Chapter 13 – Veil of the Forsaken

The night stretched endlessly, suffocating in its silence.

Aryan lay on his bed, his body motionless, but his mind churned with restless energy. The dim glow of the streetlights outside barely seeped through the gaps in his curtains, casting faint shadows that danced across the walls. The quiet hum of the ceiling fan filled the room, a rhythmic, mechanical noise that should have been soothing—but tonight, it only amplified the storm within him.

He exhaled slowly, trying to force his heartbeat into a steady rhythm. But no matter how much he focused, the erratic pounding in his chest refused to settle. His thoughts swirled, replaying everything that had happened, the weight of it pressing down on him like an invisible force.

The wind. The fear. The control—or lack of it.

His body had reacted before his mind could comprehend. He hadn't commanded the wind; it had obeyed him, responding to his emotions as if they were one. That moment in the alley, the way the air had shifted, violent and unrelenting—it hadn't been a coincidence.

It had been him.

Aryan squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the bedsheet as though holding onto something tangible would help ground him. But it was useless. The truth had already settled into his bones, a deep, undeniable certainty.

This wasn't normal.

This wasn't human.

And whatever was happening to him... it wasn't over.

The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.

A deep weariness settled over him, but sleep refused to come. His body ached for rest, but his mind remained sharp, wired, alert—as though expecting something. He turned onto his side, staring at the dark outline of his desk across the room. The familiar objects—books, papers, the faint glow of his phone's screen—should have been comforting. They should have reminded him that he was still here, still in his world.

But they didn't.

He felt disconnected, as if reality itself was slipping through his fingers.

His breathing slowed, his eyelids growing heavier despite the turmoil within him. The exhaustion won.

And then, the world faded.

It started with the wind.

A low howl echoed through the void, distant at first but growing stronger, like a whisper gaining force until it became a roar. Aryan felt it before he saw anything—the cold sting against his skin, the weight of the air pressing against his body, the familiar yet alien sensation of standing on the edge of something vast and unknown.

And then, the darkness lifted.

He was there again.

The cliff stretched out before him, jagged and endless, overlooking a sky that churned with restless clouds. The air was thick, charged, vibrating with a presence he couldn't name. Every gust of wind carried a whisper—not words, not voices, but something just beyond his understanding, something that sent a pulse of unease through him.

But this time, he wasn't alone.

A figure stood at the edge of the cliff, his back turned, his presence commanding yet eerily still.

The old man.

The same one he had seen before.

Aryan's breath caught in his throat. He recognized the weathered cloak billowing in the wind, the broad shoulders, the unshakable stillness that made the man seem almost unreal. But the weight of his presence—like he was something more than human, something beyond comprehension—was overwhelming.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, without turning, the man spoke in a voice that carried through the storm like thunder cutting through silence.

"You are not ready."

Aryan stiffened. The words struck something deep within him, an instinctive reaction that sent a ripple of unease down his spine.

His throat was dry, but he forced himself to speak. "Who are you?" His voice came out steadier than he felt.

The man did not answer.

Instead, he raised his head slightly, as if acknowledging the question, yet refusing to give an answer. The wind howled louder, wrapping around Aryan in a suffocating embrace, thick with something unseen.

The sky above them twisted, the clouds writhing as though alive. The air trembled with an unseen force, pressing down on Aryan's chest, making it harder to breathe.

And then, the man turned.

Aryan's breath hitched.

The face staring back at him was lined with age, but the eyes—sharp, ancient, holding depths that no human should possess—were what truly froze him. They bore into him, seeing beyond flesh, beyond the surface, into something deeper.

And around the old man's neck, hanging against his chest, was the necklace.

The same one Aryan wore.

The moment Aryan's gaze landed on it, something inside him lurched—a deep, primal recognition that sent a pulse of heat through his veins. The pendant glowed faintly, an eerie pulse that matched the erratic beating of his heart.

The old man watched him carefully. "You stand at the edge of something far greater than yourself," he said, his voice unwavering. "But power without control is destruction."

The words sank into Aryan like stones, heavy and unshakable.

The wind lashed around them, furious, relentless. The pressure in the air thickened, and for a moment, it felt as if the very world trembled beneath them.

Aryan took a step forward. "What do you mean?" His voice was sharper now, more demanding. "What is happening to me?"

The old man didn't answer.

Instead, he raised a hand.

The moment he did, the wind shifted—no, reacted. It twisted around him, bending to his will, a force that was both part of him and yet utterly separate. Aryan felt it, the raw power, the terrifying control.

And then—

The ground beneath Aryan's feet crumbled.

He barely had time to react before the cliff gave way, the rock splitting apart like fragile glass. A deafening roar filled the air as Aryan's body lurched forward, gravity seizing him, pulling him into the abyss.

His heart slammed against his ribs. His arms flailed, grasping at nothing but air. The wind screamed past him, tearing at his clothes, his skin, as he fell into the endless void below.

The old man did not move.

He simply watched.

Unblinking.

Unmoving.

And then, just before the darkness swallowed Aryan whole—

He woke up.

Aryan jolted upright in bed, his chest heaving, his body drenched in cold sweat. His hands clenched the sheets, his fingers trembling violently. His heart thundered in his chest, the echoes of the fall still lingering in his bones.

His eyes darted around the room, wild, searching for something—anything—to prove that it had just been a dream.

But it didn't feel like one.

His breath came in short, sharp bursts. He ran a shaking hand through his damp hair, his mind racing. The old man, the necklace, the wind—it had all felt too real. Too vivid.

And the words.

"You are not ready."

The weight of them sat heavy in his chest, as if they had been etched into his very being.

Aryan swallowed hard, trying to calm the frantic pounding in his skull. He could still feel it—the sensation of falling, the way the wind had wrapped around him, the way the old man had looked at him.

And the worst part?

This wasn't the first time.

It was happening again.

And this time, he couldn't shake the feeling that something—something irreversible—had already been set into motion.

His fingers drifted to his neck, brushing against the cool surface of the pendant resting against his skin.

The same pendant the old man had worn.

A slow, uneasy breath escaped his lips.

Something was coming.

And whether he was ready or not...

He was already part of it.

END OF CHAPTER 13