Whispers of the Damned

The royal scholars' tent was dimly lit, the scent of parchment and candle wax thick in the air. Scrolls and tomes were stacked haphazardly across wooden tables, the remnants of desperate research.

Seraphine moved carefully, her fingers trailing over worn pages until something caught her eye—a weathered journal, its leather cover scarred by time.

She opened it, her breath catching as she read the first line:

"The Shadowborn are no mere legend. They are real. And they are watching."

Her pulse quickened. Flipping through the pages, she found crude illustrations—figures wreathed in darkness, their eyes glowing like embers. Accounts of entire villages vanishing overnight. Soldiers found with their bodies intact but their souls… gone.

The words blurred as she turned to the last, unfinished entry:

"If they have returned… then war is already lost."

A cold dread settled in her stomach.

This wasn't an enemy Kaelith could defeat with steel alone.

And if he knew—if he had been keeping this from her—then he had been preparing for a battle neither of them could possibly win.

The tent flap rustled behind her.

Seraphine spun, the journal clutched in her hands.

And in the flickering candlelight, she swore—just for a second—she saw a shadow shift unnaturally.

Watching.

Waiting.

To be continued…

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