Caelus stared at the abomination sprawled across the stone platform, its grotesque form barely recognizable as a living creature. At its center, dominating its misshapen body, was a single massive eye, unblinking and glistening like polished obsidian. The eye's surface shimmered unnaturally, swirling with faint streaks of deep violet and crimson that seemed to writhe beneath its inky sheen. It radiated a malevolent presence, as if it could see far beyond the physical world, peering into places no mortal should.
Around the eye stretched a taut, leathery expanse of blackened skin, veined with pulsing lines of sickly gray that glowed faintly in the dim torchlight. The flesh seemed alive, rippling and shifting as though the creature’s form could barely contain the dark energy animating it. Spindly, gnarled legs jutted out from the grotesque body, ending in jagged claws that scraped feebly against the stone with every twitch. The legs moved erratically, like a broken marionette under a cruel puppeteer’s control.
Beneath the creature, a pool of thick, purplish-black ichor spread slowly, its surface gleaming with an unnatural iridescence. The liquid seemed to pulse faintly in rhythm with the faint vibrations emanating from the creature, an unsettling hum that resonated deep in Caelus’s chest. The ichor twisted and writhed as if it were alive, thin tendrils reaching out before dissipating into the cold air like wisps of smoke.
The chamber seemed to darken around the creature, the torches flickering weakly as though their light struggled to resist the oppressive aura emanating from the abomination. The temperature in the room plummeted, and a faint, acrid smell—like burnt ozone and decaying flesh—hung in the air, clinging to the back of Caelus’s throat.
Every fiber of his being screamed to look away, to distance himself from the foul, unnatural presence before him, yet he remained rooted in place. The creature's unblinking eye stared ahead, empty yet somehow filled with a crushing, incomprehensible malice. It was a thing born of darkness—an amalgam of magic, malice, and something far older than either.
“What... is that?” he muttered, a hint of revulsion in his voice. The grotesque form—part sinew, part shadow—seemed to whisper of forbidden magics. The creature’s unnatural flesh pulsed faintly, its blackened skin shifting like liquid darkness, as if alive with a will of its own. Shadows danced around it, not cast by the torches but birthed from within, swirling and twisting like ink in water. It seemed less a creature and more a manifestation of something forbidden, its very existence an affront to the natural order.
King Rowan stood next to the platform, his posture rigid, the polished hilt of his rapier glinting faintly in the torchlight. Though the blade remained sheathed, his hand hovered near it, fingers tensed as if expecting the grotesque creature to stir. His sharp eyes, shadowed with unease, flicked from the still form to the Champions before him, their expressions as grim as his own.
“I don’t know what it is,” he admitted, his voice taut with controlled apprehension. The weight of the unknown pressed down on his words. “It followed me. I found it skulking in the palace gardens, darting between the hedges as though it were hunting—watching.”
His hand tightened briefly on the hilt of his rapier, a flicker of anger breaking through his calm exterior. “When I saw it spying on me, I didn’t hesitate. I attacked.”
The room fell into a tense silence, the air heavy with the weight of his revelation. Rowan stepped closer to the platform, pointing toward the viscous, dark pool that spread beneath the creature’s broken form. His gloved finger hovered over the shimmering substance as his voice lowered.
“Its blood… it isn’t natural,” he said, his tone laced with both fascination and revulsion. The ichor glistened unnaturally, shifting as though alive, its surface reflecting faint, otherworldly hues in the flickering light. “It’s not blood in the sense we understand. It’s more like a residue of magic, something raw and corrupted. I suspect this thing wasn’t born—it was created.”
The Champions exchanged uneasy glances, their collective tension hanging thick in the air. Each of them seemed to wrestle with the implications of what lay before them, the room’s silence punctuated only by the faint crackle of the torches.
“Someone sent this to spy on you?” Seraph finally asked, her voice quiet but laced with suspicion. Her golden eyes, usually so calm and luminous, were narrowed now, their light dulled by unease. Even her ethereal presence, which typically exuded a serene grace, felt heavier, as though the creature’s dark aura weighed on her spirit.
Magnus stepped forward, his movements deliberate and quiet, before crouching down beside the platform. His vibrant green hair spilled over his shoulders, catching the light as it cascaded around his face like a silken waterfall. He studied the abomination intently, his emerald eyes narrowing in thought.
“It’s highly likely,” he murmured, his voice calm but edged with a note of awe. “Look at it. This creature wasn’t designed to fight—it’s too fragile, too singular in purpose. Its form, its essence… it’s meant to gather information, nothing more. This…” He gestured subtly toward the monstrous eye, his words trailing off for a moment as if searching for the right description. “This thing is a masterpiece of dark magic.”
