Some summons are not orders but echoes of old oaths—the kind that were never spoken aloud but understood in shared silence, in battles fought side by side, in losses that bind deeper than blood. And when a ruler calls for a hero, it is never without cause.

  And heroes? They are those who survived the fall and carry the weight of remembering those who didn't. Some hide in forests older than castles, pretend bronze likenesses in courtyards belong to someone else, and drink detestable coffee at dawn as if peace can be brewed.

  But some weights are too heavy to be carried alone. Some griefs bind tighter than blood. And when the tremor comes, the kind that wakes ancient powers and shakes cedar roots, old heroes remember why they survived in the first place.

  Not for glory. Not for peace. But to stand one more time between the darkness and those who cannot—no matter the tide or how deep in the forest they hide.

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  The Veil stirs — 11 months before The Convergence

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  Grex woke before the sun had fully risen, not by habit but from the creeping dread that stalked him all night.

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, poured himself a steaming cup of coffee, and stepped out onto the porch. The Cedar Forest stretched in quiet majesty, dew clinging to needles, the air carrying the crisp, resinous tang of cedarwood and damp earth. It should have calmed Grex. But the unease from last night clung stubbornly.

  He had felt the faint tremor too, as though the forest itself had shuddered—not from earth or wind, but from something that rippled through the Veil itself. A pulse—sharp and resonant—like an unseen hand pressing against the world’s skin.

  Even Syl, the moon goddess bound to him, stirred in his mind, restless beneath her calm. Whatever it was, it hadn’t merely just shaken stone. It had reached through it.

  As he sipped his freshly brewed coffee, a flutter of wings cut through the stillness. A raven swooped low, landing on the wood rail beside him. Its eyes gleamed with the same uncanny intelligence as the raven Cedran sent into the night. Though this one’s gaze was ringed with pale blue. Its throat swelled as it coughed, then regurgitated a tightly rolled scroll onto the wood.

  Grex arched an eyebrow—the right one, marked by a scar left during The Sundering Eclipse. The cut split the brow cleanly, a mark that looked more like a deliberate design than a wound—the rugged imperfection people mistook for charm.

  He took a slow sip of his coffee, letting the steam rise against the cool forest air. “I think I know why you’re here,” Grex said, taking another sip. “Care for some? …no, didn’t think so.”

  The raven only blinked, impatient. Grex unrolled the parchment. Hortew’s seal. The words were few, but heavy enough to make his stomach turn: You felt it too. Come at once.

  Grex folded the scroll shut. “So, it wasn’t just me.” He stared at the parchment intently then glanced at the raven.

  “Fine. Let’s go wake the world.” He stood up and turned to the winged guest, “Or would you rather stop for breakfast with your brothers first?”

  Grex slipped the scroll into his cloak and drained the last of his coffee. He muttered a charm and brushed his hand along the cedar doorframe, "Surgite, celate." The log cabin shimmered, the outlines of its walls rippling like heat over stone.

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  Then, as if the forest exhaled, cedar trunks rose from the earth, branches knitting together until the house vanished from behind. To any passerby, it would seem all trees and shadows, nothing more.

  He didn’t bother looking back. A man only hides a home like that if he expects someone—or something—to come looking for it.

  The raven hopped from the rail, circling above the clearing before winging toward the castle. Grex followed on foot, boots crunching softly on damp needles. The Cedar Forest stirred around him, morning light threading through the branches. Somewhere deeper in the grove, Montzy’s ravens croaked from their giant anthill, a hundred throats rising in a ragged chorus, like they were bidding him farewell… or come back safely.

  Grex almost smiled. They were noisy creatures but reliable in their own way. And lately, those ravens were the only company he ever blabbered to without restraint, which said more about his new social circle than he cared to admit.

  When the trees broke, Wolfpit Castle rose ahead in quiet majesty, carved from the living rock of its hill. Meadows unfurled green and gold under the morning light. He crossed the cobbled bridge, the creek below running clear. Beyond, lay fragrant gardens mingling the sweetness of turned earth with sharp citrus. Ivy crept along the walls while faded banners still hung proudly.

  For a moment, it looked like peace. But Grex remembered what these fields once held—black tides that bled darkness. The cedars had bent, twisted by forces unwelcomed in the living world. Where the creek now ran clear, voidfire had shattered its surface.

  The walls still bore those scars. To most, they were medals— proof that Wolfpit had survived the Sundering Eclipse. To Grex, they were ghosts carved in stone—reminders that no fortress truly forgets.

  How could they forget, when every corner at Chromewick Meadows—Wolfpit's capital—held a reminder? He even had his own bronze likeness still somewhere he preferred not to see—a piece of gratitude he’d rather forget. They tucked it in a lesser courtyard now, as he requested, where pigeons had done more defacement than sculptors. That felt right to him.

  Memory, he learned, was a living thing, not something you chain to a pedestal. It was a cold hard truth that Grex had paid for dearly, yet one he could still stomach. He adjusted his cloak and kept walking, the weight of Hortew’s summons pressing against his chest as he passed beneath the gates.

  The guards straightened at his approach, spears polished to a fault. Beside them crouched the wolves—lean, muscled, disciplined. Sharp eyes followed him—some bright with recognition—but none of them, man or beast, dared meet his gaze for long.

  Every polished boot, every gleaming spearhead, every perfectly drilled step seemed untouched by the night before. The banners stirred in the morning breeze, the fountains ran clear, and the gardens bloomed neatly. For as long as Grex could remember, the people of Wolfpit had taken pride in keeping the castle flawless, as if perfection were a shield. And that's exactly how they meant to keep it: the order immaculate, routine unbroken, not a single trace of what had shaken the walls only hours ago.

  "Do they not feel it… or do they just pretend?" The silence in their eyes was practiced, the calm too rehearsed. It was as if the castle itself had conspired to bury the night, smoothing its stones until nothing remained but the illusion of peace.

  Grex moved through the courtyard, nodding only when formality required it. But every nod of recognition pressed heavier against his patience.

  Grex passed the hall leading to his own official chamber and took the stairs that led down to Hortew’s hall. The guards stationed there straightened in acknowledgment. They knew better than to question his presence.

  The stair was old, carved into the bedrock itself, the walls cool and damp. Torches guttered in sconces along the descent, their smoke clung faintly to the stone. Air grew cooler with each step, carrying the Castle's mysterious history.

  It had not always been the Grand Meister's chamber. Hortew's grandfather, and the ones before him, had chosen the high rooms overlooking the meadows surrounded by banners and sunlight. Perhaps, a reminder that power should be seen from below, never the other way around. Hortew abandoned that view the day after he claimed his title. He moved his seat's power into the hill's bones, reminding Wolfpit Castle that height is not a substitute for vision. He said stones endure what spires cannot. Grex always thought it sounded less like philosophy and more like stubborn honesty.

  The hall opened wide, vaulted like the inside of some gigantic beast's ribs, veined with pale quartz that fractured torchlight into gleaming shards. The narrow windows spilled long slabs of daylight—gold blending into the chamber's motif of royal blue. And there, standing within that light, was Hortew.

  Hortew was not only Wolfpit's Grand Meister but also the keeper of the entire continent of Nareen—the Supreme Grand Meister—a title bestowed once in a generation. His authority bound the seven largest meisterdoms of Nareen. Yet standing before Grex, he looked like a man carrying a mountain alone, suddenly older than all his titles.

  He didn’t turn. He didn't offer a greeting. He simply stared at the scattered parchments on the table with a hollow, haunted look that Grex had only ever seen on men who had already lost the war.

  From the Records of the Sundering: