The gauntlet pulsed with life against Lyrius's arm—its ancient steel warm, almost alive, as if recognizing its new bearer. Intricate lines of light traced across its surface, linking with the Veilmark on his chest. Every heartbeat now echoed with a new power… and a new responsibility.
Elira approached slowly, eyes fixed on the artifact. "How does it feel?" she asked.
Lyrius flexed his fingers. The gauntlet responded perfectly, like a second skin. "Heavy," he replied. "Not in weight. In purpose."
Kael gave a low whistle. "That's one of the Sealed Relics, right? From the old wars?"
Elira nodded. "They say only those chosen by the Arc Veil can wield them. Each one bound to a specific trial. If this is the First Seal…" She trailed off, worry creeping into her voice.
"…then there are more," Lyrius finished.
The trio left the Sanctum of Echoes as the sun dipped behind the peaks. Cold wind swept through the mountain pass, howling like a beast in mourning. They descended in silence, each lost in thought.
As night fell and camp was made, Kael sat by the fire carving lines into a piece of bark with his dagger. Elira stared into the flames, her mind visibly distant. Lyrius stood at the edge of the ridge, staring down at the winding trails below.
"Elira," Kael said softly, "you've seen the Seals before… haven't you?"
She didn't answer at first. Then, quietly, "Once. In the ruins near Lyswen, years ago. My father took me there before he vanished."
Kael looked up, surprised. "You never said anything."
"I wasn't ready."
Lyrius turned to face them. "You are now."
Their eyes met—and for the first time, the walls between them seemed to lower, if only a little.
Elsewhere, far from the mountains...
In a quiet glade where moonlight danced on silver leaves, a lone priestess knelt before an overgrown shrine. Her fingers brushed the old stone, tracing symbols long erased by time. Her voice was little more than a whisper.
"One of the Relics has awakened."
From the shadows, a creature emerged—twisted, horned, its eyes burning with eerie blue flame.
"Then the Pact is at risk," it growled.
The priestess rose, calm despite the beast's presence. "Then we must guide the boy… before others twist his fate."
Back at the camp...
As the fire died down, Lyrius lay awake beneath the stars. The gauntlet rested beside him, still humming softly. He stared at the constellations above—patterns he'd once memorized as a child.
"Bridge between the worlds," he muttered. "But which world am I really part of?"
Sleep eventually took him, but the night offered no peace.
In his dream, he stood alone in a field of shattered mirrors. Each reflection showed a different version of himself—one noble, one broken, one monstrous. And in the center, a mirror that showed… nothing at all.
Then a voice echoed in the void.
"The Veil chooses. But choice comes with cost."