Veilbound Secrets: The Oath Bearer's Curse

"The meeting," Lyra muttered, brushing a streak of blood from her cheek, her gaze distant. "The Four Families are calling for us."

Aric stared at the horizon, the chaos of battle slowly ebbing from his mind, but the war itself remained ever-present. The weight of responsibility bore down on his shoulders, a gnawing pressure that he had grown all too accustomed to. The Wyrd-touched had been repelled for now, but the true threat remained a looming shadow.

He wiped his blade clean, sheathing it with a fluid motion before glancing at Lyra.

"Let’s go."

Without waiting for a response, he turned his back on the battlefield, already bracing himself for what was to come. The Imperial Palace awaited.

...

The Upper District of Harmony was a stark contrast to the carnage they had just left behind. Whereas the streets of the outer walls were choked with blood and ash, the grandiose architecture of the palace grounds gleamed as though untouched by war. Pristine gardens lined the wide avenues, and towering domes of polished stone painted golden rose up against the sky, reflecting the light of the fading sun. Here, the world felt quieter, more still—yet the tension was palpable.

Guards stood at attention, their gazes sharp as Aric and Lyra passed through the ornate gates leading to the palace’s grand hall. Their armor bore the sigils of the Four Families, each one distinct and proud—symbols of ancient pacts and bloodlines that had shaped the history of Aeloria. They said nothing, but their eyes lingered on Aric longer than usual.

He was no longer just a member of the Oswin family. He was its heir.

"The Imperial Palace," Lyra muttered as they approached the grand double doors. "I wonder what this meeting will bring. Last time I was here, it was under far better circumstances."

Aric said nothing. His mind was already racing with the possible implications of this meeting. The call from the Four Families wasn’t something taken lightly. Especially not now, with the war—the War of the Shattered Veil—raging across the lands. What started as a battle against the Wyrd-touched had spiraled into something far worse. Cultists—mortals who had dared to manipulate the Veil, to tamper with the forces beyond the material realm—had become the architects of chaos. And now, there were whispers... whispers that they had done the impossible.

They had killed a god.

Aric clenched his fists as they entered the main hall, the weight of that revelation still a fresh wound in his mind. How could mere mortals—frail and insignificant in the grand scheme of things—strike down a divine being?

As they stepped inside, the grandeur of the palace engulfed them. Massive columns carved with intricate depictions of the ancient wars rose toward a ceiling painted with celestial bodies and figures. The air was thick with mana, and the Veil seemed thinner here, more palpable. Every breath was heavy, almost suffocating.

At the center of the room, seated at an imposing table of obsidian and gold, were the heads of the Four Families. This was the Dominion Hall.

Valenwood, the elven house whose wisdom and pact with the gods was older than most empires; Sylphais, rulers of the skies, their Aethari wings folding with practiced grace; Drakaryn, the family of dragons, whose raw, primal power could tear apart mountains; and Oswin, his own family, whose ties to the gods ran deep into the heart of human history.

Behind each head stood their heir.

Aric's eyes scanned the room as he and Lyra took their places. To the right of the table, he saw Sylvan Valenwood, the elven heir. Sylvan’s presence was always composed, his long golden hair framing sharp, delicate features. His eyes, however, were the most striking—a stormy blue-gray, swirling with a guarded intensity that held a depth far beyond his years. Aric had always regarded him with a mixture of wariness and respect.

Next to him was Aela Sylphais, her presence light and almost ethereal. The wings folded behind her shimmered faintly, casting a soft glow around her. Her pale, translucent skin seemed to blend with the air, giving her an otherworldly appearance. Despite her delicate exterior, there was no mistaking the strength in her sharp golden eyes. She was the most unpredictable of the heirs, her connection to the skies and winds giving her a power that was often hard to anticipate.

And then there was Kael Drakaryn.

Aric’s gaze lingered on Kael, the heir to the Drakaryn family, whose mere presence was enough to fill the room with a simmering heat. Kael was everything one would expect from someone with dragon blood. His amber eyes glowed faintly, his dark red hair giving the impression of smoldering coals. His skin bore faint, iridescent scales along his neck and arms—an unmistakable reminder of his lineage. Power radiated from him, the raw, untamed fury of a dragon barely held in check.

"You're late," Kael’s voice rumbled, deep and resonant, as Aric took his place across the table.

"Perhaps if you handled the front lines better, I wouldn’t need to be here cleaning up," Aric responded coldly, his gaze meeting Kael's without flinching.

A tense silence filled the room as Kael's eyes narrowed, a low growl escaping his throat. But before the situation could escalate further, Sylvan Valenwood spoke, his voice calm and measured.

"We don’t have time for this. The Cultists grow bolder by the day." Cedric’s words sliced through the tension, drawing everyone’s attention back to the matter at hand.

A soft cough from one of the family heads broke the silence, pulling all attention to Cedric Oswin, Aric’s father. He leaned forward, steepling his hands on the table. Though his gaze was sharp, the vitality of his youth had faded, replaced by a weariness that clung to his eyes like shadows. Despite the fatigue, his presence commanded absolute respect, and no one in the hall questioned his authority.

The heirs, seated beside their family heads, spoke freely here. Each knew that one day, they would inherit the roles of their forebears. The responsibility to voice their own insights and question decisions was not only expected but encouraged, for they would soon be the leaders standing at this table.

“The reason we’ve gathered is simple.” Cedric’s voice held a grave, unyielding tone, every word carefully measured. “The Cultists have done the unthinkable. A god has fallen by their hands.”