His fingers hovered just above the creature’s blackened skin, careful not to touch. “Whoever created it didn’t just send a mere tool. This is artful, deliberate work. It passed through the castle’s guardians undetected, bypassed every magical ward and barrier as if they weren’t even there. That’s no small feat,” he continued, his voice tinged with both admiration and unease.
Magnus straightened, brushing his hair back from his face as he glanced at the others. “Whoever made this isn’t just powerful—they’re precise. They knew exactly how to exploit every weakness, and that makes them dangerous.” His words lingered like a shadow, deepening the already somber mood of the room.
Cheese quivered visibly, its gelatinous form rippling with unease as it shifted to a deep, somber blue—a vivid display of its distress. Its edges wobbled erratically, betraying its inability to steady itself in the oppressive tension filling the chamber. It clung tightly to Lorian, wrapping a pseudopod around his arm like a frightened child seeking comfort. Lorian responded instinctively, his hand gliding over Cheese’s smooth, semi-transparent surface in a soothing motion.
“It’s all right,” Lorian murmured softly, though the tight press of his lips and the furrow etched into his brow betrayed his own worry. His gaze flicked briefly to the creature on the platform before returning to Cheese, his brown eyes warm but shadowed with unease.
Caelus stood apart from the others, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as his jaw clenched. His stormy eyes remained fixed on the creature, unease roiling within him like a gathering tempest. The sight of the abomination stirred a bitter thought, one he couldn’t ignore: they had barely survived their last battle. Their group had been pushed to the brink, teetering on the edge of annihilation. If the one who created this nightmare decided to unleash something worse—something more deadly—could they withstand it?
His fingers twitched at his side, his grip tightening as the weight of their precarious situation pressed down on him. The creature was proof of their enemy’s cunning, their ability to reach deep into the heart of their sanctuary without warning. A cold bead of sweat traced down his temple as the thought struck him: this was only a message. What came next could very well be a death sentence.
Before the silence could stretch further, King Rowan’s voice rang out, cutting through the oppressive tension like a blade.
“But we have a lead,” he declared firmly, his tone carrying a flicker of resolve that demanded attention.
The room stilled as every pair of eyes turned to him, their collective wariness momentarily tempered by the glimmer of hope in his words. The tension that hung in the air seemed to ease, if only slightly, as Rowan’s presence filled the void.
Magnus straightened, his sharp features softening as his gaze met Rowan’s. Seraph’s golden eyes, wide with unease moments ago, now narrowed with a spark of curiosity. Even Elira, balancing her chair precariously, tilted her head, her previously bored demeanor shifting to one of quiet interest.
“The elder mages examined the remains,” Rowan continued, his voice steady but underscored by the gravity of the revelation. His gaze swept over the Champions, ensuring he had their full attention. “They identified traces of dark magic in its composition—unique, intricate, and unmistakable. It wasn’t just any spell; it was a specific curse. A signature spell tied to one individual—a vampire.”
The room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of his words sinking into every corner.
“A vampire?” Lorian’s voice broke the silence, softer than usual, with a slight tremor that betrayed the unease he tried to mask. He shifted where he stood, his fingers tightening instinctively on Cheese, whose quivering form mirrored his anxiety.
His eyes flickered around the room, darting from one face to another, lingering on his companions as if silently searching for reassurance. The faint glow of the torches played across his features, highlighting the conflict etched into his expression—a mix of fear and determination. Vampires were no ordinary foe, and the thought of facing one wielding such dark and intricate magic sent a chill down his spine.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
Riven let out a low groan, her forehead thunking softly against the surface of the table. She stretched her arms out wide, her fingers splaying as if to encompass all the chaos surrounding them. Her dark green hair fell forward in a curtain, partially obscuring her face, though the irritation in her tone was crystal clear.
“Vampires. Wonderful,” she muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just toss that onto the ever-growing list of things that want us dead. Orcs, cursed monstrosities—why not vampires too? Hell, maybe we should start a tally.” Her words carried a forced lightness, but there was an edge to them, the fatigue of their endless battles clawing its way to the surface.
Nearby, Elira teetered precariously on the back two legs of her chair, her arms crossed behind her head as she maintained her balance with the ease of someone who had made a habit of tempting gravity. Her boot tapped a steady rhythm against the stone floor, a picture of casual disinterest amidst the group’s rising tension.
But the moment the word “vampires” left Rowan’s lips, her chair slammed down with a resounding thud. The sudden motion startled Cheese, which rippled in alarm.
