The moment Way'Lee opened her eyes, she knew—the world was different.
It was not just the thickened air, the oppressive silence that clung to her skin like damp fog. It was something deeper. A shift beneath the surface of reality, like a thread pulled loose from a grand tapestry, fraying everything at its edges.
She had returned.
But so had they.
An Empty Palace
Way'Lee sat up, heartbeat hammering against her ribs. Her chambers were as she had left them—yet the flickering torchlight did little to ease the weight in her chest.
Something was missing.
She listened.
The palace had never been truly silent. Even in the dead of night, there were always the distant sounds of guards patrolling, servants moving, the hushed murmurs of those who thrived in the shadows of the court. But now… nothing.
A dreadful thought took root.
Was she truly back?
Shoving the covers aside, she rose unsteadily to her feet. Her legs ached, as if she had physically traveled between worlds, yet she ignored the pain. Barefoot, she stepped toward the heavy wooden doors of her chamber.
Her fingers hesitated on the handle.
Then, with a steadying breath, she pulled it open.
The Hall of Whispers
The corridor beyond was empty.
Not just devoid of people—devoid of presence. The air itself felt wrong, as if the walls had swallowed all life within them.
The torches burned low. Their light flickered, stretching shadows unnaturally long.
As she took her first step forward, something whispered.
Not words. Not voices.
The walls whispered.
A rustling sound, like silk brushing against stone. A slow, insidious murmur, as if the palace itself had grown a thousand unseen mouths, all breathing in unison.
Way'Lee's grip tightened around the dagger at her side.
She knew fear. She had walked through darkness, faced assassins, seen death in many forms. But this?
This was something new.
She moved forward, cautious but unyielding. Her destination was clear: the throne room. If there was anyone left in the palace, that was where they would gather.
If they still lived.
The Vanishing Court
The doors to the throne room stood ajar.
Way'Lee paused. The grand hall was never left open—not unless something had gone horribly wrong.
The whispers grew louder.
Bracing herself, she pushed through.
And stopped cold.
The hall was empty.
The long banners of her house hung still, untouched by any breeze. The torches still burned, yet the air was colder than it had any right to be.
The court was gone.
Not just the courtiers, the guards, the servants—everything. No overturned chairs, no scattered belongings. It was as if they had been erased.
Her breath came faster. This was not an attack. No signs of struggle, no blood spilled. Just… absence.
And then—
A laugh.
Low. Hollow. Echoing from nowhere.
Way'Lee spun, dagger raised, eyes scanning the shadows.
Nothing.
But she felt it.
Something else was in the room with her.
Watching.
Waiting.
The First Manifestation
Way'Lee took a step back, every instinct screaming at her to run—but she held her ground.
"Show yourself," she commanded. Her voice was steady. Strong.
The air shifted.
From the space between torchlight and shadow, a form unfolded—slowly, deliberately, as if it had always been there, just waiting to be noticed.
It was not the Shadow King.
It was worse.
The figure was faceless, its body a shroud of dark mist that flickered in and out of form. When it moved, it did so without weight, gliding rather than stepping. And yet, when it tilted its head—as if studying her—she felt its attention as surely as a blade at her throat.
"You brought us through."
The voice was layered—many voices speaking as one, overlapping, shifting in tone and pitch. Some were human. Some were not.
Way'Lee tightened her grip on her weapon. "I did not summon you."
A hiss of laughter.
"And yet, here we are."
The shadows rippled. More figures began to take shape—many of them. Emerging from corners, seeping from the very walls, their forms shifting between nightmare and memory.
They had crossed the Veil.
And they were hungry.
A Desperate Escape
Way'Lee moved.
She knew she could not fight them—not yet. Not without understanding what they were, what their weaknesses might be.
So she ran.
Through empty corridors, past silent chambers, her feet barely touching the ground. Behind her, the air hummed with movement—shadows that did not belong, shapes flickering at the edges of reality.
They did not chase her.
They followed.
Like specters drawn to warmth, they moved as one, keeping pace with effortless grace.
A predator's patience.
Way'Lee's breath came fast as she reached the upper levels of the palace, where the great library awaited. If knowledge of the Veil still existed, it would be there.
If Master Orven still lived, he would be there.
She skidded into the library, slamming the door shut behind her. The great hall of tomes stretched before her, its towering shelves casting endless rows of shadow.
"Orven!" she called.
Silence.
Then—
A single candle flickered to life in the farthest corner.
A figure sat at one of the long wooden tables, draped in heavy robes, his head bowed over an ancient tome.
A slow, creeping dread filled her chest.
She stepped forward.
"Orven?"
The old scholar did not move.
But as she drew closer, she realized—
His shadow moved wrong.
The flickering candle cast a shadow behind him—yet another seeped outward from his feet, spreading like spilled ink, curling at the edges.
A whisper slithered through the library.
"Too late, Way'Lee."
Orven's head lifted.
And his eyes—
They were no longer his own.
The Turning of the Tide
Way'Lee's heart stopped.
Not in fear.
In understanding.
This was no longer just about the Shadow King.
This was bigger.
Something else had come through. Something many.
The Veil was not just torn—it was open.
And the world she had known would never be the same again.