The wind was sharp as it cut across the high cliffs of Arcanor Ridge, carrying with it the scent of storm and shadow. Arin stood at the edge, his cloak whipping behind him, the crest on his arm glowing faintly beneath the layers of his sleeve. The message from the Forgotten Border still echoed in his thoughts. Darkness stirs.
Behind him, Elira studied the terrain with a furrowed brow, her hand resting on the hilt of her curved blade. She hadn't slept since the messenger arrived.
"You're quiet," Arin said without turning around.
"Quiet minds survive longer," she replied. "Especially when the world begins to tilt toward the abyss."
He glanced at her. "You sound like Kaelora."
A small smirk touched Elira's lips. "Years of listening to her wisdom will do that. But this isn't about her. It's about you, Arin. You're not the same boy I met in the Northern Vale. The Raven's Mark didn't just awaken magic it awakened legacy. And legacy calls blood to battle."
Arin lowered his gaze to the drop below. Somewhere far off, he could feel the tremble of the Wyrmwall's breach. He didn't know how. He just did. The Mark had woven his senses into the very veins of the land.
"Do you think I'm ready?" he asked.
"No," Elira answered. "But no one ever is. Not truly. Power is a burden, not a gift. And those who carry it are always bleeding whether they show it or not."
Footsteps approached from behind, and both turned to see Lyra, dressed in dark training leathers, a blade strapped to her back and a bow slung across her shoulder.
"Thought I'd find you here," she said, walking up beside Arin. "You're getting good at brooding in dramatic places."
Arin chuckled. "Trying to set the mood. Epic things are about to happen."
"Elira," Lyra nodded, then turned to Arin again. "You didn't come to breakfast. The Council summoned you. Something about a new sighting in the borderlands. They want you in the war room."
Elira's expression darkened. "That's faster than I expected."
"Everything's moving fast now," Lyra said. "They've seen the creatures. Not just shadows. Real things. With eyes like burning coals and teeth that look carved from obsidian. The scouts are terrified."
Arin nodded slowly. "Then it's time I stopped being a student."
He turned and began walking back toward the academy, the heavy crunch of gravel beneath his boots somehow louder than it should've been. Elira and Lyra fell into step beside him.
As they entered the Grand Spire, the usual noise of chattering students and drifting spellcraft was gone. Silence had settled like a fog. Tension rippled through the walls, through the halls. The very magic of the academy felt… tight, like it was holding its breath.
The Council of Nine stood in a circle around a large rune-etched table in the war room. Floating above the table was a living map enchanted parchment that shifted with time and reality. The eastern edge was darker than before, its borderlines pulsing in shades of red and violet.
Kaelora's sharp eyes locked on Arin the moment he entered. "You're late, Heir."
"I was preparing," he replied. "Observing the land."
"A noble excuse," said Master Vareth, the Council's grim-faced seer. "But time does not stretch for the sake of legacy. The wards are collapsing. The veil between this world and the Forgotten is thinning."
Another Councilor, Serath of the Southern Flame, gestured to the map. "Our scouts recorded this yesterday near the ruins of Dranmoor. Tell us what you see."
Arin stepped closer and watched as the map zoomed into motion. A black smear moved across the ruins like a sentient shadow. Shapes emerged distorted creatures with too many limbs and eyes that blinked out of sync. One of them lifted its head and stared directly at the projection as if sensing them.
The room tensed.
"It's not just a breach," Arin said, his voice cold and steady. "It's an invasion. They're probing the veil. Looking for weaknesses."
Lyra's face paled slightly. "How do you know?"
"Because I can feel them. The Mark... it's like a beacon. It senses them. They're not just mindless things. They're coordinated. Intelligent."
A deep, uncomfortable silence followed.
Kaelora spoke, her voice low. "Then we must act. Arin, you will not go alone. You'll lead a scouting party to the ruins of Dranmoor. Assess the situation firsthand. Confirm the breach."
Lyra stepped forward. "I'm going with him."
"No," Kaelora said quickly. "We need our best archers here."
"I'm not asking," Lyra said firmly. "You trained me, Kaelora. You know I'm one of the best. And he'll need someone who knows how to cover his back."
Elira placed a calming hand on Kaelora's arm. "She's right. They work better together than apart."
Kaelora hesitated, then nodded. "Very well. But you'll take three more. Elira, go with them. And take young Calder from the Shadow Wardens and Mira from the Elemental Circle. They're fast, skilled, and expendable if needed."
Arin bristled at the last word but didn't protest.
They set out at dusk.
The skies were overcast, casting the land in perpetual twilight. Magic shimmered across the horizon like cracks in reality. The group moved in silence, each person attuned to the tension in the air.
As they approached the outskirts of Dranmoor, the temperature dropped. Trees stood dead and twisted, their bark scorched black. The very ground crackled beneath their feet as if rejecting life.
"This is recent," Elira said. "These weren't here three days ago."
Arin extended his senses. The Mark flared in response. Cold. Hungry. Watching. He could feel the veil thin as gossamer stretching between worlds.
"We're close," he said.
They reached the heart of the ruins by nightfall. The stones of the ancient fortress lay broken, scattered like the bones of a long-dead giant. But at its center, a pulsing tear in the fabric of reality hovered an open rift. From it, the creatures emerged.
They didn't walk. They slithered, skittered, floated. Shaped by madness. Formless yet formed. One spotted them, shrieked a high-pitched keening sound that twisted in Arin's skull.
"Runes!" Elira shouted, drawing her blade.
Mira began tracing circles in the air, invoking barriers of light and flame. Calder slipped into the shadows, daggers drawn.
Lyra loosed an arrow. It struck the creature's eye. It screamed but kept coming.
Arin stepped forward, his Mark blazing now. The air around him bent, shimmered. He extended his hand, and from it, ravens of light burst forth spiritual projections of the Raven's Mark, screaming through the air and slamming into the beasts.
The creatures faltered. Two fell. But more emerged from the rift.
"We can't win this here," Elira yelled. "We need to collapse the rift."
"How?" Arin demanded.
"Your blood," she said. "The chamber recognized you. The Mark obeys you. You can command the seal."
Arin closed his eyes. Reached inward.
He saw the chamber again. The runes. The first Keeper's voice.
"Blood is the key. Speak, and it shall close."
He cut his palm with a blade. Blood dripped onto the stone. He raised his hand.
"I am Arin, Heir of the Last Bloodline! I bind this rift by the right of the Raven's Mark! Seal it!"
The wind roared. The sky cracked.
The rift began to shudder.
A massive creature surged from the tear, its mouth a spiraling void, eyes glowing red. It charged.
Lyra screamed, "Arin!"
He didn't move.
He commanded.
"BEGONE!"
The Mark flared blinding light in a storm of darkness.
The rift exploded inward, swallowing the beast with it.
Then silence.
Ash rained from the sky. The ground stilled.
Lyra ran to Arin, catching him as he stumbled. "You did it."
He looked at her, barely standing. "One rift down. How many more to go?"
Elira joined them, eyes heavy with pride and fear. "That wasn't a breach. That was a test. A scout. Something bigger is coming."
Arin turned back to the now-silent ruins, his Mark pulsing softly.
"This war has already started," he whispered. "And we're behind."