“Vampires? That’s awesome!” Elira blurted, her voice brimming with an enthusiasm entirely out of place given the grim subject. She practically bounced in her seat, her face lit up with a grin so wide it threatened to split her cheeks.
Her reaction drew a mix of stares—some confused, others exasperated. Riven gave her a flat look, her head still resting on the table.
“Awesome?” Magnus asked, raising an elegant green eyebrow. “They’re bloodthirsty creatures of the night. That’s… not exactly what I’d call ‘awesome.’” Beside him, Pip—tiny, trembling, and clearly overwhelmed by the tension in the room—nodded vigorously in agreement. Its wide, doe-like eyes darted between Elira and the others as though expecting a vampire to leap out of the shadows at any moment. The small creature shivered visibly, its fur puffing out in uneven tufts, and it clutched onto Magnus’s robe in its tiny paws for reassurance.
“See?” Magnus gestured toward Pip, his voice softening slightly as he glanced down at the trembling creature. “Even Pip understands how serious this is. Look at it. He’s terrified, and rightfully so.”
Pip squeaked in agreement, burying its face against Magnus’s side as though to hide from the very thought of vampires. Its little body trembled like a leaf in the wind, a combination of fear and endearing helplessness that tugged at the heartstrings of everyone except Elira.
“Oh, come on,” Elira shot back, leaning forward now, her hands animated as she spoke. “Think about it! Fangs, cloaks, creepy castles—classic bad guy stuff! This is like something out of a storybook. Way more interesting than another boring orc raid.”
“You do remember that in those storybook tales, the vampires usually end up killing the heroes, right?” Lorian remarked, his tone dry but laced with a faint trace of amusement.
A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he glanced toward Elira, his eyes flickering with a mix of exasperation and mild fondness. One hand remained firmly resting on Cheese, whose gelatinous form still quivered faintly against him, its hue shifting to a soft, uncertain blue.
His fingers moved absentmindedly over Cheese’s smooth surface in a gesture of reassurance, though his expression betrayed his skepticism toward Elira’s carefree enthusiasm. “I’m just saying,” he added, tilting his head slightly, “heroic deaths aren’t quite as ‘awesome’ as you seem to think they are.”
Elira waved him off, her grin undeterred. “Details, details. Besides, maybe this one will give us a dramatic speech before we fight. You know, all ‘I vant to suck your blood!’ or whatever.” She raised her arms theatrically.
Riven groaned again, but this time it sounded suspiciously like a muffled laugh. “Elira, if this vampire does kill us, I hope it goes for you first. You’ll probably applaud it for style points.”
“Exactly!” Elira quipped, beaming. “I’ll die entertained!”
Across the room, Caelus stood apart, his broad frame illuminated by the flickering torchlight that danced across the chamber walls. His stance was steady, resolute, though a shadow of worry flickered in his storm-gray eyes.
The playful exchanges did little to ease the knot tightening in his chest. They had been through too much, too many close calls, to brush off a threat like this. His expression hardened, sharp angles carved into his features as if sculpted from stone.
Slowly, he stepped forward, the rhythmic click of his boots against the stone floor resonating in the heavy silence that followed. Each step was deliberate, purposeful, his movements exuding a calm authority that commanded attention without the need for raised voices.
“Who is this vampire?” he asked, his voice low and measured, yet carrying a weight that cut through the room like a blade.
The shift was immediate. Conversations hushed, and the faint rustling of armor and clothing stilled as all eyes turned to him. The tension in the chamber crystallized under the intensity of his question, the flickering torches casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to lean in, listening.
His eyes locked onto Rowan, the weight of his question pressing down like a challenge. He wasn’t simply asking for a name—he wanted answers, details, something solid to grasp in the face of this new, unseen threat. The room seemed to hold its breath, the flickering torchlight casting long, shifting shadows that only deepened the unease surrounding them.
Rowan’s expression shifted, the weight of unspoken truths settling over him like a shadow. His brow furrowed, and his tone deepened as he answered, each word carrying a heavy implication.
“A merchant,” he said, his voice steady but grim, “known as Soren of the Veil.”
The name hung in the air, palpable as the flickering torchlight, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.
Seraph straightened abruptly. Her silver eyes sharpened, narrowing as if she were trying to grasp at a fleeting memory. She murmured the name under her breath, her voice barely more than a whisper. “The Veil... The Veil…” she repeated, the words rolling off her tongue with a strange familiarity. Her gaze drifted to the floor, unfocused, as if searching the depths of her mind for a connection. “Why does that sound familiar?”
