Author's Preface
Echoes Across the Veil
The cool Brooklyn air stung Evelyn's cheeks as she cut the engine of her car, parking just a few yards from the jagged shoulder of the tree-lined backroad. The atmosphere here felt entirely different than the rest of the city—heavy, stagnant, and thrumming with an electric, invisible static that made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
Auberon pushed the passenger door open and stepped out onto the asphalt. He pulled the hood of his borrowed college sweatshirt lower over his brow, keeping his pointed, jewel-adorned ears hidden from view. His molten-lead eyes swept across the dark treeline, his jaw tightening as he inhaled sharply.
“Is this it?” Evelyn asked, stepping out of the car and pulling her jacket tighter around herself. “Is this where you... dropped in?”
“It is,” Auberon answered softly, his deep voice carrying a sharp edge of concentration. He took a slow step toward the dense brush where the violet light had torn the sky apart days ago. “The veil here is thin. Thinner than it should be in a realm starved of arcana.”
Evelyn followed close behind him, her eyes scanning the dark woods. “So what does that mean? Does it mean the portal is still open?”
“Not open,” Auberon murmured, his gaze locking onto a patch of scorched, dead grass near the roots of an ancient pine. “But it is leaking.”
He knelt down, wincing slightly as his ribs protested the movement. Reaching out with his bare hand, he pressed his fingertips directly against the cold earth.
Auberon examined the place for a while. He was injured and strained; nothing good would come from pushing himself in this realm starved of mana. Yet, driven by fierce determination, he wanted to experiment.
He straightened up, extended his hand, and closed his eyes, murmuring an ancient incantation in Elvish. A small, brilliant ball of yellow light bloomed from his palm, radiating a warm, pure resonance before it leaked straight into the now-invisible rift.
Evelyn watched in absolute awe, her breath catching in her throat as the golden light vanished into the thin air.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet woods.
Auberon opened his eyes to meet her gaze. The molten-lead silver of his eyes was so captivating, glowing with a fierce, otherworldly intensity, that she completely lost her train of thought, just staring at him until he finally stopped what he was doing and lowered his hand.
The heavy strain of the spell immediately took its toll. A thin line of crimson blood started to trace down from his nose.
Evelyn gasped. “You’re bleeding,” she said, panic spiking in her chest. She reached him fast, holding his forearms, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sweatshirt to steady him. Is he going to collapse? she panicked.
His calm voice cut through her racing thoughts. “I am fine,” he stated flatly, as if it were a normal thing he had experienced many times before.
She reached into her jacket pocket, retrieving a clean white handkerchief, and pressed it gently against his nose to catch the blood.
Auberon paused, his molten-lead eyes shifting downward to meet hers as she tended to him. The sudden proximity was dizzying—she could see the intricate, fine details of his high-elven features, the way the soft fabric of her brother's college hoodie framed his broad shoulders, and the stark, striking contrast of that bright drop of blood against his pale skin.
He gently reached up, his long, cool fingers lightly wrapping around her wrist to still her hand against his face.
“You really have no shame fussing over a man,” he said, a thoroughly amused spark dancing in his gaze as he tried to play it cool, though his voice vibrated close enough to send a strange, electric shiver straight down her spine. “A mere localized strain. It is nothing compared to the blades of House Sylvarin.”
Evelyn blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his teasing before a sharp, indignant spark lit up her eyes. She didn’t pull away from his hand quite yet. “Excuse me? I’m patching up a bleeding interdimensional monarch who insisted on blowing holes in the fabric of reality, and I have no shame?”
Auberon’s gaze softened just a fraction, a quiet, contemplative shadow passing through his metallic eyes as a faint, genuine smirk touched his lips.
“A fair point, Evelyn,” he conceded softly, his thumb brushing lightly against her wrist.
Evelyn let out a dry, disbelieving huff, though she didn’t make any move to step back from him. The cool forest air seemed to wrap around them like a physical barrier, isolating the quiet corner of the ridge from the rest of the bustling city just miles away.
“You’re impossible,” she muttered, finally lowering her hand from his face, though she kept the stained handkerchief ready. “Most people would have dropped you back off in the middle of traffic.”
Auberon’s gaze followed the movement of her hand, his expression turning thoughtful. The playful amusement faded, replaced by the heavy, sobering reality of their situation. He glanced back toward the invisible tear in the veil, where the yellow trace of his mana had completely dissolved into nothingness.
“The resonance was weak,” Auberon said, his voice dropping into a low, analytical register. “The barrier between our worlds is stabilizing faster than anticipated. If we intend to cross back before Elden consolidates his power over the council, we will need a much stronger anchor than a casual spell. I just sent a message; hopefully, it will reach the intended target.”
Evelyn gripped the strap of her jacket, her heart doing a nervous little flip at the implication. “And by ‘anchor,’ you mean... what, exactly? Another glowing necklace?”
