Before the fire.
Before the betrayal.
Before memory fractured and time looped—
There was the Kingdom of Caer Theron.
A kingdom woven from starlight and spellcraft, where the High Circle ruled with ancient magic and the royal bloodline bore a sacred duty: to guard the Veil.
The Veil was not a wall. It was not a place.
It was a barrier between worlds.
A silken thread holding back the nightmare realm known only as Nox Eternum—a void dimension that did not live in the way mortals understood, but hungered. Thoughtlessly. Endlessly.
The Wraiths were its emissaries.
They wore no true faces, no fixed forms. Born of pure shadow, they whispered through dreams, slipping between cracks in memory, turning grief into gateways and love into chains. They did not seek power. They devoured hope.
It was said that a Wraith could wear the face of a lost lover, mimic the voice of a dead child, or speak a prophecy laced with poison.
But what made them truly dangerous…
Was that they knew the truth of your soul.
And used it against you.
The first Wraith appeared not in the dungeons or battlefields, but in the Mirror Hall of Caer Theron itself.
It came not with violence, but with a smile.
It whispered promises of eternal wisdom, immortality, and freedom from fate.
The High Mages—proud and curious—listened.
And one by one, they fell.
Not all died.
Some were changed.
They bore marks like frostbite, veins of black ice beneath their skin, eyes like hollow wells. They walked and spoke and remembered their lives, but their hearts no longer beat for anything human.
The Circle was poisoned from within.
The queen's court grew paranoid. Spells unraveled. Alliances broke. Injustice bled into law.
And then came The Severing.
On the night of the twin moons' eclipse, the Veil cracked.
The Wraiths surged through, not as an army, but as a plague of dread. Fear turned knights into deserters. Guilt turned generals into butchers. Love turned mothers against their own children.
Only two stood against the darkness:
Elenya, the Moonborn Princess of Light, bearer of the Heart Sigil and keeper of the lost incantations.
And her sworn guardian, Kaelen, a child of no house, no title—only bound by loyalty, by love, and by the oath carved into his flesh.
With Lucien at their side—the enigmatic third, mage and tactician—they sought to reseal the Veil and cleanse the corruption.
But history turned.
Lucien broke the circle.
Betrayed the ritual.
Killed the princess.
Killed Kaelen.
And let the Wraiths in.
But the truth was more complicated than the songs.
Lucien did not fall entirely of his own will.
A Wraith had spoken to him—one with a golden gaze and a human voice. One who whispered of timelines, of second chances, of a way to save her without dying.
It offered him a different path.
He believed it.
And in doing so… doomed them all.
Yet in the final hour, as Caer Theron burned and the last spell circle cracked, Elenya used her final breath not to strike Lucien down, but to cast the Chrono-Seal—an ancient, forbidden incantation that shattered time itself.
It did not save the kingdom.
But it saved their souls.
Marked them.
Bound them.
To each other.
To fate.
And to the next life.
In every cycle since, the Wraiths wait.
They know the souls of Kaelen, Elenya, and Lucien will always find each other.
They know the seal is not perfect.
And they know—
This time, one of them might break.