The silence that followed the Council’s declaration felt like the breathless pause before a storm. Nael stood in the heart of the Luminary Hall, the echoes of the High Arcanist’s final words still reverberating through the great chamber. Every eye was on him, every soul tethered to the gravity of the truth now revealed—he was not only marked by the Shadow, but chosen by it. A bearer of power that defied the laws of their world.

  His heartbeat thudded in his ears, louder than the murmurs rising from the gathered mages. The intricate runes on the marble floor pulsed faintly beneath his boots, reacting to the clash of energies that churned within him. He could feel it again—that cold, coiling presence deep in his chest, the whisper of the Shadow curling against his ribcage like a serpent.

  “You will be placed under guard,” declared Arcanist Virellia, her voice cold and sharp. “Until we determine if your soul remains your own.”

  Nael’s fists clenched at his sides. The weight of injustice pressed down on him, but anger was not his weapon now—resolve was. He locked eyes with her, unflinching.

  “I am not a puppet of the Shadow,” he said, his voice low but unwavering. “I am what this realm needs—light that understands the dark.”

  A tense silence followed. Even the wind that usually swept through the Hall’s arched windows seemed to hold its breath.

  Behind the Council’s seats, a shadow moved—subtle, fluid. Liora stepped forward, her expression unreadable, her golden eyes simmering with something deeper than fury or fear. Faith.

  “He saved our lives,” she said, her voice cutting through the hush. “He fought the Riftborn when all others fled. You owe him more than chains.”

  Some in the chamber murmured in agreement. Others looked away, uncertain.

  Virellia did not blink. “And yet the Riftborn whispered his name.”

  Liora turned toward Nael, her hand brushing against his arm. “Then let us hear what the Shadow has to say.”

  Nael felt the darkness inside him stir at her words, but this time, he did not push it back. Instead, he opened himself—just slightly—to the presence that had haunted him since the Rupture. The air thickened. A flicker of unnatural chill swept through the hall.

  From his lips, a voice not entirely his own escaped—soft and layered, like a chorus of forgotten echoes.

  “I do not wish to destroy this world,” it said. “I was summoned. Abused. Shattered by your kind. And now, I seek only balance.”

  Gasps erupted. One of the older councilors clutched the arm of her chair, whispering prayers. Virellia’s eyes narrowed, but she did not speak.

  Nael exhaled shakily, the voice gone. The Shadow quieted again.

  “What does it mean?” Liora whispered. “Balance?”

  Nael shook his head. “I don’t know. But I think… the Rift, the corruption—it’s not just from the Shadow. It’s from us. From what we did to it.”

  For the first time, Virellia faltered.

  ---

  That night, Nael wasn’t taken to a cell—but neither was he free. He was led to the Tower of Reflection, a high spire reserved for arcane meditation. Alone, except for two silent guardians at the base, he stared out through the enchanted glass that showed not just the city below, but the shimmer of ley lines that crisscrossed the realm like veins of light.

  He pressed a palm against the window. For a moment, he saw them—two worlds overlapping. The bright one of the mages, and the shadowed world beneath, where lost things whispered and waited.

  Liora came at dusk.

  “They’re arguing,” she said without preamble. “Some want to exile you. Others want to study you. But a few… think you’re telling the truth.”

  “Do you?” he asked, turning to face her.

  She stepped closer, and in the fading light, her silhouette merged with his. “I believe what I saw. And I believe that no one else is hearing what the Shadow’s trying to say.”

  Nael lowered his voice. “It said it was summoned. By who?”

  Liora hesitated. “There’s a name in the old records. One forbidden even in the Council’s archives. A mage who once tried to bridge the planes—not to destroy the Shadow, but to enslave it.”

  Nael’s breath caught. “Who?”

  S

  he met his gaze. “Your ancestor.”

  The name hung between them like a blade suspended in time—unspoken but heavy with implication. Nael’s pulse quickened as he stared at Liora, trying to process the weight of her words.

  “My ancestor?” he echoed, his voice barely audible. “Who was he?”

  Liora stepped closer, her expression grim. “His name was Aram Dazmir. A master of the High Veil. He lived during the Era of Splintered Stars, centuries ago. History remembers him as a martyr—one who vanished trying to seal a great rift. But that’s not the truth.”

