By the time Elian reached Veilspire, dusk was clawing at the sky like a dying animal.

The road curved sharply along cliffs where no trees grew — just jagged black rock, scorched long ago by something not natural. The horses refused to go further past the final ridge. He left them behind without hesitation.

What stood ahead had been erased from most maps.

Veilspire Asylum.

It had once been a healing place — a sanctuary for war-broken minds and those touched by old magic. But when the Hollow Veil Cult began rising in secret, Veilspire became something else. A prison for the unbroken. A vault for those who knew too much.

And somewhere inside it, chained beneath saltstone and sigils, was a man who could help him awaken the second line of defense.

Aranor Cray.

A cursebreaker. A madman. A friend… once.

The front gates of the asylum hung askew on rusted hinges, squealing with the weight of years. Beyond them stretched a long, overgrown courtyard littered with moss-choked statues and torn prayer flags.

Elian stepped inside and felt the world shift.

The temperature dropped.

Reality bent.

Veilspire was no longer entirely in this world.

And something was watching him.

The interior was worse.

Walls streaked with soot. Scratched symbols — some written in blood — marked doorframes and floors. Empty cells lined the first hall, their doors hanging open, manacles swinging slowly as if recently disturbed.

Elian moved carefully, fingers grazing the warded charms carved into his belt.

He was three floors in before the voices started.

Faint, at first — like distant sobs behind glass.

Then clearer.

"You shouldn’t have come here, Elian."

He froze.

That voice. Familiar.

But impossible.

He turned a corner and came face to face with a woman whose throat had been slit from ear to ear.

She stood, smiling.

Blood still poured from her neck.

"Marla."

But it wasn’t her.

The smile cracked wider, eyes glowing with ember-red light.

"You left her to die, you know," the thing whispered.

Elian drew his blade and slashed clean through it — the illusion shattered into smoke and moths. They scattered into the shadows.

Veilspire was trying to break his mind.

That meant he was getting close.

The true cells were buried six levels underground — protected by more than just locks. Ancient wards flickered across the descent, some broken, others still pulsing with weak, flickering energy. He passed rooms that held things that were not human — failed experiments from the Cult, remnants of rituals gone wrong.

One cell door stood different from the others.

Unmarked.

Clean.

Sealed with five iron bolts.

Elian pressed his palm to it. The door shuddered.

"Cray," he said. "It’s me."

A pause.

Then laughter. Low, hoarse, familiar. Maddening.

"You still breathe," the voice rasped from within. "Didn’t expect that."

Elian began unsealing the bolts. One by one. The third fought back, a sigil flaring bright and slicing open his forearm, but he bore it in silence.

When the last lock dropped, the door swung open slowly, revealing a chamber lit by nothing but the faint glow of runes etched into the stone.

Chains hung from the ceiling. Some had clearly been used on someone. Blood crusted their edges.

In the center of the room stood Aranor Cray.

His hair had gone white. His eyes glowed faintly violet. Tattoos of warding and madness covered his bare chest. And though he looked half-dead, his grin was alive.

"Gods below, you look worse than me," he croaked.

"I need you," Elian said.

"Of course you do." Cray stretched, joints cracking like old wood. "But first — say it. Say the line."

Elian sighed. "I regret ever letting you write our battle oaths."

Cray smirked. “Say it.”

Elian closed his eyes. “By blood, fire, and really poor decisions — I summon the worst man I’ve ever known.”

"Better." Cray clapped. "I’m in."

Minutes later, the two of them were walking through the upper halls of the asylum, retracing a route Elian had once studied — toward the artifact vault.

"We need the memory blade," Elian said.

Cray raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious.”

"To awaken the second line, I need their true names. The blade stores echoes."

"Right. And it’s also cursed six ways to hell. You touch it wrong, you forget who you ever were. Or worse — you remember what you were before this life.”

"I already forgot my name."

Cray paused.

"What?"

"I gave it to the Hollow. To start the Weave."

Cray stared at him. “You insane bastard.”

Elian said nothing.

They reached the vault, and as expected — it was guarded.

But not by men.

A Warden Shade loomed before the door. Ten feet tall. Limbs stitched from countless bodies, its head a blank mask with a single rune burning across it — Judgment.

It turned its head toward them. Moved.

Cray grinned. “I’ve missed this.”

Elian drew his blade.

The Shade screamed.

And then the real battle began.