The first thing Riven noticed was the silence.
Not the quiet of an empty battlefield, nor the eerie stillness before a storm. This was something deeper—a silence of absence, of things that should exist but didn’t. There was no wind, no distant echoes, no shifting of the Veil’s energy. The very air felt dead.
And yet—they were being watched.
Riven’s grip tightened on his sword as he scanned the landscape. The cracked stone beneath his boots pulsed with veins of faint crimson energy, stretching into the distance like an ancient, forgotten ruin. Above them, the sky swirled, its blackened clouds threaded with unnatural light, shifting in ways that made his skin crawl.
And on the distant edges of the broken land—figures loomed.
Wrapped in tattered cloaks, their bodies partially obscured by shadows, they stood in absolute stillness. Not attacking. Not speaking.
Just watching.
“Riven…” Lyra’s voice was barely above a whisper, her spectral glow dimming slightly. “This place isn’t right.”
Riven nodded. He could feel it.
This place wasn’t just a forgotten world—it was severed.
There was no connection to the Archive here. No system notifications. No stabilizing threads of reality keeping it in place.
It existed outside the war. Outside the balance.
And yet, it was teeming with Veil energy.
Lyra hovered slightly closer, her expression tense. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be here.”
Riven exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the stagnant air. “Neither are they.”
His gaze locked onto the nearest figure—a tall, slender silhouette wrapped in faded cloth, its face hidden beneath a hood. It was humanoid, but something was off. Its posture, the way it shifted, the way it existed in the space around it—it all felt wrong.
And then, finally—it spoke.
“You do not belong here, outsider.”
The voice was dry, hollow, as if spoken through crumbling stone. It echoed unnaturally as if the air itself struggled to carry the words.
Riven didn’t move. “Neither do you.”
A moment of stillness.
Then—laughter.
It wasn’t loud or mocking. It was soft, knowing, filled with something that sent a chill down Riven’s spine.
The figure stepped forward, the tattered cloak shifting with a weight that wasn’t entirely physical. As it did, more of its form came into view—a body partially fused with corruption.
Patches of blackened veins pulsed faintly along its arms, spreading from beneath the wrappings of its cloak. Its fingers were too long, its joints moving with a strange, unnatural smoothness.
And yet—it was undeniably human.
Or at least, it had been.
“Neither do any of us.”
More figures emerged from the shadows, stepping into the dim, pulsing light of the ruined landscape. Some were twisted, barely holding onto human form, their bodies warped by the Void. Others looked almost normal—except for the eyes, burning faintly with Veil energy.
All of them were like him.
Veilborn.
But unlike Riven—they had been here for far longer.
The first figure tilted its head, studying him.
“You reek of fresh corruption,” it murmured, its gaze sliding to the black veins crawling up Riven’s arms and neck. “Not fully turned. Not fully lost.”
Its head tilted further. “But close.”
Riven didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
They knew what he was. They could feel it.
The figure stepped closer, and this time, Riven felt it move through the space around him. Like a ripple in water. Like reality itself was bending to accommodate its presence.
This wasn’t just corruption.
This was something else.
Lyra tensed beside him, her glow flickering slightly. “Be careful,” she whispered. “They’re… stable.”
Riven’s eyes narrowed. Stable?
That shouldn’t have been possible.
Those who fell too far into the Veil lost themselves. They became Shades, monsters, or worse—consumed entirely. But these Veilborn…
They had control.
Riven’s grip on his sword remained firm, but his thoughts raced.
What the hell is this place?
The Veilborn figure studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, it raised a hand—gesturing toward the ruins behind it.
“Come.”
Riven remained still. “Why?”
The Veilborn’s hollow voice carried no emotion. “Because you are not the first. And if you wish to survive what comes next, you will not be the last.”
A pause.
Then, softer:
“If you do not understand what you are, you will not survive what is coming.”
Lyra shot Riven a sharp look. “We can’t trust them.”
Riven agreed.
But he also couldn’t ignore this.
The Archive had rejected him. The Veins of Eternity were collapsing. His corruption was spreading faster than ever.
And now, standing before him, were people who had survived it.
His fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword.
He didn’t have many options left.
He could walk away, step back into the unknown, and continue running blindly toward whatever future awaited him.
Or he could step forward—into the unknown, yes, but toward answers.
Riven exhaled slowly.
Then he took the first step forward.
The ruins swallowed them.
Riven walked cautiously behind the Veilborn guide, his boots crunching against the cracked stone. The ancient structures surrounding them stretched high into the storm-lit sky, their surfaces covered in Veil-wrought etchings that pulsed faintly. The energy in the air was thick and charged—like a place caught between existence and oblivion.
This wasn’t just some lost ruin.
It was a city.
And it wasn’t empty.
