Whishpers Behind The Veil

The damp chill of the corridor clung to Kairo's cloak as he made his way down into the lower levels of the Whispering Vaults—an abandoned section of the Hall of Archives few dared enter. The flickering torch in his hand cast dancing shadows on the cracked stone walls, distorting carvings into the gnarled smiles of forgotten gods.

"Let me guess," Samhael's voice echoed from behind, light and teasing, "you found another dusty prophecy hidden behind a fake bookcase and now you're convinced it's about you."

Kairo didn't respond, his mind too absorbed in the strange dream he'd had the night before. A door. A voice. A mirror that didn't reflect him but someone else. Someone... ancient.

"You know," she continued, skipping over a loose tile like a child playing hopscotch, "I'm starting to think your dreams have better taste in drama than the Academy library."

Kairo paused, his torch illuminating a sigil carved into the door ahead. A seven-pointed star with a line cleaving through it.

Samhael peered over his shoulder, frowning. "Huh. That's not ominous at all. Definitely not cursed. Nope. Totally safe."

"You can leave if you want," Kairo said quietly.

"Leave you alone in a haunted vault? What kind of sidekick do you take me for? The pretty kind, yes, but not disloyal."

He ignored her sarcasm and pushed the door open. It groaned with the sound of ages, revealing a small, circular chamber lit by pale blue light that seemed to shimmer from nowhere. At the center stood a pedestal with an orb resting atop it. But it wasn't the orb that caught Kairo's attention—it was the runes swirling around it in the air, alive and shifting.

Samhael's jaw dropped. "That's either forbidden magic or a really fancy projection spell. Either way, I approve."

Kairo stepped closer, eyes narrowing. The runes responded to his presence, rearranging themselves into readable script:

THE WORLD HEARS WHEN YOU SPEAK. THE WORLD LISTENS WHEN YOU DECIDE. THE WORLD BURNS WHEN YOU ARE BROKEN.

"Creepy," Samhael whispered. "Also kind of poetic. Ten points to Doom House."

Kairo reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the orb. A spark jolted through him. He saw flashes—mountains crumbling, oceans roaring, cities crying out in one unified scream. And at the center, his own face—older, wearier, cracked with power.

The vision ended as quickly as it began, leaving him breathless.

Samhael grabbed his arm. "What did you see? You're paler than usual, and that's saying something."

"A warning," he muttered. "Or maybe a promise."

Before she could press further, a sound echoed from the doorway. Footsteps—deliberate, slow.

"Looks like we weren't the only ones curious about the haunted prophecy ball," Samhael whispered, drawing a small dagger from her boot. "You distract them with cryptic speeches. I'll handle the stabbing."

Kairo turned, ready to meet whoever entered.

A man stepped through—tall, wearing robes marked with gold and obsidian. His face was obscured by a porcelain mask.

"You shouldn't be here, Speaker," the man said. His voice had a strange duality, as though two people were speaking at once.

"And yet, here I am," Kairo replied evenly. "Care to explain why this room exists beneath an academy meant to train scholars, not cultists?"

The man laughed—hollow, humorless. "Because knowledge without danger is merely trivia."

"Deep," Samhael muttered. "He's definitely read Philosophy for the Deranged, Volume I."

The masked figure stepped forward. "The orb has called to many before you. All failed."

"And if I don't?"

"Then the world will hear... and it may never stop screaming."

Before Kairo could reply, the runes spun wildly, and a blast of energy pulsed from the orb, throwing all three of them back. When he opened his eyes, the masked man was gone, and the orb had dimmed.

Samhael groaned. "Next time, let's go to a cursed cafeteria instead. Less risk of explosions."

Kairo stared at the now-lifeless pedestal. He could still feel the echo of the vision in his bones.

Something had awakened.

—

Back in their dormitory later that night, Samhael was recounting their adventure to a stuffed owl she'd named "Professor O'Hooh."

"And then Kairo touched the ancient magical orb like a total maniac. Classic move. Got flung across the room. Ten out of ten for dramatic flair."

Kairo sat at his desk, quill in hand, scribbling down everything he remembered from the vision.

"You think that masked guy was one of the Veilwalkers?" she asked suddenly, more serious now.

Kairo nodded. "He knew who I was. Knew what the orb meant. That can't be coincidence."

"Well," Samhael said, flopping on her bed, "if he shows up again, remind him that masks are so last century."

Kairo chuckled—soft, but real. He appreciated her humor more than he let on. It made the weight on his shoulders a little less crushing.

But that weight was growing heavier with each passing day.

He had spoken. The world had heard.

And something in the shadows had answered.