  Nael frowned. “What is?”

  She produced a small scroll, tightly bound with a rune-lock. “This was hidden in the Vault of Secrets. Only accessible by those with a Blood Sigil. I used yours.”

  Nael took the scroll with trembling fingers and broke the lock. The parchment inside was aged but preserved, inscribed in silver ink.

  > “The Shadow is not to be feared, but bent. Shaped by will, tamed by suffering. I will make it kneel.”

  —Aram Dazmir, Final Journal Entry.

  The words burned themselves into Nael’s thoughts.

  “So he summoned it,” he said, numb. “He was the first to call the Shadow into our realm.”

  “And he tried to bind it,” Liora confirmed. “But he failed. His magic fractured the Veil, and in doing so, he created the first Riftborn.”

  Nael staggered back. “Then I… I carry his legacy.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “No,” Liora said sharply. “You carry the truth. And you have a choice—repeat his mistake, or undo it.”

  The truth crashed down on Nael like a wave. For so long, he had wondered why the Shadow had marked him. Now he knew—it had touched his bloodline before. It remembered.

  But knowing the past did not grant control over the future. That, he would have to seize himself.

  ---

  That night, as the moon rose, Nael returned to the Tower’s meditation chamber. He sat within a circle of silver salt, surrounded by glyphs of clarity and silence. And for the first time, he opened himself fully to the voice within—the Shadow.

  “You are ready,” it whispered. “To see.”

  His vision shifted.

  The room around him melted into darkness, replaced by a vast plain of twilight. A place between worlds. The Veil.

  Before him stood a figure robed in tattered light and shadow. It had no face, but he felt its gaze pierce through him.

  “Are you the Shadow?” he asked.

  “A fragment,” it replied. “I am what was cast out. What was betrayed.”

  Nael’s fingers curled into his robes. “By my ancestor.”

  “Yes. But he was not the first. Nor will he be the last. This world bleeds because it refuses to understand.”

  Nael stepped closer. “Then show me. Let me understand.”

  The figure raised its hand, and the Veil trembled. Images flickered across the air—memories not his own. Cities of crystal, torn asunder by magefire. Children crying in shattered streets. And at the center, a tower identical to the one Nael now lived in… but burning.

  And above it all, Aram Dazmir, cloaked in gold, eyes consumed by madness, binding a writhing darkness with chains of starfire.

  Nael watched, horrified, as Aram’s spell ruptured. The darkness exploded outward—not in fury, but in pain.

  Then the vision ended.

  Nael fell to his knees, gasping.

  “Balance,” the voice whispered again. “Not dominion. Not obedience. You must choose.”

  ---

  When he awoke, it was dawn. Liora was waiting, her expression tense.

  “I felt the surge,” she said. “What happened?”

  Nael looked at her, his eyes brighter than before. “I saw what the Shadow really is. And I know what I have to do.”

  She tilted her head. “And what is that?”

  He straightened his spine. “I’m going to heal the Rift. Not seal it, not banish it. But bridge it. Bring light and shadow together again.”

  Liora stared at him. “They’ll call it treason.”

  “Let them,” Nael said. “Because for the first time… I’m not af

  raid of who I am.”

  The day that followed felt like the quiet before a storm.

  Nael stood atop the Eastern Watchtower of the Academy, the wind pulling at his cloak. Below, students practiced illusions, summoned winds, and chased elemental echoes. To them, everything was routine. But to him, it was the last day of ignorance before change.

  He turned as footsteps approached. Master Kaelen, his former mentor, stood behind him with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I heard you entered the Vault of Secrets,” Kaelen said, his tone neutral. “And that you accessed a restricted scroll.”

  Nael didn’t flinch. “I did. And I learned the truth.”

  Kaelen’s eyes darkened. “Truth is a dangerous thing when wielded without wisdom.”

  “So is silence,” Nael replied.

  Kaelen stepped closer. “Then speak it. What did you see?”

  “I saw Aram Dazmir not as a hero… but as the first sinner. And I saw the Shadow not as evil, but as broken.” Nael’s voice was calm. “I’m going to the Rift.”

