The palace, once a place of grandeur and power, had become a prison of unseen eyes and silent dread. The Veil of Shadows had been breached, and Way'Lee could feel its malignant tendrils creeping ever closer, suffocating the air she breathed.
She had always known danger—assassins, betrayals, the treacheries of court politics—but this was something different. Something ancient. Something beyond human comprehension.
Echoes of the Past
That night, sleep did not come easily. The whispers that had haunted her since the assassin's final words now moved with her, no longer confined to the edges of her vision. When she closed her eyes, she saw flickering glimpses of a world not her own—long halls of blackened stone, a sky twisted in unnatural hues, and the hollowed faces of those who had long since forgotten their names.
And in the heart of it all, the Shadow King.
His presence was no longer a fleeting sensation or a distant omen. He was here. Watching. Waiting.
Way'Lee jolted upright in bed, her breath ragged. The room was deathly still, but she knew she was not alone. She could feel the weight of unseen eyes pressing against her, the air thick with an unnatural cold.
Then, from the darkness, a voice—her voice—whispered:
"You are not ready."
Way'Lee's blood ran cold. The words had come not from an intruder, nor from the spectral whispers that had plagued her nights. They had come from her own lips, as if something had momentarily taken hold of her very breath.
A Warning Carved in Shadow
The following day, she sought counsel from her most trusted advisor, Master Orven—a man whose knowledge of forbidden lore was whispered of in hushed tones.
But when she arrived at his chambers, the door hung ajar. The room was in disarray—books overturned, ink spilled across the wooden desk like pooling blood. And there, on the farthest wall, carved deep into the stone, was a message that made her heart pound:
"The Veil is breaking. He will come through."
Orven was nowhere to be found. Only his cloak remained, discarded on the ground as if he had been taken mid-stride.
Way'Lee turned, every muscle in her body screaming at her to run, to flee the consuming darkness that pressed in from all sides. But she was no coward. If the Shadow King wanted to break her, he would have to do far more than haunt the edges of her world.
She set her jaw and whispered a defiant oath:
"If the Veil is breaking, then I will be the one to decide what comes through."
The Gathering Storm
But defiance alone would not be enough. She needed knowledge. Allies. Weapons not forged by mortal hands.
Summoning her remaining loyalists, she issued her commands. The palace would not fall without a fight. Torches were to be kept burning at all times. Mirrors were to be covered, their reflective surfaces too dangerous now that the Shadow King had made himself known. And most importantly, no one was to be left alone in the halls after nightfall.
Yet even as she prepared for battle, she could not ignore the growing certainty that none of these precautions would be enough.
Because in the darkest corners of the palace, shadows moved of their own accord. And sometimes, just sometimes, when she listened closely—
She could hear something breathing.
A Final Omen
On the third night, Way'Lee awoke to a deafening silence. The usual sounds of the palace—guards patrolling, the distant crackle of torches—had vanished. It was as if the world itself had been muted.
Then, from the foot of her bed, a whisper:
"You cannot stop him."
Her heart pounded as she turned—only to see herself standing in the darkness, eyes hollow, face pale as death.
The doppelgänger's lips twisted into a cruel smile, and with a voice not entirely her own, it uttered the final, chilling prophecy:
"The Shadow King does not come. He is already here."
And then, the torches died.