Fate and Legacy

The dungeon was a stone tomb of silence. Only the occasional drip of moisture echoed in the dim, cold space. The air was damp, metallic with the scent of blood, rust, and something ancient.

Chains clinked lightly.

Then—

A cough.

Elena stirred where she lay on the floor, arms bruised and face pale. Her body ached all over. The strike from earlier still burned in her bones. Her lips trembled as she coughed again—this time blood splattered the stone beside her.

She groaned weakly, barely able to sit up. The world spun around her.

She was still wearing her clothes which was a bit torn at the back, clinging to her with sweat and dirt. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as her vision blurred, and the torches on the walls danced like ghosts.

The heavy iron door creaked open.

Footsteps echoed—slow, measured.

Luke entered, clad in long dark robes, his golden pendant glinting under the dim torchlight. Two alchemys flanked him, but he raised a hand, and they halted by the door.

He walked toward her cell, eyeing her like a butcher inspecting a weak animal before slaughter.

Elena instinctively shrank back.

Luke opened the cell door and stepped inside, letting it slam behind him.

"Well," he said softly, almost pleasantly. "The little rat wakes."

Elena coughed again, wiping her mouth with the back of her shaking hand. "W-who…"

"Who am I?" Luke smiled. "No, no, let's not waste time with introductions. I'm the man who holds your life in his hands. That should be enough."

He knelt in front of her, his voice dropping. "You were caught with Oliver. That makes you important."

Elena's brows furrowed slightly at the name, but she didn't respond.

Luke's smile twitched.

"I want to know what Oliver is planning," he said slowly. "Why he's resurfaced. Who helped him. What he wants. Why now, after all this time."

Still, Elena said nothing. Her throat burned. Her body barely responded.

Luke's smile vanished.

"I don't like silence."

He stood, then raised a hand. Golden light flickered in his palm, glowing faintly—but unstable. Magic still struggling against the unseen force nearby.

Still enough to hurt.

He waved his hand in the air, and Elena's body jerked back, her spine arching involuntarily as pain surged through her ribs. She screamed—a broken, breathless sound—and collapsed back to the floor.

Luke crouched again beside her.

"I'm not fond of torturing children," he whispered. "But you're not a child, are you? You're just another nobody who thought following Oliver was brave."

He gently touched the side of her face. She flinched.

"Tell me… did he promise you power? Revenge? Did he tell you stories about the alchemys, about how cruel we were?"

He leaned in closer, eyes dark. "Did you believe him?"

Elena didn't answer. She couldn't. Her tongue felt like lead in her mouth.

Luke sighed. "Let me guess. You think you're being loyal. You think keeping your mouth shut protects him." He stood again. "Let me show you what loyalty gets you."

He flicked his fingers and the golden magic burst against her side like a whip of fire. She screamed again, louder this time.

Luke turned and paced slowly around the cell.

"Oliver is dangerous. A traitor. A man who should've died long ago. And now—now—he comes back with strangers like you?"

He stopped and turned toward her again.

"Who are you?" he said coldly. "What's your name? Where did he find you?"

Elena's breathing was ragged. She looked up, barely holding consciousness.

Luke stepped closer. "Did he send you to spy on us? Were you part of the escape? Tell me the truth, and I might not burn what's left of your bones."

Elena's lips moved slowly. "I… I don't know anything."

He stared at her, hard and long. "Wrong answer."

He raised his hand again—but the light in his palm flickered weakly this time. It didn't lash. It merely sparked—and died.

Luke looked at his hand, frowning.

The cloth. The Veil of Saq'el. Its presence nearby was growing stronger.

Luke stepped back, suddenly unsure.

But his voice was still low and venomous. "That Cloth…urrgh.. consider yourself lucky today."

He turned sharply and left the cell.

As the iron door slammed shut, Elena finally let out the breath she'd been holding.

She collapsed to the side, barely conscious—body torn with pain, blood at the corner of her lips.

But her fingers twitched.

She was still alive.

_________________________________

The cold stone floor dug into his spine. Water dripped somewhere in the distance. And the metallic scent of rust and blood hung thick in the air.

Oliver's eyes shot open.

For a moment, all he could hear was his own heartbeat — slow, then faster, faster — pounding in his ears like a war drum.

He sat up quickly, breath hitching, chest heaving. Sean lay crumpled beside him, groaning awake, rubbing his temples.

The walls were stone. Crude. No light.

Only silence.

"Where… where are we?" Sean mumbled.

But Oliver wasn't listening.

He was remembering.

The drink.

The heavy taste.

The room spinning.

> She did it again…

Oliver clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking. No one needed to tell him what happened. He knew. Lily had spiked him again — even after he had spared her life.

The chains had now melted.

He stood in the middle of the cell, his hands open at his sides, head tilted just slightly as he listened to the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. He didn't move. He didn't blink.

Sean stood just behind him, breath shaky.

Then… they came.

Six alchemys. Faces cold. Weapons drawn. All experienced.