The words settled over the hall like a death shroud. Although rumors had reached them, the confirmation struck a deeper, bone-chilling fear into each soul present, turning whispered worries into undeniable truths.

"How could mortals—" Aela started, her voice faltering as disbelief crossed her delicate features. "How could they kill a god?"

Cedric exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "That’s what we’re here to discuss. The cult has found a way to tear through the Veil, to access the power that lies beyond it. They are no longer mere mortals—they are wielding something far more dangerous."

Aric’s mind raced. He had already felt the effects of the Cultists' actions on the battlefield. The creatures they commanded, the corruption they unleashed—it was unlike anything he'd faced before. But the idea that they could breach the Veil so completely, to the point of killing a god… It was almost too much to comprehend.

"Where did they get this power?" Kael demanded, his fists clenching against the obsidian table. "The Veil has been guarded for millennia. No one—no mortal—could tear it to the extent that such amounts of creatures come through it so easily."

"Unless they had help," Sylvan muttered, his voice laced with suspicion.

"Help from whom?" Aric asked, though he already suspected the answer.

Cedric’s gaze darkened. "From the inside."

Silence followed his words, the weight of the revelation settling over the room like a shroud.

Aric's mind flashed to the relic, to the memories it carried—vague whispers of ancient betrayals, of gods once brought low by forces from within their own ranks. Could history be repeating itself?

"Then the war isn't just about the Wyrd-touched," Aric said, his voice low but firm. "It’s about the gods themselves."

Cedric nodded solemnly. "Yes. And if we don’t act quickly, there may be no gods left to save."

The air in the grand hall of the Imperial Palace seemed to thicken after Cedric Oswin’s chilling statement. For a moment, no one spoke, each heir and head of the Four Families processing the gravity of what had been revealed. The massive chamber, adorned with murals of gods and ancient wars, now seemed haunted by the very forces that had once shaped it. The flickering light of the mana-fueled chandeliers cast eerie shadows across the faces of those gathered.

A faint, musical voice broke the silence.

“This… is more than a war of mortals.” Aela Sylphais, the heir to the winged Aethari, spoke with an ethereal calm, though her golden eyes were stormy. Her translucent wings twitched slightly, betraying her agitation. “The sky itself feels heavier. The winds carry whispers of despair from the outer realms. My people, even in the heights of Aetheris, feel the tremors in the Veil. If the gods are truly falling…” She trailed off, her gaze flickering toward the ceiling as if listening for some distant sound.

“Precisely,” Cedric replied, his voice steady yet strained. “The balance of power is shifting, and we must understand what the Cultists intend to do with their newfound strength. They’re emboldened, and that makes them unpredictable.” He glanced around the table, his sharp gaze landing on each heir. “Your families will need to decide where they stand.”

Sylvan Valenwood, the ever-composed elven heir, nodded slowly, fingers tapping rhythmically on the obsidian table. His silver hair, catching the dim light, framed his sharp, ageless features. “The forests of Verdantis stir unnaturally. The trees bend and whisper of an ancient imbalance. Some of my kin have felt the tears in the Veil. If the Cultists have discovered a way to wield the Wyrd beyond the Veil’s control, then the very fabric of our world is in jeopardy.” His eyes met Aric’s, filled with a somber understanding. "And they won't stop at just one god."

Aela’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean by ‘they won’t stop’? Are you suggesting they could target more gods?”

“Absolutely,” Sylvan replied, his tone grave. “If they can kill one, they may think they can kill another. Or worse, they may attempt to usurp a god’s power for themselves.”

Kael Drakaryn, let out a low, growling chuckle. His amber eyes burned with an inner fire. “Then let them come. If they want to tear down the heavens, they’ll have to deal with us first.” He leaned forward, resting his powerful arms on the table, the faint shimmer of scales visible beneath his skin. "My family’s ancestors razed entire continents. The blood of dragons flows through our veins. Let them try to challenge that power.”

“Raw strength alone won’t be enough,” Aric interjected, shaking his head. “If they’ve learned to manipulate the Veil in ways we can’t predict, then we’re dealing with forces beyond brute force.”

Kael’s lip curled in defiance, but before he could respond, Cedric raised a hand, commanding the room's attention once more. “This war isn’t just about fighting the Wyrd-touched or even the Cultists themselves. It’s about the Veil—the delicate balance that has kept our world intact for millennia. If that falls, we’re not just facing the destruction of our families; we’re facing the end of everything we know.”

“I refuse to let fear dictate my actions,” Tharon Drakaryn, the head of the dragon-blooded family, declared, his voice booming. He rose from his seat, towering over the others, his presence both commanding and intimidating. “We’ve faced worse than this. We will not cower because of tales of fallen gods. My people thrive in the heat of battle!”

“You mistake courage for foolishness, Tharon,” Eirina Valenwood, the head of the elven family, chimed in, her voice soothing yet firm. She sat tall and regal, her long, flowing hair framing her delicate features. “This isn’t just another battle. This is a war that could reshape our very existence. I agree with Cedric; we need a strategy, not just swords and fire.”

“Strategy can only get us so far,” Kael countered, crossing his arms. “You want to sit and ponder while they plot our demise? We need to show strength. That’s the only language they understand.”

“Strength is not synonymous with violence,” Eirina retorted, her eyes narrowing. “What we need is unity, a combined front against a common enemy. If we act as separate factions, we’ll only give the Cultists an advantage.”

...