“Myrkos?” Magnus echoed, his voice steady but laced with quiet tension. The name hung in the air like a storm cloud, dark and ominous. “You mean the one who nearly brought Helia to ruin before the kingdom’s fall?”

  Soren inclined his head slightly, the dim light casting shifting patterns across the veil obscuring his face. “The very same,” he said, his tone carrying a weight that seemed to chill the room. “Myrkos was never truly defeated. The calamity he unleashed may have been halted, but he endured—and now, he stirs once more.”

  His words hung heavy, a subtle vibration echoing through the space as though the very mention of Myrkos's name had power. Soren’s gloved hand moved to the edge of the table, his fingers tapping in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “A surge of dark energy has begun to radiate from his stronghold—a pulse of malevolence that spreads like a disease, infecting the land and all who live upon it. If left unchecked, his power will not only consume Kur’thar and what remains of Helia, but it will destabilize the balance of this entire region. Chaos will follow, and the devastation will ripple far beyond what any of you can imagine.”

  Magnus’s vibrant green eyes narrowed, reflecting the flickering light from the crystal chandelier. “And you’re certain it’s him? That it’s Myrkos?”

  Soren’s fingers paused their tapping, and he leaned forward slightly, the faint jingling of his hat breaking the tense silence. “I’ve spent centuries tracking anomalies, monitoring the ebb and flow of power in these lands. There is no mistaking his signature—a darkness that twists and corrodes, feeding on despair and ambition alike. His return is no longer a question of ‘if.’ It is happening, and soon the world will feel his influence once more.”

  The champions exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of Soren’s words sinking in. Each of them had heard the tales of Myrkos—the ancient sorcerer whose lust for power had nearly destroyed Helia, whose machinations had set in motion a chain of events that led to the kingdom’s fall.

  “And you expect us to deal with it?” Elira asked, her tone sharp as her amber eyes locked onto Soren. There was a fire in her gaze, a mix of defiance and frustration that matched the tension simmering in the room. She gestured around them, her broad shoulders set as though bracing for a fight. “Isn’t this your job? If Myrkos is such a threat, why not handle it yourself? Isn’t that what The Veil exists for?”

  Soren turned his veiled face toward her, his movements unhurried yet commanding. The weight of his gaze, even unseen, pressed against the air like a heavy hand. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and cold, carrying an edge of calculated patience that cut through the rising tension.

  “The Veil does not interfere directly, Elira. That has never been our way,” he said, his words clipped yet deliberate. “We are not saviors, nor are we a hammer to be wielded against every threat. The Veil exists to maintain balance—not to take sides in the wars of mortals or gods. To intervene recklessly would be to upset the equilibrium we are sworn to protect.”

  His fingers tapped idly against the pipe resting on the table, the rhythmic sound echoing in the otherwise quiet room. “Myrkos, however,” Soren continued, his tone darkening, “is no ordinary threat. His actions have begun to warp the balance itself, spreading chaos like a disease through the realms. If left unchecked, his power will consume everything, leaving only a void where no balance can exist.”

  Elira’s frown deepened, her arms crossing over her chest. “So you’re just going to sit back and watch while we do the dirty work? That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

  Soren’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile beneath his veil. “You misunderstand. The champions of Helia are not mere pawns in this game. You are the fulcrum upon which the scales will tip. Myrkos’s actions began in your land, tied to your history, your legacy. It is fitting—and necessary—that you are the ones to confront him.”

  There was a flicker of hesitation in her amber eyes, but she held his gaze, refusing to back down. “And why is that? Why us?”

  “Because,” Soren said, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that sent a chill through the room, “Myrkos’s power is tied to the very essence of Helia. Only those who carry the weight of its past can sever that bond. Only you, the champions, possess the unique blend of strength, will, and connection to confront what he has become.”

  The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them like a heavy mantle. Elira glanced at her companions, uncertainty flickering across her face before she looked back at Soren. “Convenient,” she muttered, but her voice lacked its usual bite.

  Soren tilted his head slightly, the bells on his hat jingling faintly. “Not convenient, Elira. I assure you, there is nothing about this that is convenient—for you or for me.” His tone softened, but the cold edge remained. “The Veil does not place its trust lightly. You have a role to play, and whether you accept it or not, the consequences will find you regardless.”

  The champions exchanged uneasy glances, the hum of tension in the air growing stronger. Elira opened her mouth to speak again, but Magnus placed a hand on her shoulder, his calm voice cutting through the storm. “Enough, Elira. He’s made his position clear.”