Oliver didn't flinch.

One moved first — fast, dagger drawn, steps silent. He lunged for Oliver's chest.

The floor answered before Oliver did.

A sudden jolt of force snapped upward from the stone beneath them. It struck the attacker full force in the gut, lifting him clean off the floor and slamming him back into the wall behind.

No gestures. No words. Just instinct.

The others charged.

Another raised his hand to hurl a ball of compressed flame. But before it could form, the oxygen around him bent. The flame collapsed in his palm and exploded inward, forcing him to the floor screaming, hands burned.

Sean backed up as the hallway started warping — the walls rippling with heat and raw alchemic force.

"What the hell…"

Still, Oliver hadn't spoken.

The third attacker came from the side — chain-whip glowing with runes. He flicked it toward Oliver's throat—

The whip stopped mid-air.

Hung there.

Like time had paused around it.

Then it turned. Slowly. Like it realized what it had done.

And it wrapped itself around its wielder's neck. Tight. Hard. Until he dropped to the floor choking.

The last three hesitated. One of them whispered, "He's not supposed to be this strong—"

A mistake.

The hallway filled with a pulse of silent light — soft at first, like sunlight breaking underwater. Then it cracked, suddenly, into a wave of heat and force.

The ceiling shook.

The stone fractured.

Sigils burned across the walls — not drawn, just formed. Like the very air obeyed him.

Oliver stepped forward slowly, his steps quiet against the stone, fire trailing behind his heels like footprints.

One man lifted his sword, trembling. He swung.

Oliver sidestepped.

Grabbed the man's wrist.

And simply squeezed.

The man collapsed — wrist broken, blade melted halfway through.

"Let's go," Oliver said finally, his voice low, emotionless.

Sean hesitated.

"You… you didn't even touch most of them," he muttered.

Oliver turned, glancing once at the wreckage of bodies behind them. "Didn't have to."

He raised his hand, waving it against the stone wall ahead.

It peeled open, folding like molten iron, revealing a hidden shaft — a passage long sealed.

Sean looked at him, half-afraid, half-awestruck.

And they ran.

Behind them, the dungeon burned faintly, smoke trailing upward from broken sigils and ruptured stone.

---

The room was still, save for the low creak of old wood shifting.

Martins stood by his desk, eyes locked on the open box in front of him.

Inside lay a torn, weathered fragment of cloth — dull gray, but humming quietly with a power not of this world.

This was no ordinary fabric.

This… was a piece of the Veil of Saq'el.

He hadn't touched it, afraid of what it might whisper to his mind if he lingered too long. Even now, he kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to test its reaction.

 "Who has the rest…?" he muttered under his breath.

 The Veil of Saq'el — A Forgotten Relic of Defiance

"It was not woven. It was summoned 

Not stitched by hand but sealed by sacrifice"

The Veil of Saq'el is no ordinary relic.

Born during the collapse of the Eastern Alchemic Dynasty, the veil was said to be made from threads of unbound essence — a material not fully physical, not fully spiritual. It defies classification… and it defies magic.

Wherever it is present, magic fails.

Enchantments unravel.

Spells weaken.

Alchemy dims.

Even the strongest Catalyst arts flicker near it like dying stars.

It is not destructive in its force — it is silent. Like a void that drains the arcane current around it. For this reason, many called it "The Stillcloth."

But the veil's most terrifying truth is not its resistance to magic…

…it's that not just anyone can wear it.

Throughout history, many have tried to claim the veil — scholars, warriors, kings, even Catalysts. But time and again, their bodies rejected it.

Some could not breathe when it touched their skin.

Others lost their ability to use magic permanently.

There are records of entire armies driven mad just by keeping it in their presence too long.

"The veil is alive in its own way.

It chooses.

And once it chooses — it bonds."

The rejected do not just lose their powers. They lose connection — to magic, to soul-energy, sometimes even to their own minds.

Legends say that once, a Grand Sorcerer named Elzoth wore the veil during battle, believing his power could overpower it.

He was found three days later, blind, silent, and unable to remember his own name.

No one ever wore it again — until now.

Somewhere, the veil has awakened again. Someone wears it.

Whether they know it or not, they have been chosen.

And around them, magic will falter.

The question is no longer "What can the veil do?"

It is now:

"What will the veil make them do?"

He knew the truth: the Veil didn't allow itself to be worn. Not truly. Not by just anyone. It wasn't like other relics that could be wielded by force or ritual.

The Veil chose.

Once worn — once accepted — its power became silent, invisible… deadly. It was said to bend the laws of magic within a radius, making spells weaken, collapse, or fade entirely. That was why it was feared. 

And now, a piece of it was missing.

 "But who would even know what it is?" Martins whispered. "And worse… what if they don't?"

Long before the rise of the new generation. There were whispers of The Nadra — an ancient force that did not arrive with war or fire, but with a mark. A symbol that appeared in dreams… on trees… in blood. Always the same:

A snake, coiled tightly in a circle, eating its own tail.