The further they moved, the more shadows stirred in the alleys, along the rooftops, beneath crumbling archways. Figures—some cloaked, others unhidden—watched in silence as Riven passed.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Their eyes burned with the same corruption that pulsed in his veins.
And yet—they did not attack.
No hostility. No aggression.
Only recognition.
As if they were looking at one of their own.
Lyra drifted closer, her glow flickering uneasily. “Riven… this place isn’t normal.”
He didn’t respond immediately.
Because she was right.
The Archive had no record of anything like this. He had fought corrupted beings before—Shades, Voidhollow creatures, even the mutated remnants of fallen Custodians.
But never Veilborn who remained in control.
His gaze flicked toward their guide—the hooded figure that had led them into this realm. Its movements were eerily smooth as if it existed slightly out of sync with reality. But beneath its tattered cloak, its form was undeniably human.
For now.
“You’re trying to understand, aren’t you?” the figure asked.
Its voice was soft. A whisper that carried through the silence.
Riven’s fingers twitched. “No one survives corruption like this. Not without losing themselves.”
The figure gave a slight nod. “That is true.”
Then it turned toward him fully, lowering its hood.
Riven’s breath slowed.
The man before him was… normal.
No monstrous features. No twisted mutations. Just sharp, intelligent eyes and a face lined with age and experience.
And yet—he was undeniably Veilborn.
His eyes carried the same eerie glow as Riven’s. His skin bore faint black veins, barely visible beneath the fabric of his cloak. And something about his presence—the way the Veil energy bent around him—told Riven that this was no ordinary survivor.
“What are you?” Riven asked.
The man gave him a small, knowing smile.
“The same thing you are.”
They led him deeper into the city, past towering ruins that still hummed with traces of lost power.
Fires burned within the broken halls, illuminating groups of Veilborn gathered in hushed conversation. Some sat in silence, their faces carved with battle-worn scars. Others trained with weapons made from Veil-infused metal, their forms shifting slightly with each movement—as if their very bodies adapted to the corruption inside them.
Riven’s thoughts raced.
How long had this place existed?
And how the hell had the Archive never purged it?
They reached a large stone dais at the heart of the city. From here, Riven could see it all—the Veilborn stronghold, the people, the raw energy that kept this place alive.
And he realized something terrifying.
This wasn’t a dying city.
It was growing.
The hooded man turned to him, his expression unreadable.
“Tell me, Custodian. Do you still believe the Archive tells the truth?”
Riven didn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightened.
“The Archive tried to erase me.”
A flicker of something passed through the man’s gaze. Approval? Understanding?
“Good. Then you already know the first truth.”
He gestured toward the city. “We were like you once. Custodians. Survivors. Warriors. All of us fought against the corruption, believing we were preserving balance. Until the moment we realized…”
A pause. Then—
“…we were the ones being purged.”
The words hit like a blade.
Lyra stiffened beside him. “That’s a lie.”
The man didn’t argue. He simply gestured toward the city. “Is it?”
Riven exhaled slowly.
He didn’t trust them. Not fully. But he also couldn’t deny what was right in front of him.
The Archive had cast him aside. It had tried to overwrite him, to reset him back into something it could control.
And it had failed.
If these people were telling the truth…
Then the Archive had been doing it for centuries.
The man stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You are at a crossroads, Riven.”
Riven tensed.
He hadn’t told them his name.
“You have seen the truth of the Archive. You have felt the Void’s pull. And yet, you still hesitate. You still believe you can fight it.”
The man’s voice softened. “But what if you don’t have to?”
The words sent a chill down Riven’s spine.
The man gestured toward the Veilborn warriors training in the distance, their movements fluid, their bodies stable despite their corruption.
“We do not lose ourselves to the Void. We do not become mindless monsters. We do not fight against what we are.”
He turned back to Riven, his eyes burning.
“We embrace it.”
Riven’s fingers curled into a fist.
This was what he had feared most.
That there was another path. That he didn’t have to keep fighting the Void.
That he could accept it.
And worst of all—
That it was working.
Lyra floated closer, her voice low, urgent. “Riven… let’s go.”
She didn’t say don’t listen to them. She didn’t say they were wrong.
Because even she wasn’t sure anymore.
Riven closed his eyes briefly.
Then he turned back to the Veilborn leader.
“What do you want from me?”
The man smiled.
“Only what you already know is coming.”
His voice dropped to something almost reverent.
“War.”
Riven inhaled sharply.
And the storm in the distance began to stir.
The city whispered around him.
From the towering ruins to the scattered groups of Veilborn warriors, an unspoken weight pressed against the air—a presence beyond just the people here.
This wasn’t just a hideout for the exiled.
It was something more.
A movement. A belief.
And now, they were waiting for him to choose.
The Veilborn leader stood before him, silent, composed. His sharp eyes gleamed beneath the hood as if he could already see the decision Riven hadn’t made yet.
“We do not seek to turn you.”
The man’s voice was measured. Controlled. It carried the weight of someone who had lived through centuries of war.
“We only offer what you have already begun to understand.”
Riven’s fingers twitched.
“And what’s that?”
The leader’s expression didn’t change.
“That the war is not what you thought it was.”
A pause.
Then—he raised his hand.
And the Veil stirred.
The air thickened, charged with a force that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Riven’s vision twisted, warping for a split second as the world around the Veilborn shifted—not physically, but conceptually.
For an instant, it was as if he stood in two places at once.
And then, it was gone.
Lyra jerked backward, her spectral glow flickering violently. “What the hell was that?!”
The Veilborn leader slowly lowered his hand. “A fragment of what we have become.”
Riven’s pulse didn’t quicken.
That was the terrifying part.
His body wasn’t rejecting what had just happened.
It was adapting to it.
The leader stepped forward, stopping just short of Riven’s reach.
“You still see the Void as something to be resisted. To be fought.”
A pause.
“That is why you will never defeat it.”
Riven didn’t flinch. “And you think I should just accept it?”
The leader shook his head. “Not accept. Not surrender. But learn.”
His voice dropped lower, resonant.
“There is no ‘cure’ for what you have become. There is no going back. You are already one of us.”
A beat of silence.
Then—
“The only question is whether you will waste what you’ve been given.”
The words landed like a blade.
Riven had been expecting manipulation. Deception. A lie wrapped in false hope.
But this wasn’t hope.
It was truth.
A reality he had been trying to ignore.
“Don’t.”
Lyra’s voice was sharp.
Riven glanced at her.
Her glow was uneven, flickering with something that wasn’t just fear.
It was desperation.
“I’ve been with you through everything,” she said, floating closer. “I didn’t let the Archive erase you. I didn’t let you die when you should have.”
Her voice lowered.
“But I will not stand here and watch you become something else.”
The words were final.
A warning.
A line in the sand.
If he stayed here—if he took even one step further—Lyra might not follow.
Riven exhaled slowly.
His mind wasn’t clouded. No whispers were tempting him, no overwhelming pressure forcing him to decide.
It was just his own choice.
For the first time, he had nothing to fight against.
Just the truth.
He could leave now. Walk away. Keep resisting, keep pretending he wasn’t already changing, keep fighting against what was inside him.
Or—
He could step forward.
And finally, stop running from himself.
Riven slowly lifted his gaze, staring into the Veilborn leader’s knowing eyes.
Then—
He made his choice.
The choice was made.
The weight of it settled over Riven like an unspoken command, binding him to the path ahead. There was no dramatic shift, no immediate transformation—just the cold realization that he had taken the first step into something that could never be undone.
Lyra floated back, her glow flickering violently.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t have to.
Her silence said everything.
The Veilborn leader watched him, unreadable.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
“You have chosen survival.”
His voice was neither approving nor triumphant. It was simply… stating a fact.
Around them, the gathered Veilborn stirred, their eyes flickering with something that might have been recognition—or something far darker.
The leader gestured toward the ruined city.
“Come. There is much to learn.”
Riven exhaled slowly, glancing once at Lyra—one last time—before following.
And she did not follow him.
The Veilborn stronghold was far more than just ruins.
What seemed like abandoned structures on the surface gave way to subterranean corridors, carved deep into the stone. The deeper Riven went, the stronger the Veil’s presence became—not overwhelming, but structured. Controlled.
It was not a curse here.
It was a tool.
Darkened halls pulsed with faint veins of blackened light, shaped into symbols Riven didn’t recognize. He felt them press against his mind, whispering truths he could almost grasp—but not quite.
“You feel it, don’t you?” the leader asked as they walked.
Riven clenched his jaw. “What is this place?”
The leader’s steps did not slow. “A sanctuary. A prison. A beginning.”
Riven frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
The leader gave a small, knowing smile. “No. It is not.”
They reached a vast chamber—an open, circular space lined with ancient pillars. At its center, a pool of absolute darkness swirled, shifting unnaturally.
It was not water.
It was something else.
Something alive.
The Veilborn gathered along the edges, watching in silence.
The leader turned to Riven.
“To walk this path, you must embrace what is already inside you.”
Riven’s fingers twitched. “And if I don’t?”
The leader’s expression did not change. “Then you will not survive what comes next.”
A pause. Then, softer:
“Step forward, Riven.”
Riven exhaled slowly.
His pulse did not quicken. His body did not resist.
For the first time, he wasn’t afraid.
And that was the most dangerous part.
He took a step.
Then another.
And then—
He stepped into the Veil.