  Kaelen froze. “The Grand Rift? That place is sealed for a reason.”

  “To stop the truth from being healed,” Nael said. “I don’t need permission. I just need to survive.”

  Kaelen’s voice lowered. “If you do this, you will be hunted.”

  Nael turned to him fully. “Then let them come. I won’t run from my blood. I’ll redeem it.”

  ---

  That evening, under a sky veiled in indigo, Nael descended into the ancient caverns beneath the Academy. Few ventured there now, for the paths led only to the edge of the world—the Grand Rift.

  It was a place carved not by nature, but by magic gone wrong. A wound in the world.

  Liora waited at the entrance to the chasm, her blade strapped to her back and a scroll of binding in her hand.

  “You’re really going through with this?” she asked, voice low.

  Nael nodded. “You don’t have to follow me.”

  She smiled faintly. “I don’t follow you, Nael. I stand with you.”

  Side by side, they stepped onto the ancient bridge of stone and magic that spanned the Rift. Winds howled around them, echoing with lost voices.

  Halfway across, a pulse of shadow burst from the chasm. It struck the bridge with a roar of pressure. Nael raised his hand instinctively, calling forth a barrier—but it shattered under the force.

  He fell to his knees.

  From the abyss, a figure emerged. Tall, shrouded in fragments of light and darkness. It bore a crown of broken stars.

  “Who dares awaken the Unbound?”

  Nael stood, trembling but defiant. “I am Nael, blood of Aram Dazmir. And I do not come to bind you. I come to understand you.”

  The creature paused. “Understand?”

  “Yes,” Nael whispered. “I saw your pain. You were not born to destroy, but driven to it.”

  The Unbound’s voice was a rumble. “Many have sought power. None have offered understanding.”

  Nael stepped forward, extending his hand. “Then let me be the first.”

  There was silence. Then the Unbound reached back—with a hand not of flesh, but shadow and starlight—and touched Nael’s palm.

  A surge of memory flooded his mind.

  Nael screamed.

  ---

  He saw the birth of the Shadow—not as a darkness, but as the first magic. It was light refracted. Emotion given form. And it had once been whole.

  But then came the mages—greedy, hungry, arrogant. They divided it, named it “forbidden,” and banished it. The Veil was created to seal it away. But in doing so, they made it scream.

  Nael saw Aram Dazmir again—this time not as villain, but as victim. A man who tried to correct the mistakes of others and lost himself in the process.

  The vision shattered.

  Nael collapsed on the stone bridge, panting. The Unbound stepped back.

  “You see,” it said. “We were not meant to be enemies.”

  Nael wiped blood from his nose. “Then help me. We can restore the balance. Together.”

  The Unbound’s eyes gleamed. “There will be a cost.”

  “I know,” Nael said. “And I accept it.”

  The figure nodded slowly. “Then the pact is made.”

  A rush of energy enveloped Nael. The Shadow—no longer just a whisper—became a part of him. Not a parasite. A partne

  r.

  The balance had begun.

  The return from the Rift was not met with fanfare—but with silence. The kind of silence that crawled under the skin.

  Nael and Liora crossed back into the Academy grounds, the markings of the pact still glowing faintly along Nael’s forearms—etched like ancient runes, pulsing with life. The Unbound was now quiet within him, not a voice, but a presence. Watching. Waiting.

  They were met by a council of elders at the gate, flanked by guards in silver and violet robes.

  “Nael Dazmir,” said Grandmistress Thalra, “you stand accused of breaking sacred boundaries, communing with sealed forces, and threatening the balance of our world.”

  Nael’s voice was steady. “The balance you think exists is a lie. You silenced the Shadow because you feared it. You called it evil to justify your control.”

  “You dare lecture us?” another elder spat. “The Rift is sacred.”

  Nael stepped forward. “The Rift is a scar. I didn’t deepen it. I listened to it.”

  Liora unsheathed her blade in warning. “He didn’t return to fight you. He came to show you the truth.”

  But truth had always been a fragile currency in the halls of power.

  The guards raised their staves, spells already forming at their tips.

  Then the air shimmered—shadows pooling like ink around Nael’s feet.

