Prologue: The Last Whisper

The wind carried the scent of dying embers as Aric stumbled to his knees at the cliff's edge. His armor—once gleaming gold—now hung dull and battered, the crest of the Sun Court barely visible beneath layers of grime and blood. Five years. Five years since the Veil had torn open and stolen everything from him.

His calloused fingers dug into the damp earth as he squeezed his eyes shut. The memory played behind his eyelids like a cruel jest: Lyria's silver hair whipping in the magical storm, her slender fingers slipping through his as the rift between worlds pulled her away. That final, desperate cry of his name—*"Aric!"*—still haunted his dreams.

A gust of wind moaned through the Weirwood branches above him. Then—

*"Aric..."*

His breath caught. That voice. That impossible, honey-sweet voice he'd know in a thousand lifetimes.

He whirled, heart hammering against his ribs. The air before him shimmered like heat over a forge. For one terrifying, glorious moment, he saw her—*really saw her*—those violet eyes brimming with tears, her pale hand pressed against an invisible barrier.

The Veil was weakening again.

And if it broke completely, the world would end.