answers no longer lived in scripture.
They lived in Viahar —the capital of Yeneva. A city built of stone and silver, where the royal family ruled from their throne of secrets. Where the darkness was said to whisper through the palace walls.
And where the prince lived… marked by a curse he may not even understand.
I took a step forward.
Then stopped.
A warm wind stirred behind me—though the air had been still just moments before.
And then, as if through the breath of the wind itself, a voice whispered, deep and soft, echoing through the chamber of my soul.
"Ophelia."
My breath caught. I turned sharply, but no one was there.
Yet I knew that voice.
Elarion.
"I am not far," it whispered. "I cannot guide you from the mortal path, but I can offer something… brief. Borrowed."
A gentle warmth flowed through my chest—into my hands, my breath, my bones.
"My essence lingers here, tied to your flame. I will restore your divine gift—for a time. It will not last forever. But may it give you light for the shadows ahead."
My eyes widened.
The warmth began to glow from within me.
A softgoldenshimmer danced across my skin, and for a brief moment, I felt it— my divine gift —returning.
Flickering like starlight.
Faint, but real.
I pressed a hand to my heart, and for the first time since falling from Hayva… I felt whole.
Tears welled in my eyes.
"Thankyou," I whispered to the wind.
And the voice, fading like sunlight behind a mountain, replied:
"Find the truth, child of light. And beware the ones who wear crowns of gold with shadows in their eyes."
The warmth faded—but not completely.
A small glow remained—nestled in my soul, like a compass pointing forward.
I turned toward the gates of the city and stepped into the unknown.
With Horace at my side…
and Elarion's blessing in my heart.
...
The road to Viahar stretched endlessly before me—stone paths carved through misty woods and sloping hills, littered with cold wind and the scent of wet earth. With Horace curled on my shoulder or trotting quietly beside me, I kept to the edges of the trail, cloak pulled low and hood drawn tight.
The divine flame Elarion gifted me flickered faintly inside. I could feel it in my blood, like soft embers warming my ribs. It made me stronger than before—but I could also feel something else.
Something was watching me.
By the third night, I knew the Lurkers had found me.
I first noticed them at the edge of the forest—slits of glowing violet eyes blinking in the dark. Their forms were half-shadow, half-humanoid, their limbs too long, their movements silent. I smelled them before I heard them: the stench of sulfur and old blood, riding on the breeze.
Horace hissed low.
I ran.
Branches tore at my cloak. Thorns scraped across my arms. I leapt over fallen logs and ducked between tree trunks, the only light coming from the faint flicker of my restored gift, barely enough to guide me.
The Lurkers moved like smoke.
One of them lunged from the side—jagged claws aimed for my throat.
I summoned the divine glow in my palms just in time, blasting it forward in a burst of light.
It screamed—an unearthly, wet sound—and disintegrated into black mist.
But two more followed.
I was no warrior.
Just a fallen seraph with a fading spark.
I fought the second with nothing but instinct, the glow in my chest flaring brighter with every strike, my hands trembling as I screamed Elarion's name in my mind.
Light met darkness.
I barely won.
The third one raked my side with its claws.
Blood bloomed beneath my robes as I fell to my knees, breath hitching, cold overtaking me.
I don't remember how far I crawled after that. I only remember Horace, nudging at my cheek, purring anxiously, licking at my face to keep me awake.
And then—
Avoice.
Rough. Low. Male.
"Oi"
Boots splashed through the mud. A warm hand gripped my shoulder. My blurred vision caught flashes of leather armor, a sword strapped across his back, and a gold chain glinting beneath his scarf.
"A holy one…? No. You're not… not from around here."
He cursed under his breath.
Then darkness took me.
....
I woke on a cart.
Wrapped in thick blankets. My side bandaged, the wound throbbing. Horace curled up on my chest, snoring softly.
The man from before rode beside the reins, one hand resting lazily on the hilt of his blade.
He turned slightly when he noticed I'd stirred.
"You're lucky I passed through the ridge trail," he said. "Those things were hunting you."
His voice was calm, but watchful. "They don't go after ordinary people. You're carrying something… bright."
I didn't respond right away.
He didn't press.
"Name's Kael, by the way," he added. "Mercenary. Blade for hire. Not the friendly kind—unless you're bleeding out and half-dead, I guess."
I managed a weak smile. "Ophelia," I rasped. "And this is Horace."
The cat lifted his head just long enough to give a judgmental meow before falling back asleep.
Kael smirked. "He's got more attitude than half the noble court."
I sat up slowly, every muscle aching.
And in the distance—
A big city rose against the horizon.
Tall, regal, silver-spired and intimidating. A city carved in gold and secrets.
And somewhere within those walls…
The cursed prince awaited.
...
Magnus point of view
The fever came without warning.
One night, I was sharpening my dagger beneath the moonlight, Horace's absence still heavy in the corner of my mind.
The next—
I was on the ground, sweating, shaking, screaming.
Visions clawed through my dreams like wild beasts. Blinding images. Blood. Fire. Screams I couldn't place. A woman's voice crying out—Ophelia's voice—calling my name as shadowy figures dragged her into nothingness.
Then… me.
Standing above scorched earth.
A crown of darkness upon my head. Eyes glowing red. Wings black as rot.
People—people I knew—torn to ash at the flick of my hand.
I was a monster.
And yet the dreams always ended the same way:
Me whispering her name.
"Ophelia…"
"Ophelia…" I croaked aloud, my throat raw from crying in my sleep.
I woke, soaked in sweat, tangled in sheets I didn't remember pulling over myself. My chest burned, the mark near my collarbone—one I never noticed until recently—was glowing faintly beneath my skin.
"Ophelia…" I said again, this time a prayer. Or a plea.
The door burst open.
My father, tall and grim, stepped in with two pack warriors behind him.
My breath rattled.
Behind him, the pack's healer—the old woman with frost-colored hair and eyes sharp as flint—knelt beside me, placing a hand to my forehead.
"He'sburningup," she whispered. "And the pulse is… strange. Like something's pulling at his soul."
"I saw her," I muttered. "In my dreams. I saw her… hurt. Gone. And I… I was—" My words caught in my throat.
My father's jaw tightened. The room fell into heavy silence, the pack warriors exchanging nervous glances.
"I know what this is," the healer finally said. "The thread of soul."
My father's eyes narrowed. "That old myth?"
"No myth," she replied. "It happens when a bond is formed between two souls—one touched by the divine, one by blood and instinct. If she's gone too far, or if something's trying to sever the thread… he feels it. Magnus is unraveling from the inside."
My father turned away, fists clenched, pacing to the window.
"She's more than she let on," he muttered.
"All Mefen have their own soul of thread, They are only fated with one, Connected with one mefen...If one forcefully cut the thread...One might die or worse two soul would never reunite again" The healer said with worry "I think... someone or something are trying to broke the thread"
He turned sharply. "Where is she now?"
The healer shook her head. "I don't know. But… the whispers of the forest are pointing. Toward Viahar"
The name soured the room.
The city of nobles. Royalty. Secrets.
And danger.
My father looked at me again.
Then at the woman standing silently at the doorway—my older sister, Serenya.
A fierce warrior, colder than ice but loyal to the core. Her armor glinted with the mark of our family sigil—a silver wolf in eclipse.
"Find her," he said to Serenya. "Bring her back."
Serenya nodded once, sharp and wordless. Her golden eyes flicked to me—concern barely masked beneath the warrior's calm.
"I'll find your little spark," she whispered.
And with that, she turned and vanished into the misty night.