✦ CHAPTER TWO
The Raven's Summons
Villagers didn't see the scythe vanish. They didn't see the soul feather dissolve. All they saw was Eryndor standing in the rain beside a dead man, the mud beneath him stained red.
The raven of bone remained, perched unnaturally still on the fence post.
Its skull was smooth — too smooth — like sculpted ivory. Its wings were nothing but spines wrapped in tattered shadow. Rain slid through it like it wasn't entirely part of this world.
Eryndor forced himself to breathe.
"Leave," he whispered.
The raven tilted its head. Its beak cracked open, releasing a grinding, skeletal caw.
Thunder answered.
This isn't real, Eryndor told himself. I'm exhausted. Grief is messing with my mind.
Then the raven dropped the scroll at his feet.
He stared at it. No markings on the outside. No seal.
Only a faint whisper:
Read.
His hand trembled as he unraveled the wet parchment.
Letters burned into existence, formed from strands of silver mist.
ERYNDOR VALEN, BEARER OF THE VEIL
You have reaped your first soul.
By ancient law, you are summoned to the Citadel of the Veil before the waning moon.
Refusal is not permitted.
— High Reaper Kaelith
The raven dissolved into dust.
Eryndor stood alone, the scroll hanging in his fingers.
The next morning, rumors cracked through Branth like dry branches.
"He was found beside a dead knight—"
"Burn that field. Bad omens linger."
"He had a mark on his palm. I saw it."
Eryndor tried to ignore the stares as he walked through the market square. He kept his hand wrapped in cloth — he didn't want to see the mark either, didn't want to remember the warmth of the soul dissolving in his palm.
But whispers clung to him like frost.
At the well, children stopped playing and bolted. A woman crossed herself and spat to ward off evil.
Death-touched, they hissed.
He had been invisible yesterday. Now he was a curse.
Inside his small home, Eryndor packed in silence. A few pieces of dried meat. A change of clothes. His mother's old brooch — a silver feather.
He had no idea where the Citadel of the Veil was. No direction. No map. Only an impossible command written in light.
A soft knock came at the door.
Eryndor turned, bracing himself for fear in someone's eyes.
But it was Lysa.
Her hair was still damp from the rain, copper curls escaping the knot she always failed to tie properly. Her brow was knit with worry.
"I heard what happened," she whispered. "Is it true?"
Eryndor swallowed. "What part?"
"That you… killed a man."
"He was dying."
"That you touched him, and he just— vanished."
"That's not how it—"
Lysa closed the door behind her and stepped closer, voice trembling.
"Eryndor, I've known you since you were too small to lift a pitchfork. If something happened, you can tell me."
Finally, he unwrapped the cloth around his hand.
The black sigil burned like a fresh brand across his palm — a circle split by a jagged line, like a crack through creation.
Lysa staggered back. "By the gods…"
"I didn't ask for this," Eryndor whispered. "I tried to help him."
"But this—" She pointed to his hand, breath shaking. "This is forbidden magic."
"I know."
"Then get rid of it!"
He let out a bitter laugh. "If you know how to erase a curse burned into my bones, I'm listening."
She grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to look at her.
"Ery, listen to me. You don't have to go anywhere. You don't owe whoever sent that— thing."
He couldn't hold her gaze. "If I stay, people get hurt."
Lysa's fingers tightened. "Then I'll go with you."
"No." The word came out harsher than he meant. "This isn't a road for anyone else."
Her eyes shone, but she nodded.
"Promise me something, then," she whispered. "Come back."
He looked down at the sigil — black flame under skin.
How do you promise return when death itself has signed your path?
"I'll try," he said.
The forest swallowed him within an hour.
The path was narrow, choked by twisted roots. Mist clung to the ground. Branches whispered like they shared secrets behind his back.
By midday, he regretted leaving the road.
By nightfall, he heard screams.
Not mortal ones — but thin, distant, like wind scraping bones. Eryndor gripped the nearest branch, knuckles white.
Not again. Please, not again.
He pressed forward.
The forest abruptly stopped.
The world beyond it was wrong.
A canyon split open the land, so deep the bottom was lost in darkness. A bridge of pure black stone arched across it — smooth, perfect, untouched by moss or time.
A lantern hung at the bridge's center.
Its flame was not fire.
It was a soul.
A woman's face flickered within it — eyes closed, lips parted in silent plea.
Eryndor's stomach dropped.
"That is a Guide Flame," a voice said behind him.
He spun.
A figure leaned against a dead tree — tall, wrapped in layered black armor that shimmered like scales made of shadow. Their hair was white as frost, eyes the color of deep amethyst.
The person was neither man nor woman — their presence simply was, sharp and cold and eternal.
"You are late," they said.
Eryndor struggled to find his voice. "Who are you?"
The stranger pushed off the tree and approached, steps silent.
"Seris Nightwell," they said. "Reaper of the Ninth Order."
Their gaze flicked to Eryndor's wrapped hand. "And you are the mistake."
Eryndor bristled. "I didn't choose this."
"No Reaper ever does."
Seris walked past him and onto the dark bridge.
Eryndor hesitated at the edge.
"What happens if I turn back?"
Seris didn't look back. "Then the Wraithborn will tear your soul apart. It will take three days. They enjoy slow meals."
Eryndor stepped onto the bridge.
The air changed.
The world around him dimmed — like night swallowed the sun. The lantern's soul-flame pulsed stronger, illuminating fractured images in the darkness.
Faces screaming. Bodies falling. A sky full of pale wings.
Eryndor's pulse hammered. "What is this place?"
Seris's voice softened, barely.
"The path to the Citadel of the Veil. Between life and death. Between fate and choice."
Eryndor touched the stone railing. It pulsed with faint warmth — like a heart buried deep inside it.
"How long until we reach the Citadel?"
Seris turned, eyes glowing faintly.
"We already have."
The darkness peeled away like burning parchment.
There was no sky — only swirling silver mist. A colossal fortress towered before them — all obsidian spires and sweeping arches, suspended over an endless river of souls. They flowed beneath it like stars caught in a current.
Eryndor's breath caught.
"It's beautiful," he whispered.
Seris's expression didn't change.
"It is a prison."
The gates groaned open.
Eryndor stepped into the citadel of death.
And the doors slammed shut behind him.