The report arrived with the dust of the road still clinging to the scouts' boots.

"We lost them, Your Highness," the captain said, his voice low. "There was something in the forest. Some kind of veil. We couldn't see beyond a few steps."

Eidan tightened his grip on the reins.

"A veil?" he repeated. "Are you telling me a handful of fugitives disoriented you like children?"

"It wasn't just them," the scout added. "There were signs of dark magic."

The sun fell directly over the makeshift camp, yet Eidan felt an uneasy chill at the back of his neck.

"What kind of people are you with now?" he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "I feel like I know you less with every step."

He didn't wait for an answer. He signaled for them to move forward.

They reached the nearest village, where the tavern barely held its walls together. Eidan entered without announcement, followed by two guards. Conversations died instantly.

"I'm looking for three travelers," he said, his voice firm. "Two young men, light-haired, noble bearing."

"They passed through this morning, Your Highness. The white-haired one looked like a noble. Accompanied by another like him... and there was one more."

"One more?" Eidan pressed.

"The potion boy," a woman spoke up from a table. "A lad from the Black Forest."

She lowered her voice.

"A dark mage."

A murmur spread through the room.

"They bring misfortune and curses," someone else added. "Where they go, shadows follow."

The captain leaned closer to Eidan.

"They live on the margins of the kingdom, Your Highness. They practice sorcery. People fear them."

Eidan did not share those superstitions. He did not believe in curses or easy omens.

But the thought of Sven walking beside a dark sorcerer settled heavily in his chest.

"Thank you," he said curtly. He left a few coins on the counter and stepped outside.

The daylight fell over broken streets, crooked fences, barefoot children. Eidan glanced around with a faint frown. He couldn't remember the last time he had left Diodain without escorts or ceremony.

The world beyond the kingdom of the sun looked abandoned.

He pushed the thought aside. This was no time for late compassion.

"We move north," he ordered. "And this time, you will not lose them again."

Night fell over the soldiers' camp with an uneasy silence. The fires burned low, and the men slept in shifts.

That night, the king could not sleep.

He rose when no one was watching and walked away from the tents, following an indescribable pull.

He thought of Sven—of the words left unsaid, of the image of the potion mage the villagers had described with fear.

In the distance, he caught sight of a brief, unnatural flicker of light beyond the hill.

Eidan did not hesitate. He mounted his horse and spurred toward it before it vanished, leaving the murmur of the camp behind.

The path led him to the mouth of a cave. From the outside, it looked lifeless—a wound carved into the rock. He dismounted and lit a torch.

Inside, it was nearly empty. The echo of his footsteps was the only response.

He moved forward, hand firm on the hilt of his sword, until he found the remains of a fire that had been extinguished only hours before.

The embers still held a faint warmth, like a heartbeat refusing to die.

Farther ahead, on the stone floor, a symbol had been painted in dark pigment.

A circle devoured by a curved shadow.

An eclipse.

Eidan stood still, unsure of its meaning.

Slowly, he extinguished the torch, letting the darkness close in around him—understanding that he was no longer just chasing a person.

He was stepping into something far greater than his own wound.