Caius spun around, his pulse hammering in his ears. The chamber was empty—at least, it should have been.

  The shattered windows let in only the cold night air, and the dim torchlight cast trembling shadows against the high walls.

  But he knew what he had heard. That whisper wasn’t a trick of the wind. It wasn’t just his mind playing games.

  It had been real. He reached for the silver runestone on his belt, fingers tightening around its cold surface.

  The rune flared to life, casting a soft blue glow that pulsed in sync with his heartbeat. Arcane wards surged to the surface, shielding his body in layers of protective magic.

  Whatever had spoken was still here.

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  Watching.

  Waiting.

  The sigil burned a deeper red, its twisted lines shifting as if alive. A wave of nausea rolled over him.

  This magic was wrong.

  It was ancient, raw, unbound by the laws of the Dominion.

  It shouldn’t exist.

  A gust of wind sent loose parchment flying across the floor.

  One page, brittle and yellowed, landed at his feet.

  The ink was smudged, but the words were still legible.

  He walks between the stars.

  He waits beyond the veil.

  And when the crimson sigil burns… he returns. Caius’s throat tightened.

  He had seen this prophecy before—deep in the forbidden texts of the Celestian Archives.

  It had been dismissed as nonsense.

  A tale meant to scare young sorcerers into obedience. But the sigil on the floor told a different story.

  A true story.

  The shadows flickered again, but this time, Caius saw it.

  A shape, barely; visible—a figure shifting in and out of existence, like a ripple in time itself.

  His breath caught.

  Then, in the silence, the whisper came again, closer now.

  A voice like wind over broken glass. “You are too late.” The torches snuffed out.

  Darkness swallowed the room. And something reached for him.