Chapter 13;- The Sorcerer's Return

The air crackled with unseen energy, a subtle tremor in the fabric of reality itself. In the heart of the newly united kingdom, where banners of war had finally been lowered and peace had begun to take root, an old presence stirred.

Rhaegar stood on the highest balcony of his keep, overlooking the sprawling city that had once been a battlefield. The scars of war still remained—burnt-out buildings, broken walls, remnants of a past filled with bloodshed. Yet there was rebuilding. Merchants lined the streets again, children played where corpses once lay, and the people, once afraid to speak his name, now uttered it with a strange mix of fear and reverence.

But tonight, something felt wrong.

The sky was darker than usual, an unnatural shade of violet painting the heavens as if something ancient and unseen had awoken. The torches along the castle walls flickered violently, their flames dancing as if whispering a warning.

Lucian, who had been in the middle of making a sarcastic remark about Rhaegar's brooding, paused mid-sentence. His usual smirk faded as he turned to the horizon. "You feel that?"

Rhaegar nodded. He did.

And then, the bells rang.

Not the bells of celebration, nor the tolls of mourning. These were the bells of alarm—deep, resounding, urgent.

Rhaegar turned sharply, his crimson cloak billowing as he strode toward the nearest guard. "Report."

The soldier was pale, gripping his spear as if it were the only thing keeping him from collapsing. "M-magic, Your Majesty. At the gates. A storm—no, a presence—it just appeared out of nowhere."

Magic.

Rhaegar's fingers curled slightly at the word. He had seen what magic could do—what it had done to him. It had killed him once. Almost.

Lucian exhaled. "Of course. The world finally starts to settle down, and now we've got some supernatural nonsense happening."

Rhaegar ignored him and descended the stairs two at a time, his sword strapped to his back, his presence alone enough to part the crowd of nervous soldiers gathering at the main entrance. The gates of his castle stood open, the guards hesitant to approach the lone figure standing before them.

A figure clad in flowing dark robes, the edges of his cloak rippling as if caught in an unseen wind. His face was shadowed by the hood, but the moment he lifted his head, Rhaegar recognized him.

Velion.

The Sorcerer of the Abyss.

A man who had vanished from history itself long before Rhaegar had ever taken the throne.

"Well," Velion said, his voice smooth, almost amused. "You look better than the last time I saw you. Less... dead."

The soldiers tensed. Some reached for their swords, others hesitated, unsure if steel would even be effective against whatever this was.

Rhaegar didn't react. He merely stepped forward, leveling his gaze with the sorcerer's. "I should have known you weren't truly gone."

Velion spread his arms. "And miss all of this? Please. I have a habit of returning when things get interesting."

Lucian muttered under his breath. "I hate magic users."

Velion grinned. "Likewise, dear knight."

Rhaegar studied him, his mind already assessing a hundred possibilities. Velion had been a legend—a ghost story told in whispers among scholars and warriors alike. A sorcerer so powerful that kings had sought his aid, and later, his destruction. But none had ever truly succeeded in erasing him.

And now, after all this time, he had returned.

Rhaegar exhaled. "Why are you here?"

Velion's smirk didn't falter, but there was something sharper in his expression now. "Because, my dear king, the war you fought? The kingdoms you crushed? The throne you now sit upon? None of it matters."

The wind howled around them, and for the first time in years, Rhaegar felt something stir in his chest.

Not anger.

Not vengeance.

But dread.

Rhaegar's fingers twitched at his side, a reflex he hadn't quite shaken, despite the years of battle hardening him into something unshakable. But Velion's words were more than just arrogance; they carried weight, a certainty that made even the wind hesitate.

"None of it matters?" Rhaegar repeated, his voice low and edged like a blade. "I didn't carve my way through war, through betrayal, through death itself, just to hear a sorcerer crawl out of the abyss and tell me my throne is meaningless."

Velion chuckled, slow and deliberate, like someone who knew far more than he was letting on. "Oh, I don't mean it as an insult, dear king. Your reign is impressive, truly. But even you must realize that history is fickle. Thrones fall. Empires crumble. The real war? It was never here."

Lucian, standing just beside Rhaegar, crossed his arms, unimpressed. "You magical types always talk like that. All cryptic and dramatic. Why don't you just say what you mean instead of making us guess?"

Velion tilted his head, amused. "Where's the fun in that?"

Lucian scoffed. "I hate sorcerers."

"Mutual, I assure you."

Rhaegar ignored them both. His eyes remained locked onto Velion's, searching, waiting. He'd learned to recognize deception, the subtle shifts in body language that betrayed a liar's words. But Velion... Velion was unreadable. A ghost of a man who had lived long before Rhaegar was ever born.

