They moved at dawn.

The Hollow Veil was not a place, not truly.
It was a fracture — a place where reality bent thin.
Where the Old Masters whispered beneath the skin of the world.

As Elian, Cray, and Lysara approached the final breach, even the air seemed alive — humming softly, vibrating against their bones. The trees were pale and twisted, their roots bleeding black sap. The sun above them was only a suggestion behind layers of grey cloud.

"Smells like death," Cray muttered.

"It is," Lysara said quietly. Her voice had steadied since her awakening, but the weight of old power still coiled beneath her words. "This place feeds on despair. It was never meant for mortals."

"And yet here we are," Elian said, stepping forward.

Ahead, the path narrowed into a great stone arch — ancient, cracked, half-swallowed by the earth. Carved into the arch were the old runes of the Pact, but inverted — perverted — repurposed by the Cult.

Beyond the arch lay a sprawling temple — the Hollow Veil Sanctuary.

Dozens of towering black spires spiraled upward, piercing the sky like jagged teeth. At the center, a vast courtyard pulsed with crimson light. Cultists in blood-red robes moved in synchronized circles, their chants blending into a low, constant hum that seemed to vibrate inside Elian’s skull.

The Host stood in the center — a towering abomination of shifting flesh and bone, its many eyes blinking in arrhythmic pulses. Beside it, standing unnaturally still, was the third Anchor.

Or what was left of him.

"Is that him?" Cray whispered.

"Yes," Elian said, jaw tight. "His name was Calen."

The man they once knew was gone.

His skin was pale and translucent, pulsing with black veins that fed into the ground beneath him like roots. His eyes were black voids, his mouth curled into a slack, permanent smile. Tendrils of energy coiled around his limbs — the Cult's corruption had fused him into the Veil itself.

Lysara’s voice trembled. "They've turned him into a conduit."

Elian gripped the Memory Blade tightly. "They’re using him to break the Seal from within."

Cray’s expression darkened. "And if they succeed?"

"The gate opens," Elian said flatly. "The Old Masters return."

Suddenly, the chanting ceased.

The Cultists stopped as one, turning their heads unnaturally toward Elian’s group.

The Host shifted its mass, releasing a low, gurgling growl.

Then Malrek stepped forward from the far end of the courtyard.

He looked exactly as Elian remembered.

Tall. Pale. Ageless. His long coat of black silk whispered across the stone floor, his silver hair flowing freely behind him. The same cold smile painted across his sharp face.

"Elian," Malrek called, his voice smooth as oil. "You’ve come after all. I had begun to think you’d lost your resolve."

"Let him go," Elian demanded, stepping closer.

Malrek laughed — a sound filled with genuine amusement. "Always so noble. Still playing at heroism even after all these centuries? You know as well as I do that there is no freedom here, Elian. Only purpose."

"You call this purpose?"

"I call it evolution." Malrek gestured to Calen, whose vacant eyes twitched slightly. "The world is rotten, bound to a dead pact written by frightened men. The Old Masters offer release. Power beyond these petty bindings."

Elian’s eyes narrowed. "You were one of us. You swore the Oath."

"And you still cling to it like a child clings to his mother’s hand," Malrek sneered. "I broke my chains, Elian. I accepted the truth."

Behind him, the Host pulsed in rhythm with his words, as if feeding from his conviction.

Cray spat on the ground. "You mean you sold your soul."

Malrek smiled thinly. "Souls are currency. And I have grown very rich."

The wind shifted.

Elian felt it — the gathering surge of power beneath their feet. The ritual was near its climax. Calen’s body trembled as energy crackled around him, the crimson veins growing brighter.

They had minutes at best.

"We don’t have time for speeches," Lysara whispered.

"No," Elian agreed. "We don’t."

He stepped forward, raising the Memory Blade, its silver edge glowing bright as a beacon.

Malrek’s eyes narrowed. "You won’t make it to him, Elian. The Host hungers for you."

With a shriek, the Host lunged forward.

The battle began instantly.

The Host’s limbs extended in impossible directions, tendrils of bone and sinew whipping toward them. Cray hurled a burst of wardfire, forcing several tendrils back, while Lysara raised both hands, speaking an incantation that summoned a dome of silver light around them.

"Go!" she shouted.

Elian sprinted, blade slicing through the reaching limbs, the pulse of the Seal growing stronger with each step.

Malrek moved to intercept.

Their blades clashed mid-air, ancient steel screaming as they struck.

"You were always predictable," Malrek hissed.

"And you were always wrong," Elian growled.

They moved like shadows — parrying, striking, twisting — their blades speaking the language of old wars. Every clash sent bursts of raw energy into the air, distorting the ground beneath them.

Behind them, Cray struggled to hold the ward as the Host battered it relentlessly, its many eyes leaking black ichor.

"We're running out of time!" Cray roared.

Elian broke free of Malrek’s guard for a split second — enough to slip past him and reach the dais where Calen stood.

The third Anchor’s eyes twitched again — something human flickering beneath the black void.

"Calen," Elian said, voice steady. "I know you’re still there."

The corrupted Anchor’s jaw trembled.

"Elian…" a faint whisper escaped his lips. "Help… me…"

Elian raised the Memory Blade and spoke the invocation one final time.

"By pact, by blood, by sacrifice — the Anchor stirs. The Weave accepts."

The blade struck the ground.

Golden light erupted in a violent burst, swallowing the black tendrils feeding into Calen. The corruption screamed as it was burned away, the crimson veins snapping like cut wires.

Calen collapsed.

The Seal pulsed.

The Third Anchor was awakened.

Malrek stumbled, clutching his chest, his connection severed.

"No!" he howled. "You fool! You’ve only delayed the inevitable!"

Elian raised his blade toward him. "Then I’ll keep delaying it. For as long as it takes."

The Host let out a final shriek as its mass began to dissolve, its form collapsing into ash and bone, consumed by the sealing light.

The Sanctuary shook as the energies recoiled.

The Hollow Veil screamed as its fracture sealed shut.

And then — silence.

When it was over, Elian stood beside the three Anchors — himself, Lysara, and Calen — the Pact reforged, the Seal stable once more.

But as Cray stepped forward, blood dripping from his mouth, his face pale, he whispered weakly:

"This isn’t over, is it?"

Elian shook his head.

"No," he said. "The Hollow sleeps. But it always dreams."

And somewhere, far beyond the edges of their world, something ancient shifted again — waiting.