They found it on walls. On dead cattle. Carved into the stone near sacred wells.

It followed them. Stalked them.

And those who saw it too often… began to disappear.

Fear crept into the heart of the Order — until one night, the elders performed a dark sacrifice beneath the sky. A forbidden rite.

Something was given to the darkness — and in return, the symbol stopped.

The dreams ended. The markings vanished.

They thought it was over.

"Sealed, not destroyed," Aira had warned, even back then.

But her warnings were pushed aside — buried under relief, forgotten as the years passed.

And now Martins remembered her again — her skin pale, eyes tired but burning with that same truth they'd all tried to silence.

"You thought it ended," she had rasped. "But the Nadra sleeps. It stirs again."

Martins had gripped her hand. "You said the veil was the key — do you mean to seal it again?"

She gave a weak shake of her head.

"No… Not to seal."

"This time… to end it."

He remembered the way her voice cracked, as if saying the name Nadra tore something loose from her soul.

And then she died.

Martins sat motionless in the dark, heart heavy.

The veil pulsed again in its box — not just alive, but chosen.

He still didn't know by whom. But if it was here, now…

Then so was the Nadra.

"And we never truly defeated it," Martins whispered.

"We only made it quiet…"

His mind drifted back to the moment when curiosity overtook caution and he'd followed Luke down into the lower dungeons.

Luke hadn't noticed. Martins had learned long ago how to shadowstep through the halls without echo or presence.

He had expected to glimpse Oliver — maybe weakened, maybe asleep — locked in the cell they kept him in.

But what he saw instead… wasn't Oliver.

Slumped in the corner of a cell. Young. Barely moving. Clothes tattered. Body still.

But something in that moment felt off.

Luke had tried to strike her for the third time but his magic flickered and failed. 

Martins, however, had felt the disruption.

It wasn't Luke's mistake.

It was the cloth he was holding at the moment.

---

He stood, pacing the room now. Boots clicking softly on stone.

"Should I go back to save them?"

He wasn't sure if it was foolish… or fate.

__________________________________

The door slammed shut behind them with a hollow thud. Dust stirred from the corners as Sean and Oliver stepped into the quiet house, the only sound their boots dragging against the wooden floor.

They were free — bruised, exhausted, dirt on their sleeves — but free.

And yet, the silence between them was heavier than chains.

Sean was the first to speak.

"We should've gone back for her."

Oliver didn't answer. He walked straight into the main room, running a hand through his matted hair, ignoring the ache in his shoulder. He could still feel the weight of the dungeon — the stone, the cold, the whispers in the dark. He had barely escaped with his life, with Sean half-limping beside him. His pulse hadn't calmed since.

Sean followed him in, voice rising.

"Did you even try to find him? Did it even cross your mind that maybe — just maybe — David was still alive back there?"

Oliver turned slowly, jaw tight.

His eyes were colder than usual.

"And what would you have had me do?" he snapped. "Turn around and charge back into that hellhole and maybe get caught again?"

 "Yes!" Sean fired back. "If that's what it takes!"

Oliver laughed bitterly.

 "You think you're some noble savior now? 

Sean took a step forward. "I don't need to think so. What matters is he was with us. And we left him behind."

Oliver's face darkened. " I saved us and helped us out. So don't talk to me about who abandoned who. If I didn't care, I would've left you."

Sean's voice dropped — low, furious.

 "But you had a choice. You could've gone back. You didn't."

Oliver went silent.

For a moment, only the sound of the wind outside filled the room.

Then, quietly — almost too calmly — Oliver said:

 "I just came back from a place worse than death. I was locked in my own mind for years. Do you know what that feels like, Sean? To exist in a cage no one can see? To scream and never be heard?"

Sean faltered, but Oliver wasn't done. His voice cracked now — from exhaustion, not emotion.

"I survived that….I don't really care about how that happened…but I just can't face my brother now…I plan to surprise him in a way he wouldn't imagine"

Sean's fists clenched. "So that's it? Just leave him behind like he's nothing?"

"He won't die" Oliver said confidently

Sean stared at him, stunned.

"So... you're saying we're going back?"

Oliver gave a slight nod. "If you still want to save him, we move under the cover of darkness. Not now. Not yet."

Sean exhaled, the fire in his chest slowly cooling. But the weight wasn't gone.

 "You could've just said that."

Oliver gave a half-shrug. "You were too busy yelling."

He turned away, heading toward his room.

"I'm not responsible for anyone's life. Not anymore."

Sean stared at him. 

Oliver stopped halfway to his room. He didn't look back. But his next words fell like a blade.

 "Once I know he's safe... I'll leave. This house. You. Everything."

He turned his head slightly.

 "Because I don't want to be anyone's keeper. I don't want to be held accountable if someone dies because of me. I already carry too many names I couldn't save."

And then he walked the rest of the way to his room, leaving Sean in the quiet living room, fists still clenched, heart pounding.