Blackthorn breathed differently at night. The streets, narrow and suffocating, seemed to tighten like veins constricting under pressure. Moonlight struggled to pierce the heavy clouds overhead, and when it did, it cast sickly, pale beams that danced off puddles and broken windows.

Elian moved like a shadow along the alley behind Hollow Oak Inn. His senses flared — the world speaking to him through subtle signs: distant crows that suddenly scattered, the strange silence of crickets, the faint tremor underfoot.

They were closing in.

The first strike wouldn’t come from Malrek. That wasn’t his style. Malrek preferred to watch others bloody their hands first. No — this would be someone else. A message. A test.

And there it was.

A sudden shift in the air — pressure dropping like before a storm. The faint, bitter taste of sulfur reached his tongue.

They’d sent a Hunter.

Elian stopped and turned.

From the darkness stepped a man wrapped in a tattered longcoat, his face hidden behind a bone-white mask that resembled the skull of a hound. Strange symbols were etched along its surface, faintly glowing red.

"Elian Dorne," the masked figure spoke, voice distorted, layered with something not human. "The last of the Bound. You should have stayed buried."

Elian’s fingers twitched near the hilt of his blade. “I was never buried,” he replied calmly. “Just resting.”

The Hunter cocked his head. "You’re interfering with matters that no longer concern you. The Seal will break. The old masters will rise. You cannot stop what has already begun."

"Is that so?" Elian’s voice grew sharper. "Then why send a disposable wretch like you to speak for them?"

The Hunter didn’t answer.

Instead, he attacked.

The movement was instantaneous — faster than any human could track. The Hunter leapt, twin hooked blades appearing from under his coat, slashing through the air like lightning. Elian sidestepped the first swing, feeling the blades slice through the empty space beside his face, close enough to feel the air shift.

The second strike came lower, aiming for his ribs.

Elian spun, the silver blade in his hand flashing under moonlight. Sparks burst as metal collided, sending a jarring vibration up his arm.

The Hunter was stronger than a Lesser Shade. This was flesh and spirit fused — a living vessel imbued with forbidden rites.

"You’re slowing," the Hunter sneered.

Elian said nothing.

He stepped back, raising his free hand. Symbols burned in the air around him — runes from the Old Tongue — and the ground beneath the Hunter’s feet cracked, pulsing with gold light.

The Hunter leapt back, but not fast enough — golden chains of pure energy lashed up from the ground, snaring his legs, arms, throat. He struggled violently, but the bindings tightened, burning through his coat, searing into flesh.

Elian approached, voice calm but cold. “Tell your masters they’ll need better than you.”

The Hunter’s distorted voice rasped, even as the chains burned deeper: “They know what you are, Dorne. They remember what you were meant to be.”

Elian’s eyes narrowed. "Then let them remember this."

With a whispered command, the runes flared. The Hunter let out one final shriek before his body was crushed inward, collapsing into itself in a flash of golden light — gone, leaving only scorched black marks on the concrete.

The wind picked up, scattering ash like black snow.

Elian exhaled slowly. The effort cost him more than he let on.

The seal was weakening faster than he feared.

He returned to the Inn under cover of fog. Marla was waiting in the dimly lit lobby, her pale eyes darting nervously toward the door every few seconds.

"You shouldn’t have gone out tonight," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

"They were waiting for me. They’ll keep sending more," Elian replied.

Marla bit her lip. “The wards around Blackthorn won’t hold much longer.”

Elian studied her, eyes narrowing slightly. "You know more than you’ve let on."

Marla’s breath hitched.

"My grandmother… she was part of the Old Pact. One of the last Bloodbinders before the council dissolved." She swallowed. "She taught me a few things, before she—before they found her."

Elian’s expression darkened. "The Cult?"

Marla nodded.

"They’ve been here for years," she whispered. "Lurking in plain sight. Shopkeepers. Priests. Teachers. Some of the oldest families bowed quietly to the masters. The rest of us… we just tried to stay invisible."

"The Cult of the Hollow Veil," Elian said softly. "Always working in the shadows. Preparing the ground for the Gate to open."

Marla looked up, fear written plainly across her face. "You said you won’t be alone for long. Who else is coming?"

Elian stepped closer. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper.

"I’m not the only one left," he said. "There are still fragments of the old bloodlines hidden across the world. If I can awaken them, we may have a chance."

"And if you can’t?" she asked.

"Then Blackthorn falls," Elian answered. "And after Blackthorn, the rest of the world."

Far beyond the town, deep beneath a forgotten chapel in the woods, robed figures gathered around a circular altar inscribed with symbols older than recorded history.

A single flame hovered above the altar, spinning unnaturally.

The High Priest of the Hollow Veil spoke in a voice that seemed to echo from every wall at once.

"The Quiet Immortal has returned."

Around him, his followers hissed and chanted in languages long dead.

"The Bound One has awakened," the priest continued. "We must accelerate the opening. Prepare the Host."

A shrouded figure stepped forward, its hands clasped around a crystal vial pulsing with black and crimson liquid.

"The blood of the Seer is ready, Master."

The High Priest smiled beneath his mask.

"Then we begin."