“Something far more potent,” Auberon replied, turning his striking silver eyes back to her. “A nexus point. Somewhere that has a steady stream of mana. In Aethyria it was not hard to find. It was everywhere. Here?”
Evelyn looked at him, noticing the doubt written on his features.
“It might be hard, but since the portal opened once, then it can be opened again, right?”
“We know this much, at least,” he stated.
Evelyn smiled—so his return wasn’t entirely impossible after all. Auberon noticed her smile and smiled back at her. It was the first peaceful moment they’d shared since this had all begun.
“We should probably—” Before Evelyn could continue her words, a sharp, gun-like crack echoed through the quiet woods, making his sensitive ears ring fiercely.
A gruff voice followed it, distant but human: “Hey! Who’s out there?”
Auberon’s body went ramrod straight. In a fraction of a second, before Evelyn could even process the sound, his hand shot out, catching her shoulder and yanking her hard behind his back. His other hand swept downward, a blade of solidified shadow mana materializing instantly from his palm with a low, lethal hum.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.
Across the rift, in the vast land of the elven realms, the air was heavy with grief for a fallen king.
***
Aethyria | The White Spire of Vaelor
The morning sun hung low over Aundil, casting a pale, yellowish-white twilight across the grand terraces of the White Spire. The grand courtyard was packed with thousands of high-elven nobles, lower lords, and Vanguard soldiers, all draped in solemn black mourning silks. The air was heavy with sorrow.
At the center of the plaza sat a magnificent dais, upon which rested an empty, crystal-encrusted white coffin meant to symbolize the fallen king.
Standing before the gathered multitude in obsidian armor, Elden Sylvarin raised his hands to quiet the murmurs of the crowd. His expression was a masterpiece of manufactured grief.
“Today,” Elden’s voice echoed smoothly across the stone courtyard, amplified by subtle wind mana, “we lay to rest the greatest sovereign Aethyria has known in a millennium. A hero whose loss we mourn...”
Princess Linrel watched the grotesque spectacle unfold. Her emerald eyes blazed with a cold, unforgiving fire. Her hands gripped her dress so tightly her knuckles turned stark white.
“Liar,” she whispered as tears streamed down her cheeks, her heart hammering a fierce, revolutionary rhythm against her ribs.
Alden and Jeonran watched the funeral procession with grim, unreadable expressions. Jeonran kept his hand resting casually on the hilt of his broadsword, while Alden’s sharp eyes scanned Elden’s facial expression.
“He thinks he has won,” Jeonran muttered under his breath, leaning close to Alden.
Alden’s jaw tightened, a dangerous, cold resolve settling into his features as he stared up at the false king standing over the empty casket.
“Let him play king for one more day,” Alden replied quietly, his voice like grinding stone. “Because the moment he finishes this farce, we start the hunt.”
***
Aethyria | The Grand Courtyard of the White Spire
The final notes of the solemn funeral dirge faded across the vast plaza, swallowed by the heavy, cold winds sweeping down from the mountains. The sea of obsidian-clad nobles and Vanguard soldiers began to slowly disperse, their hushed whispers sounding like a restless tide.
Standing high upon the dais beside the empty crystal sarcophagus, Elden watched the crowd clear with a quiet, triumphant smirk. The theater was over. The crown was effectively his.
He turned sharply on his heel, his heavy velvet cloak sweeping behind him as he headed toward the grand arched doors leading back into the inner sanctum. But as he stepped into the shadow of the colonnade, a figure detached itself from the towering marble pillars, blocking his path.
Elden’s expression hardened instantly.
It wasn’t a court noble, nor was it a Vanguard captain. It was a woman wrapped in a deep crimson cloak, the hood drawn low enough to cast her face into complete shadow, save for a glimpse of sharp, golden eyes that burned with a predatory hunger.
“You look far too comfortable in that yard, Elden,” a smooth, chillingly melodic voice echoed in the empty corridor.
Elden didn’t flinch, though his jaw tightened. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down his nose at the intruder. “Mind your tone. The council outside thinks I am in deep mourning.”
“The council is a flock of sheep,” the hooded figure said, stepping closer. A soft, slightly sweet fragrance reached Elden—red spider lily. He recognized it at once. That flower only grew in the north, beyond the elven realms.
“You came from the north,” Elden stated matter-of-factly, and the air around them dropped several degrees as an oppressive wave of dark mana washed over the flagstones.
The hooded figure’s amusement vanished in an instant. “I dare you to say that again, Elden. Knowing anything about me will result in a bad ending for you.” Then she tsked.
“My master cares nothing for your little theatricals, and neither do I. You said the Vanguard secured the perimeter of the rift valley.”
“They did,” Elden hissed defensively.
“Then explain why a foreign localized flare of high-elven mana just pulsed across the eastern ridge,” the figure whispered, their voice sharpening like a drawn dagger. “Someone is probing the veil. And if Auberon’s bloodline isn’t cold in the ground... your head will be rolling down these steps before the next moon.”