The Silver Veil

The door's slam echoed through the vast chamber, swallowing the last traces of torchlight from the hall behind her.

Seraphina turned sharply, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Darkness pressed in, thick and smothering, the air colder here than in the rest of the keep. She pressed her hands against the iron door, searching for a handle, a latch—anything—but the door did not budge.

Trapped.

She exhaled slowly, pushing the rising panic down.

The silver light pulsed ahead, faint but steady, illuminating the space in flickering flashes. She turned toward it, her fingers brushing the rough stone of the walls as she took careful steps forward.

The air here was different.

It carried a scent she could not name—something ancient, metallic, tinged with the faintest whisper of jasmine. And beneath that, something else.

Something like magic.

A whisper curled at the edge of her hearing.

Not words. Not yet.

But something.

Calling.

Seraphina moved toward the light, her heart hammering against her ribs. The chamber stretched further than she had expected, its ceiling disappearing into shadow. Old banners hung in tatters from the walls, their insignias faded beyond recognition. Broken stone littered the ground, remnants of something long forgotten.

She stepped over a shattered column, the echo of her footstep swallowed by the hush of the room.

The light led her deeper.

And then—

Her breath caught.

At the center of the chamber stood an altar.

It was made of black stone, its surface worn with age, strange carvings etched into its sides. The edges were sharp, unweathered by time, as if it had been preserved by something unnatural.

But it was what hovered above it that sent a shiver down her spine.

Suspended in the air, held aloft by nothing but the pulsing silver glow, was a sword.

She had never seen a blade like it.

It was long and slender, the metal almost too dark to be steel, but not quite black enough to be obsidian. The surface was etched with delicate runes that shimmered faintly, shifting as if they were alive. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, worn but sturdy, and the pommel was adorned with a single gemstone that seemed to shift in color with each pulse of light.

Seraphina swallowed.

The whispers grew louder.

A low, thrumming energy filled the chamber, sinking into her bones. The sword called to her—not with words, but with something deeper.

Something she could feel.

She stepped closer, drawn by a pull she could not name.

Her fingers hovered just above the hilt. The silver light flickered, almost expectantly.

The moment her skin made contact—

Ice rushed through her veins, freezing her breath in her throat.

Visions flooded her mind.

A battlefield beneath a blood-red sky.

A figure wreathed in shadows, his silver eyes burning like fire.

A vow whispered in a language she did not know, binding, unbreakable.

A crown shattered into dust.

A woman's voice, filled with sorrow.

*You must not forget.*

And then—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden, as if something had sunk its claws into her very soul.

Seraphina wrenched her hand away, gasping, stumbling back from the altar. Her knees nearly buckled, her breath coming in ragged gulps. The pain receded, but something remained.

Something inside her had changed.

She pressed a hand to her chest, as if to steady the wild pounding of her heart. The whispers had stopped. The chamber had returned to its silence.

But she was not alone.

A shadow moved at the edge of her vision.

And then, from the darkness—

"Seraphina."

The voice sent a shiver down her spine.

She turned slowly.

Alistair stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his silver eyes dark with something she could not name.

He did not look surprised to find her here.

But there was something else in his gaze—something tight, something *knowing.*

The silver light flickered around him, drawn to him like breath to flame.

The shadows curled at his feet, shifting, restless.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice quiet but firm.

Seraphina steadied herself, lifting her chin. "Neither should you."

His lips pressed into a thin line. "That sword is not meant for you."

"Then who is it meant for?" she challenged. "You?"

Alistair didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, his gaze flicking toward the altar.

The moment he did, the silver light dimmed, retreating like mist before the sun.

Seraphina's pulse quickened.

"Why does it react to you?" she asked, watching him closely.

For a fraction of a second, something passed over his face—regret, or perhaps something deeper.

"It remembers," he said simply.

Seraphina frowned. "What does that mean?"

He exhaled through his nose. "This place is old. Older than this keep, older than your family's rule. And the sword…" His gaze lingered on the blade, its runes still faintly glowing. "It is bound to the bloodline of Ravenglade."

Seraphina's breath caught.

Bound.

"Then it *is* yours," she murmured.

Alistair's jaw tightened. "No."

A single word, but it carried the weight of something unspoken.

"Then whose?" she pressed.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

And then, finally—

"It belonged to my brother."

Seraphina blinked.

"Your brother?" she echoed.

But Alistair only turned away, his posture rigid. "Come," he said. "This place is dangerous."

Seraphina hesitated, glancing once more at the sword. The gemstone in its hilt flickered faintly, as if in farewell.

She clenched her fingers.

There was more to this story.

More to *him.*

And she would find the truth—no matter what it cost.

With one last glance at the altar, she turned and followed Alistair into the dark.

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