  With a huff, she relented, sitting back in her chair. Soren’s veiled gaze swept over the group, lingering on each of them for a moment before he sat back, his posture once again relaxed. “Good,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement lacing his tone. “Now that we understand each other, we can proceed.”

  Caelus leaned forward, his blue eyes sharp and unwavering as they locked onto Soren. The flickering light of the chandelier above reflected in his gaze, making his determination seem almost palpable. “If you want us to take down Myrkos, we’ll need more than cryptic warnings and half-truths. Give us something tangible—real information we can use.”

  Soren inclined his head slowly, as though he had anticipated the demand. The faint outline of a smile touched his lips, though it didn’t reach the unreadable shadow beneath his veil. “Fair enough,” he murmured, the rich tone of his voice threading through the heavy atmosphere. He tapped his pipe against the edge of the ashtray, a soft clink punctuating his words.

  “Myrkos’s power is no ordinary magic,” Soren began, his tone measured and deliberate. “He draws his strength from an ancient pact—a deal struck with a god long forgotten by most, though not by the land he’s ravaging. This god— Nytheris—” he paused, as though considering how much to reveal, “—thrives on chaos and corruption. It feeds on fear, despair, and suffering, and in return, it grants Myrkos power beyond comprehension.”

  He leaned back in his chair, the smoke from his pipe coiling lazily around him like a living thing. “Myrkos’s stronghold is an extension of that power—a labyrinth of magic that thrives on the emotions of those who enter. Fear will guide you into traps. Despair will sap your strength. Even the bravest can lose their way if they’re not prepared. If you enter blindly, you won’t make it out alive.”

  Magnus, who had been listening intently, tilted his head slightly, his green eyes narrowing with thought. “And what about his weaknesses?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with purpose.

  Soren’s lips twitched, his smile faint but knowing. “His strength is his weakness,” he said cryptically, his voice taking on a tone that suggested he relished the enigma.

  Magnus frowned, his expression expectant. “Care to elaborate?”

  Soren chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to echo and linger in the charged air. “The more power Myrkos channels, the more unstable he becomes. His magic is immense, but it lacks control. Force him to overextend—push him beyond his limits—and the very power he wields will begin to collapse on itself. But...”

  The room seemed to grow colder as Soren’s tone dropped, his words edged with caution. “Be warned. Severing his hold on that power will not be simple. His connection to the god that grants him strength is deeply entrenched. Killing Myrkos without breaking that bond would be like striking a shadow—it will reform, stronger than before. You’ll need to sever the tether between him and his source of power. Only then can he be truly defeated.”

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  The champions exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of the task settling heavily on their shoulders.

  “And how exactly do we sever this tether?” Caelus asked, his voice steady but laced with urgency.

  Soren’s hand dipped into the folds of his robe, retrieving a small, weathered map and a peculiar, rune-inscribed shard that glimmered faintly with an otherworldly light. He placed them on the table with care, the sound of the shard meeting the polished wood oddly resonant.

  “This,” he said, gesturing to the shard, “is the key to unraveling his connection— a piece of Nytheris’s own essence, torn from them long ago. But wielding it requires a will stronger than the fear that sustains Myrkos’s magic. You’ll have to rely on each other. Alone, you’ll fall. Together... well, you might just stand a chance.”

  The champions stared at the shard, its faint glow casting eerie patterns across their faces. Riven reached out but hesitated, her fingers hovering just above its surface. “And this map?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  “It will lead you to Myrkos’s stronghold,” Soren said, leaning back once more. “Follow it carefully. The path is treacherous, and the land itself has been corrupted by his influence. Trust the map, not your eyes.”

  Elira broke the tense silence, crossing her arms with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, this sounds like fun. A power-mad sorcerer with a god on his side and a death trap of a fortress? Just another day for us, right?”

  Soren’s veiled gaze flickered to her, his tone dry. “If that’s what you need to tell yourselves, then by all means.”

  Caelus took the map and the ominous-looking shard, his grip firm. “We’ll handle it.”

  Before anyone could respond, Seraph leaned forward, her silver eyes gleaming with a quiet intensity. Her dark gray fingers curled slightly against the table’s edge as she asked, her voice soft but resolute, “And what about me? Why did you attack me? Why did the Veil want to capture me?”

  Her words sliced through the room’s thick atmosphere like a blade, demanding an answer. The others turned their gazes toward Soren, their curiosity mingled with unease.

  The question lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Soren stilled, his fingers hovering over his pipe before he set it down gently. He exhaled a long, slow breath, the plume of smoke curling around his veiled features like a shroud. “You’re asking about something far older than you realize,” he began, his voice low, almost a murmur. Each word felt deliberate, as though he were weighing the consequences of speaking them aloud.