Lorian’s brows knit together as he sank into thought, his usually calm demeanor tinged with a quiet intensity. His gaze flickered toward Seraph, catching onto the thread of her musings.
Beside him, Cheese tilted its quivering form upward, its translucent body shifting to a curious purple hue. It looked at Lorian with wide, questioning eyes, its confusion evident in the way it rippled gently against his side.
The shared uncertainty spread like a quiet ripple through the room, their fragmented memories teasing at something just out of reach—a connection to the Veil that felt faint yet foreboding. Caelus, however— no clue what the Veil was.
Rowan’s gaze swept over the room, his expression unflinching as he continued, his voice low and heavy with meaning.
“Soren operates in the shadows,” he said, each word deliberate. “He’s a broker of forbidden magics, a trader of strange and dangerous creatures. From what I’ve gathered, he’s not the kind to act on personal vendettas. If Soren is involved, it’s because someone hired him—and paid him well.”
The statement lingered, its implications unsettling. A tension ran through the room, thickening the air as each Champion absorbed Rowan’s words.
Across the chamber, Darius straightened, his massive frame almost dwarfing those around him. The torchlight glinted off his crimson scales, highlighting the deep furrow of his brow. His golden eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto Rowan with an intensity that demanded answers.
“Who—or what—is the Veil?” Darius asked, his deep voice rumbling through the room like distant thunder. His muscular arms crossed over his broad chest, an instinctive display of strength and readiness.
The question hung in the air, heavy with expectation. Even the flickering flames seemed to dim, as if the very room waited for the answer to unravel the mystery surrounding the enigmatic name.
Rowan’s gaze traveled slowly across the room, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. It was a measured look, weighted with the gravity of what he was about to reveal.
“The Veil is more than just a network. It’s an underground syndicate of traders who deal in the rare, the exotic, and the forbidden,” he explained. “Their creed is simple: profit. They have no allegiances, no moral compass—just commerce.”
He began pacing, his voice taking on a cadence that demanded attention. “They specialize in magical creatures, cursed artifacts, forbidden knowledge, and even otherworldly contracts. Their network spans realms, and their influence runs deep.”
“Neutrality,” he emphasized. “They sell to anyone who can pay, regardless of their intentions. Kingdoms, warlords, rebels—it doesn’t matter.”
“And their structure?” Magnus asked, his curiosity sharpening into keen interest. He leaned forward slightly, his emerald eyes narrowing as they fixed on Rowan. His voice, usually calm and measured, now carried an edge of urgency, as though peeling back the layers of this mystery had become a personal challenge.
“At the top,” Rowan said, “is a figure known only as The Veiled One. No one has seen their face, but they dictate the guild’s philosophy and operations. Below them are the Handlers, also called Curators—people like Soren, who manage the trade and procurement of their… wares. Then there are the Shadows, the lower ranks responsible for transport, espionage, and enforcement.”
He paused, his gaze steady. “Their emblem is a crescent moon shrouded in mist with a figure cloaked in shadow. It’s a symbol of their secrecy and power.”
The room was silent, save for the faint crackle of the torches. Even Riven had lifted her head, her expression uncharacteristically serious.
“And their purpose?” Caelus asked quietly, his voice steady but laced with curiosity.
Rowan’s gaze darkened, and he folded his arms, his expression a mix of skepticism and reluctant respect. “They see themselves as a necessary evil,” he began, his tone carrying the weight of centuries-old whispers. “Beneath their facade of amoral merchants, their true aim is balance—a fragile, ever-shifting equilibrium they claim to protect.”
He paused, letting the words settle before continuing, his voice measured but deliberate. “By presenting themselves as neutral brokers, they can weave their influence unseen. They sell forbidden knowledge, cursed artifacts, and powerful creatures to any willing buyer. On the surface, it’s pure commerce—cold, transactional. But in truth, they play a deeper game, ensuring no single faction or individual grows too powerful.”
Rowan’s expression grew graver, the shadows of the room seeming to darken around him. “They achieve this balance by manipulating conflicts, feeding both sides with just enough to sustain the fight but not enough to end it. To some, they are unseen guardians, preserving the delicate scales of power. To others, they are merchants of chaos, profiting from destruction while claiming to preserve order.”
Caelus clenched his fists, his mind whirling with uncertainty. The Veil—an organization cloaked in shadows, its true intentions veiled in ambiguity. Friend or foe? The line was razor-thin, and it was nearly impossible to discern which side of it they stood on. But one thing was clear: if they were to find Soren, they would have to tread carefully.