The sun had not yet risen over Logustus.
But inside the capital's heart — the Citadel of Glass — the day had already begun with silence sharper than steel.
Sir Arnold Veylen, vice-captain of the Royal Guard, stood before the council chamber. His armor gleamed faintly under the torchlight, polished but scarred from battle. Behind the great doors, voices murmured — cold, distant, powerful.
He knocked once.
A voice answered: "Enter."
The chamber was vast and dim. Twelve figures sat around a round obsidian table, faces hidden by silver masks shaped like screaming angels. The only light came from a floating crystal at the center, glowing with pale blue fire.
Arnold bowed.
"Your Majesties of the High Council. You summoned me."
A masked figure leaned forward. "Sir Arnold. Reports say the northern borders suffered three attacks this month — villages burned, no survivors. You commanded those patrols, did you not?"
Arnold's jaw tightened. "Yes, my lord. We found traces of beasts, not men."
"Beasts," the voice echoed mockingly. "And yet the corpses showed wounds made by blades, not claws."
Arnold frowned. "Perhaps… the beasts were guided."
The chamber grew still.
Then another figure — a woman's voice, smooth like poison — spoke softly:
"Tell me, Sir Arnold. Has your brother been seen since the fire at Rivenwood?"
Arnold looked up sharply.
"My brother? Marcus? He left the village weeks ago. What does he have to do with this?"
No one answered.
Instead, the woman turned to the others. "The curse has awakened. It begins again — just as the prophecies warned."
Arnold took a step forward. "I demand to know what this means."
The crystal in the center flickered, projecting a spectral image into the air — a black sigil shaped like a wolf devouring the sun.
Arnold's eyes widened. "That mark… I've seen it before. In the ruins east of Rivenwood."
The woman nodded. "Your brother was there, was he not?"
Arnold clenched his fist. "If you're accusing him of something, then say it plainly!"
The head of the council — an old man with a mask of cracked silver — finally spoke. His voice was calm, but it carried a weight that silenced everyone.
"The name Marcus Veylen appears in every record tied to the awakening of the Abyssal Sigil. You call him your brother… but tell us, Sir Arnold — do you truly know what he is?"
Arnold's voice broke into a low growl. "He is my blood. My brother. And I'll not stand by while his name is dragged through dirt."
The council fell silent. Then, one by one, they rose and departed — leaving only the old man and Arnold in the room.
When the last door shut, the old man removed his mask. His face was lined, weary, eyes dimmed by too many wars.
He sighed. "You remind me of your father — too proud for your own good."
Arnold looked up. "Tell me the truth, Lord Chancellor. Why does the council care about Marcus?"
The old man's gaze turned to the floating sigil. "Because, Sir Arnold… your brother may be the last living heir of the Abyssal Covenant. The same bloodline that once sought to break the seal between this world and the next."
Arnold stepped back. His heart pounded. "That's impossible. My family… we're farmers, not—"
"Not anymore," the chancellor interrupted softly. "The blood never forgets its origin."
He turned away. "Leave, Sir Arnold. Forget what you heard. For your sake — and his."
But Arnold didn't move.
He clenched his sword hilt. "If danger comes for my brother… I'll face it myself."
The chancellor smiled sadly. "Then the wheel of fate has begun to turn again."
Meanwhile…
Deep beneath the royal city, beyond dungeons no man was meant to enter, twelve other figures gathered — cloaked entirely in black. Their eyes glowed faintly through their hoods.
In the center of the circle floated a mark identical to the one shown to Arnold — the devouring wolf.
A voice spoke — hollow, ageless, inhuman.
"The heir has awakened. The curse stirs within his soul."
Another replied, its tone distorted:
"The council watches him, but they are blind. Let them think they hold the truth. We move when the chains begin to crack."
A third figure raised its hand, showing a crimson sigil burned into its palm.
"And what of the knight — the brother?"
"He will serve his purpose," the first voice hissed. "When the time comes, he will lead the armies of man straight into the storm."
The circle began to chant — words older than language itself.
"From blood to ash…
From ash to shadow…
The monster shall rise."
And somewhere far beyond, Marcus awoke in the forest, sweat running down his back. The same words echoed faintly in his mind.
"From blood to ash…"
He stared at his trembling hand. The veins beneath his skin pulsed with faint red light.
Marcus whispered, "Something's coming."
And far away, in the capital, Arnold raised his eyes to the dawn — unaware that his brother had just spoken the same words.
The world was beginning to shift.
The Veil of Chains had begun to move.
To be continued…