The sun hadn't risen, but Alec was already walking through the city's back alleys—hood pulled low, boots silent against the wet cobblestone. The storm had passed, but the air still smelled of smoke and oil. Pale gaslamps flickered overhead, casting long, twitching shadows along the walls.
His fingers brushed the notebook tucked inside his coat.
The sigil had disappeared, but its mark lingered—in his thoughts, his pulse, his very breath. Something had touched him last night. Something ancient.
And it knew his name.
"Veilbound."
He didn't know what it meant, but it made the hairs on his arms stand up.
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The city of Wyrmere had always been a place of noise and motion, of machines and men. But this early in the morning, with the fog still coiled in the streets, it felt... suspended. Unreal.
He made his way toward the old archives, a forgotten building tucked between factories and collapsed alleys—once a government records office, now sealed off, forgotten by most.
But Alec had a key.
His father had once brought him here, long ago, when he was just a boy too young to understand the weight of secrets. That day, his father had said:
"Every noble house carries a sin in its blood. Ours was simply better at hiding it."
He hadn't understood it then. He wasn't sure he did now. But something in his blood had stirred last night. And if anyone had answers, it would be found in the remnants of House Rivenhart—now nothing more than a name lost in ledgers and whispers.
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Inside the archives, dust blanketed everything like a burial shroud. Light filtered through broken slats above, falling on stacks of forgotten files and scattered relics.
He went to the hidden hatch beneath a fallen shelf and opened it. The metal ladder groaned under his weight as he descended.
This chamber—hidden, warded, sealed—had once been his father's sanctuary.
Here, he found the sigil again. Not on the window this time, but etched into an old mirror framed in black iron.
As he approached, something shifted.
The reflection didn't follow his movements.
Instead, it stood still—watching.
Alec froze.
The mirror version of himself smirked.
"So, you heard it too," it said. "The first whisper."
"Who are you?" Alec asked.
"The beginning," the reflection answered. "The door has opened. You don't choose the Veil, Alec Rivenhart. It chooses you."
Then the mirror shattered—not explosively, but silently, as if time itself had cracked.
A sharp, invisible pressure struck Alec in the chest. He fell to his knees, gasping as symbols burned across his vision. Glyphs, runes, spirals of impossible geometry seared themselves into his mind.
He screamed—but no sound came out.
And then, a voice.
Not the whisper from last night. Not the reflection.
Something deeper.
Colder.
Older.
"Bearer of the Shattered Line. You are now Veilbound."
"Awaken."
The symbols pulsed—then vanished.
His body convulsed.
And then… it stopped.
Silence returned. The room was whole again. The mirror, gone.
Alec stood slowly, hands trembling. But he felt… different.
Sharper.
He could hear every drop of water in the stone above him. He could feel the cold iron of the ladder. He could sense… something behind the wall—a presence, hidden just beyond the edge of reality.
And on the floor before him, something had appeared:
A black coin, etched with the Veilbound sigil. It pulsed softly in his hand.
His first Artifact.
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He knew then that his life would never return to normal.
The Veil had opened.
And it had chosen him.