The Veil of Vareth – Chapter 7: The Lost Prophecy
The Words of Fate
The sanctum’s walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own. Shadows stretched unnaturally, their edges flickering in the dim torchlight as if whispering secrets from the depths of time. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, ink, and candle wax, yet beneath it all was something else—something ancient, as if the chamber itself held memories too heavy to bear.
Lior leaned forward, his breath shallow as he traced the glyphs of the fragile parchment. The Lost Prophecy. A text erased from history. A truth buried by the Veiled King.
“When the lie becomes the world, and the world becomes the lie, the chains of illusion shall hold the kingdom still. But should the truth be spoken beneath the Moon of Reckoning, the Veil shall shatter, and the false king shall be undone—though the price shall be great.”
The words twisted in Lior’s mind. His fingers trembled as he lifted them from the parchment, a shudder running through him as though he had touched something alive.
Joren, the elder Keeper, exhaled heavily. His face, usually calm, was drawn and lined with something close to fear. “This… this changes everything.”
Sera, standing beside Lior, narrowed her emerald eyes. “A prophecy is nothing more than a riddle wrapped in superstition.” Her voice was sharp, but her fingers clenched the edge of the table. “We need more than riddles.”
Joren turned, unrolling another scroll—a celestial map etched in silver ink. It shimmered under the torchlight, depicting constellations long forgotten by the kingdom’s scholars.
“The Moon of Reckoning,” he murmured, pointing at a specific alignment of stars. “It happens once every forty years. And in three weeks’ time, the heavens will be in place again.”
Lior’s pulse pounded. Three weeks. That was all they had.
Aldric, ever the cautious one, folded his arms. “Let’s say the prophecy is real. Let’s say the king’s illusion can be broken. What about the part that speaks of a price?”
No one spoke.
Joren’s gaze darkened. “The cost of breaking an illusion of this scale… it cannot be small.”
Kellin, the traitor-turned-ally, finally stepped forward from the shadows. His voice was hoarse, his expression grim. “I know the price.”
All eyes turned to him.
“The king’s magic,” Kellin began, “isn’t just a spell. It’s a construct, a woven tapestry of deception… and it has an anchor. Something—someone—is the heart of the illusion. As long as they exist, the lie remains unbroken.”
Lior’s breath caught. “You mean—”
Joren closed his eyes. “A life must be taken.”
The Journey to the Shrine
Three days later, Lior, Sera, and Joren rode through the mist-laden woods beyond the city walls. The forest stretched in every direction, its ancient trees rising like silent sentinels, their skeletal branches scratching at the sky.
The deeper they traveled, the colder the air became. A strange silence settled over them—the kind of silence that carried weight, as if something unseen lurked just beyond their sight.
“We’re being watched,” Sera murmured, gripping the hilts of her twin daggers.
Lior scanned the treeline. The shadows moved unnaturally. He tightened his grip on the reins, his instincts screaming danger.
Joren urged his horse forward. “We don’t have time to waste.”
After what felt like hours, they reached their destination—a crumbling ruin half-consumed by the earth. Massive stone pillars jutted out from the ground, cracked and worn by centuries of rain and time. Vines snaked over the structure, reclaiming what once belonged to nature. The entrance yawned before them—a black maw leading into forgotten depths.
As they dismounted, the very ground beneath their feet seemed to hum.
“There’s old magic here,” Joren whispered.
Lior stepped forward, torch in hand. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and something older, something indescribable. Each step sent echoes cascading through the passageway, the walls whispering secrets of the past.
And then they saw it.
At the end of the corridor stood a pedestal, carved from obsidian. Upon it rested a mirror unlike any other.
The surface was not glass—it was liquid, shifting, writhing, reflecting nothing of the world around it.
Lior approached cautiously, his breath shallow. As he gazed into the mirror, his reflection did not appear. Instead, he saw a kingdom burning.
The sky was crimson, buildings crumbled, and bodies lined the streets. Screams echoed from beyond the veil of illusion. It was not just a reflection—it was a vision.
Sera gasped beside him. “What is this?”
Joren’s face was pale. “The Eye of Vareth.”
Lior turned sharply. “The what?”
Joren swallowed. “The artifact that holds the king’s illusion in place.”
Aldric’s voice was grim. “So if we destroy it…”
“The illusion breaks,” Joren confirmed. “The king’s power is undone.”
Lior reached out, his fingertips grazing the mirror’s edge—
A voice hissed in his mind.
“So… you finally found it.”
The mirror shattered.
Darkness exploded outward. The chamber trembled as an unseen force rushed into them like a hurricane. Lior stumbled back, the torches flickering violently as the shadows came alive.
And standing where the mirror had been—
Was the king.
Or rather, his reflection.
A twisted smile spread across the apparition’s face, its eyes burning like coals. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know?”
Sera drew her daggers. “It’s a trap!”
The shadow-king lunged.
The Price of Truth
The room erupted into chaos.
Dark tendrils shot from the apparition’s hands, lashing out like vipers. Lior dodged, barely avoiding the impact as the ground splintered beneath the force.
Sera twisted mid-air, her daggers flashing as she sliced through the tendrils. They screamed—not like metal breaking, but like living things in pain.
Joren whispered a spell, ancient runes igniting around him. The magic struck the shadow-king, but the illusion merely laughed. “You cannot fight what is not real.”
Lior clenched his fists. That was it.
The illusion couldn’t be killed. It had to be broken.
He turned to Joren. “The anchor—where is it?!”
Joren’s face was pale. “It must be…” His eyes darted to the remnants of the mirror.
Lior didn’t hesitate. He sprinted forward, grasping a jagged shard of the mirror, its surface still swirling with unreal images.
And then—he saw the truth.
Not just the illusion of the king, but the anchor.
And his heart nearly stopped.
The anchor… was himself.
The visions rushed into him like a flood—memories of the past, of his birth, of the king’s magic binding him in ways he had never understood.
The prophecy had never spoken of an object.
It had spoken of a person.
“The false king shall be undone… though the price shall be great.”
Lior’s blood turned to ice. The price was his life.
The realization hit him like a knife to the gut.
He turned back to the battle. The illusion-king was still fighting, but he was no longer looking at Joren or Sera.
He was looking directly at Lior.
And he was smiling.
Because he knew.
To Be Continued…
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