"The real war," Rhaegar said, testing the words on his tongue. "If it wasn't here, then where?"

Velion's smirk faded just slightly. "The world is older than you think, King of Veldrith. And not all wars are fought with steel." His gloved fingers traced an invisible pattern in the air, and the torches along the castle walls flickered unnaturally. "There are things that even you, in all your power, are not prepared for."

Rhaegar's patience thinned. "Then prepare me."

Velion raised a brow. "So eager to face the unknown?"

"I didn't survive betrayal, war, and death to be afraid of the unknown."

Velion exhaled a quiet laugh. "Bold. Foolish, perhaps, but bold." His eyes darkened, the violet hue in them shimmering. "There is an ancient power stirring, deeper than even the abyss you once gazed into. It is waking, and when it rises, your throne—your kingdom—everything you've built will be dust beneath its feet."

Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Lucian shifted. "Well, that sounds fantastic. Really. Just what we needed after a full-blown war—another nightmare coming to tear everything apart."

Velion shrugged. "You could always ignore me. Go on ruling your little kingdom, pretending none of this is happening. But when the ground trembles and the skies bleed, you'll remember this conversation."

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. "And what do you want?"

Velion's lips curled into something unreadable. "To offer a choice."

Lucian huffed. "Oh, great. Here we go. A magical bargain. Let me guess—he has to sell his soul, sacrifice a goat, or dance under the moonlight?"

Velion ignored him. "You can pretend none of this concerns you. Live out your days as the feared and revered ruler of Veldrith. Or—" He stepped forward, and for the first time, Rhaegar felt it. The weight of his presence. It wasn't like the overwhelming force of an army, nor the suffocating dread of an executioner's axe. It was different. A force that pressed against reality itself, bending it slightly at the edges.

"You can fight," Velion continued, voice quieter now. "Not for revenge. Not for a throne. But for something greater."

Rhaegar held his gaze, unflinching. "And if I refuse?"

Velion's smile returned. "Then you will watch as everything you have bled for is swallowed by the dark."

Lucian muttered under his breath, "You really know how to kill the mood, don't you?"

Velion tilted his head. "It's a gift."

Rhaegar exhaled slowly. He had thought the war had ended. That the bloodshed was behind him, that the echoes of battle would finally fade into the past. But the past had a way of clawing back, dragging its victims into new wars before they could even breathe.

And yet...

He had not come this far to let his kingdom crumble to something unseen.

He turned slightly, just enough to catch Lucian's gaze. His oldest friend. His most trusted warrior. The man who had stood beside him through death and beyond.

Lucian rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't even say it. You already know I'm in. Not like I have a choice, considering you'd probably drag me into this nonsense anyway."

Rhaegar smirked. Then, he turned back to Velion. "Fine. Tell me what we're up against."

Velion's grin sharpened. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough."

And as the torches flickered once more, the night seemed to grow even darker.

Rhaegar's fingers tightened on the armrest of his throne, his nails pressing faint dents into the polished surface. The air had changed, thickening with something unseen, something that sent a shiver of unease through the room despite his iron will. Lucian, standing beside him, had fallen silent—a rare occurrence, and one that only happened when he was truly thinking.

Velion, the enigmatic sorcerer, stood there with his smirk still in place, as if he already knew what decision Rhaegar would make. It was infuriating, the way magic-users spoke in riddles, always a step ahead, always keeping the real truths veiled in layers of deception.

Rhaegar finally exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. "If you're done with the theatrics, explain. What is this power? Where does it come from? And why should I believe a single word you say?"

Velion chuckled, his fingers twitching ever so slightly at his sides. The torches in the chamber flickered again, though there was no wind. "Believe me or don't, it makes no difference. But I know you, Rhaegar. You're not the kind of man who ignores a threat simply because it hasn't bared its teeth yet. And make no mistake—this one will."

Lucian scoffed, rubbing his temple. "Could you not speak like a cryptic old bat for five minutes? Just lay it out. What are we fighting this time? Demons? Undead? A goddamn army of cursed chickens?"

Velion rolled his eyes. "Must you ruin every dramatic moment?"

"It's a gift," Lucian shot back.

Rhaegar's patience wore thinner by the second. He leaned forward slightly, his crimson cloak pooling around him like a tide of blood. "Enough. If this 'threat' is coming, I need to know what I'm up against."

Velion finally seemed to relent. His smirk faded slightly, and his expression turned more serious, more calculating. He took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "There is an ancient force sealed beneath the ruins of Valtor—a place long forgotten by even the oldest texts. It is not merely a monster or an army, Rhaegar. It is a force beyond mortal understanding. And the seal that binds it is weakening."

Lucian frowned. "And let me guess—if it breaks, we all die horribly?"

Velion's gaze darkened. "No. If it breaks, death would be a mercy."

Silence stretched across the room like a drawn bowstring. Even the ever-present crackling of the torches seemed to have quieted, as if the castle itself was listening.

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. "And what do you expect me to do about it?"

Velion smirked again, but this time, there was no humor in it. Only grim understanding. "What you do best, of course. Wage war."

Lucian groaned. "You have to be kidding me. We just finished one war. Can't we get a single moment to breathe before another doomsday scenario lands in our laps?"

Velion shrugged. "The world does not wait for weary kings, Lucian."

Rhaegar sat back, processing everything. If Velion spoke the truth, then whatever was trapped beneath Valtor was beyond anything he had ever faced. He had conquered armies, crushed betrayals, and slaughtered his enemies without hesitation. But this? A force that could supposedly unravel the world itself?

He had two choices: ignore it, dismiss Velion as a liar, and rule in peace until the worst came to pass—or face it head-on and prevent catastrophe before it began.

There was no real choice at all.

Rhaegar sighed, rubbing his temple. "You're going to tell me you have a plan, aren't you?"

Velion's smirk returned, lighter this time. "Of course I do."

Lucian groaned again, slumping against the wall dramatically. "Oh, fantastic. Another suicidal mission. I swear, one of these days, I'm just going to retire, find some remote farm, and live peacefully with some chickens."

"You'd last a day," Rhaegar said dryly.

"Half a day, tops," Velion added.

Lucian scowled. "Why do I even bother?"

Velion ignored him, his focus returning fully to Rhaegar. "We need to travel to Valtor before the seal shatters entirely. If we reach it in time, we may be able to reinforce the binding, or at least prepare for what's coming. But we won't be the only ones after it."

Rhaegar arched a brow. "Who else?"

Velion's eyes gleamed. "There are always those who seek to unmake the world. You of all people should know that."

Lucian huffed. "You mean cultists? Zealots? The usual idiots who think summoning an eldritch horror is a good idea?"

"More or less," Velion said. "But these ones... they're more organized than you'd expect. They know exactly what they're doing."

Rhaegar's expression remained unreadable. "Then we leave at dawn."

Lucian groaned again. "Seriously? No rest? No grand feast? Just—we leave at dawn?"

Rhaegar shot him a flat look. "Do you want the world to end?"

Lucian sighed. "Not particularly, no."

"Then prepare."

Velion grinned. "I knew you'd make the right choice."

Rhaegar stood, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the massive doors of the hall. "We ride for Valtor. And if this force you speak of truly exists, then I'll do what I must."

Velion's smirk widened. "I never doubted it."

Lucian muttered under his breath as he followed. "I hate magic."

And as the doors swung open, revealing the cold, star-filled sky beyond, the true battle had already begun.

The castle halls echoed with the hurried footsteps of servants and guards as Rhaegar, Lucian, and Velion walked side by side toward the war room. The tension in the air was thick, a silent storm brewing between them. Every decision from this point forward would shape the future, and none of them could afford a single mistake.

Lucian, ever the skeptic, shot a side glance at Velion. "You still haven't explained how you know so much about this seal. Ancient forces locked away, the world on the verge of ruin—sounds like the kind of thing people usually forget about after a few centuries."

Velion, who had been absently adjusting the cuffs of his dark robes, grinned without looking at him. "Not everyone forgets. Some of us make it our business to remember."

Rhaegar, still unreadable as ever, came to an abrupt stop in front of the war room doors. His piercing gaze met Velion's. "Then start talking."

Velion's smirk faded, and with a slow inhale, he finally indulged them.

"The seal beneath Valtor wasn't placed there by mere mortals. It was the work of the First Sorcerers, those who wielded magic before even the oldest kingdoms were built. The force they locked away wasn't just some mindless beast—it was a willful entity, one that had already brought the world to ruin once before."

Lucian scoffed. "Oh, wonderful. An apocalypse waiting to happen."

Velion continued, undeterred. "They managed to trap it, but the magic that holds it at bay has weakened over time. The war, the destruction, the chaos we've seen over the past years… all of it has made the seal more fragile. And there are those who want it to break."

Rhaegar folded his arms. "The cultists."

Velion nodded. "They believe that the entity is not a destroyer, but a god. That when it is freed, it will reward them with power beyond imagination."

Lucian snorted. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Has blind devotion ever worked out for people?"

Velion's smirk returned. "History suggests otherwise."

Rhaegar exhaled, his mind already working through the possibilities. "And let me guess… you want me to stop it."

Velion inclined his head. "Who else? No one commands power and loyalty as you do. If we do nothing, the seal will shatter. And if that happens, the world won't have the luxury of another war. There will be nothing left."

Lucian let out an exaggerated sigh. "You realize we just finished rebuilding after the last war, right? At this rate, I should just start sleeping in my armor."

Rhaegar ignored him. His mind was made up. "We leave at dawn. Gather my best warriors. We march for Valtor."

The War Room—Planning the March

The massive war table was covered with old maps, hastily drawn battle strategies, and reports from spies scattered across the continent. Rhaegar, Lucian, and Velion stood over it, while several trusted commanders and advisors lined the edges, awaiting orders.

Rhaegar's fingers traced the map, stopping at a faded, nearly forgotten ruin marked as Valtor. "How defensible is this place?"

Velion leaned in, tapping a point near the ruins. "It's surrounded by jagged mountains, with only two viable paths leading in. One is narrow, easy to defend but slow to traverse. The other is open terrain—fast, but an ambush waiting to happen."

Lucian drummed his fingers against the table. "If I were a lunatic cultist trying to awaken an ancient horror, where would I set up shop?"

Velion smirked. "Near the ruins, close enough to the seal itself. They'll need direct access to break it."

Rhaegar nodded. "Then we take the narrow path. We control the pace of battle. If they try to ambush us, we'll force them into a bottleneck."

Lucian grinned. "Finally, a war strategy that doesn't involve me getting shot at from all sides."

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. "No promises."

Departure—A Journey into the Unknown

The morning air was crisp, the sky still painted in hues of dawn as the army assembled. Hundreds of warriors stood in disciplined rows, their armor glinting in the early light. Horses stamped impatiently, banners fluttered in the wind, and the rhythmic clang of metal on metal filled the air as soldiers made their final preparations.

Rhaegar rode at the front, his crimson cloak billowing behind him, the weight of command resting heavily on his shoulders. Lucian rode beside him, his usual smirk replaced with something more serious. Velion, ever the enigma, kept pace on a black steed, his robes somehow untouched by the dust kicked up around them.

As they neared the mountain pass leading to Valtor, an uneasy silence settled over the company. The path ahead was dark, the mountains looming like silent sentinels. The sense of something unseen watching them was palpable.

Lucian adjusted his grip on the reins. "So… anyone else getting the feeling that we're walking straight into a horror story?"

Velion chuckled. "A bit late for regrets, don't you think?"

Rhaegar ignored them both, his focus on the path ahead. There was no turning back now.

The Battle Begins—The Cultists' Trap

The first attack came at dusk. Shadows moved among the rocks, figures cloaked in darkness striking with eerie precision. The cultists were not mere zealots—these were trained warriors, moving in coordination, aiming to cut through the ranks swiftly.

Rhaegar's sword flashed as he dismounted, cutting through the first attacker with ruthless efficiency. The battlefield erupted into chaos, shouts and steel clashing against the backdrop of a darkening sky.

Lucian fought at his side, quick and agile, dodging strikes and delivering his own with brutal efficiency. Velion, standing at a distance, lifted his hands, and the air shimmered with arcane energy as bolts of light shot from his fingertips, striking down enemy after enemy.

Rhaegar growled as he deflected a blade aimed at his throat. "They were waiting for us."

Velion smirked even as he cast another spell. "Of course they were."

Lucian gritted his teeth, dodging another strike. "You could have mentioned that before we walked into their trap!"

Rhaegar didn't respond. He didn't need to. His focus was on cutting a path through the enemy, leading his forces forward. The battle was brutal, but his soldiers held their ground.

The cultists fought like fanatics, with no regard for their own lives. But Rhaegar had fought armies before—he knew how to break an enemy's will.

With a final, devastating charge, his forces shattered the cultists' line. The survivors fled, vanishing into the darkness, leaving only the ruins of Valtor ahead.

The Final Approach—A Seal Weakening

The ruins were ancient, crumbling pillars and forgotten stones stretching toward the heavens like skeletal remains of a bygone age. In the center of it all was a massive stone altar, carved with runes that pulsed faintly with an otherworldly light.

Velion stepped forward, his expression unusually serious. "It's weaker than I thought. We don't have much time."

Rhaegar sheathed his sword, staring at the pulsing runes. "Then we do what we came here to do."

Lucian crossed his arms. "And if this doesn't work?"

Velion smirked. "Then we hope you're good at improvising."

Rhaegar exhaled, stepping closer to the altar. He wasn't one to believe in destiny. He had carved his own fate, forged his own path.

But as he placed his hand on the stone, as the power surged through him, he knew—this was only the beginning.