  In an instant, a wave of pressure exploded outward. Not violent, but undeniable. It knocked everyone back a step, shaking the very ground. The power wasn’t destructive—it was balanced. Half-light. Half-shadow.

  Thalra’s eyes widened. “What… what have you become?”

  Nael lowered his hood. “Whole.”

  A moment of tension passed before he spoke again.

  “I don’t seek war. But I won’t let the past’s lies dictate the future.”

  The elders whispered among themselves.

  Nael continued, “There’s more coming. The Rift is not the only wound. The Veil is cracking. Something on the other side is stirring.”

  A silence fell.

  Then, to everyone’s surprise, Elder Corvan—once an opponent of Nael’s father—stepped forward.

  “I believe him,” he said, his voice brittle with age but firm. “Because I’ve seen the signs. The Weave itself trembles. And if he carries the voice of the Shadow without falling… then perhaps it is not darkness we should fear.”

  That night, Nael was given temporary sanctuary—but under supervision. He wandered the old library halls, where echoes of the past still clung to every wall.

  Liora sat beside him at one of the candlelit tables.

  “You scared them,” she said with a smile.

  “I scare myself,” he admitted.

  She reached over, taking his hand. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

  They didn’t speak after that for a while. The fire crackled. Outside, snow began to fall over the courtyard.

  But far across the sea, in the shattered ruins of Old Veyrith, something ancient stirred.

  A figure cloaked in obsidian stepped from the remnants of a forgotten temple. Their eyes were mirrors—reflecting stars that had never existed.

  “The heir of Dazmir has awakened the pact,” the figure whispered to the wind. “Then the Endlight shall rise sooner than expected.”

  They turned to the shadows.

  “Summon the Fragmented. Tell them the Balance is breaking.”

  And as the winds howled through the ruins, the world took a breath it did not know it had been holding.

  Because the true war was no longer about light or darkness.

  It was about what waited b

  eyond both.

  The next few days blurred into a haze of preparation. Whispers spread like wildfire through the Academy halls—about Nael, about the pact, about the approaching storm none dared name. Some saw him as a harbinger of ruin, others as a beacon.

  But for Nael, there was no time for labels. Only choices.

  Liora, Zareth, and Rynn had begun gathering those who still believed in the ancient balance—the forgotten truths buried under centuries of fear and control. A new circle was forming. Not rebels. Not followers.

  Guardians.

  Nael stood in the sanctuary beneath the library—the ancient chamber his mother once protected. The crystal font at its center shimmered with spectral light. In it, Nael could see glimpses of the Veil—fracturing, not from force, but from age. It had held back something for so long… something older than light, older than the Shadow.

  “Are we ready?” he asked, turning to his friends.

  Zareth gave a solemn nod. “We’re as ready as mortals can be.”

  Rynn grinned. “That means no, but we’ll manage.”

  Liora’s expression was calm. Fierce. “Then it begins.”

  They stepped into the circle, binding their energies as one.

  Nael chanted the invocation, not in the tongue of the Shadow, nor the language of the Light, but in the Old Tongue—the First Voice.

  The sanctuary trembled.

  Then the Veil tore open.

  Just a sliver. Just enough.

  From beyond poured not demons, nor angels, but something else entirely—memories. Broken timelines. Forgotten paths. Moments that never were.

  Nael staggered, clutching his head. He saw flashes—himself as a tyrant. As a martyr. As a child who never escaped the fire. He saw futures branching endlessly.

  And in each, one thing remained constant.

  The Endlight.

  The collapsing point of all timelines. Not evil. Not good. Just... inevitable.

  Nael’s vision cleared as Liora steadied him.

  “You saw it too?” he asked, breathless.

  She nodded. “It’s not coming. It’s already begun.”

  ---

  Later that night, Nael stood on the highest tower of the Academy, gazing at the sky. The stars were shifting. Not in position—but in meaning. New constellations were forming. Ones that had no names.

  Zareth joined him, a bottle in hand. “They used to say the stars told our fate.”

  “They were wrong,” Nael said.

  Zareth smirked. “Or we just started writing a new story.”

  Nael didn't reply.

  Because deep down, he knew the story wasn’t new.

  It was just forgotten.

  And now it was waking up again.