  His fingers tapped against the table rhythmically, a steady cadence that betrayed his thoughtfulness. “Kaelith, the one whose soul you carry, betrayed the Veil. She spilled our secrets to the King of Helia—your king—shortly before the kingdom fell,” Soren continued, his tone calm yet edged with something sharper, something wounded. “She believed that by aligning herself with the throne, she could unravel our influence and render the Veil powerless. A noble ambition, perhaps. But na?ve.”

  His voice dipped into something colder, a shadow of regret or contempt. “Naturally, we couldn’t allow that. She endangered the balance we’ve fought to maintain. Her betrayal nearly destroyed everything we stand for.”

  Seraph’s breath hitched, her hand drifting toward her chest as if the weight of his words had physically struck her. The room fell silent save for the distant crackle of a dying ember in the hearth.

  “But there’s more to this, isn’t there?” Seraph pressed, her voice trembling slightly, though her resolve remained steady. “If I’m just her reincarnation, why does the Veil still care? Why do you care?”

  Soren leaned forward, his veiled gaze locking onto her, though his expression remained unreadable. “Because you’re not just her reincarnation, Seraph,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, heavy with meaning. “You are more than a vessel for her soul. You are... a key.”

  “A key to what?” she asked, her voice cracking under the weight of the revelation.

  “That,” Soren replied, his tone flattening into something unreadable, “is not for you to know. Not yet. Just know I’m defying orders for this.”

  Seraph’s hands tightened into fists on the table, her silver eyes blazing with frustration. “Why not? If this concerns me—if I’m somehow important—don’t I have a right to know?”

  Soren’s fingers stilled, and he leaned back, his shadow stretching across the room. “Because the truth,” he said evenly, “would put you—and your allies—in even greater danger than you already face. Until Myrkos is dealt with, any attempt to uncover what lies beyond will only invite ruin. For all of you.”

  The room seemed to contract under the weight of his words, the champions exchanging uneasy glances. Seraph’s gaze remained locked on Soren, her expression a mixture of defiance and fear.

  “You have my word,” Soren added, his tone softer now, though no less firm. “When the time comes, and the path is clearer, I will tell you everything. But until then, the knowledge would be a curse, not a gift.”

  Seraph’s lips parted as if to argue, but she hesitated, the fire in her eyes dimming slightly. Finally, she leaned back in her chair, her hands relaxing just enough for her knuckles to lose their white tension. “Fine,” she murmured, though her tone carried a trace of bitterness. “But don’t think for a second I’ll forget this promise.”

  Darius frowned, his deep voice cutting through the thick tension in the room like a blade. “Fine,” he rumbled, his emerald eyes narrowing as they bore into Soren. “But then explain this: why were you spying on King Rowan?”

  The question hung heavily in the air, drawing the group’s attention.

  Soren’s lip curled, his smirk both amused and faintly condescending. He reached for his pipe, tapping it lightly against the edge of a small ashtray as a plume of smoke curled upward. “Your king,” he began, his tone calm but laced with an edge of skepticism, “young, idealistic, and brimming with conviction, has attracted the notice of enemies far beyond his understanding. The Veil—pragmatic as always—needed to determine if he was worth protecting… or if his reign would spell more harm than good.”

  “And?” Caelus pressed, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as his voice cut through Soren’s explanation. There was no mistaking the edge of impatience in his tone.

  Soren’s fingers glided along the edge of his pipe, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment. His expression shifted, his smirk softening into something that might have been contemplation. “The verdict,” he said slowly, “is still undecided.”

  He leaned back in his chair, the faint jingling of the bells on his hat punctuating the silence as he spoke. “Rowan has potential. He’s earnest, determined, and perhaps even noble. But Helia’s future...” Soren trailed off, his tone growing darker. “Helia’s future rests on fragile ground. It’s a kingdom rebuilt on ruin, led by a ruler who hasn’t yet weathered a real storm. A single misstep, a single moment of hesitation or misplaced trust, could undo everything. And when that happens, the consequences will ripple far beyond your precious kingdom.”

  Riven crossed her arms, her dark eyes narrowing. A sharp scoff escaped her lips, dripping with sarcasm. “So what? You’re playing both sides? Sounds about right for the Veil.”

  Soren’s gaze shifted toward her, his movements fluid and unhurried. Though his face remained obscured by the veil, there was an unmistakable weight in his presence. “No,” he replied, his voice steady, though there was a faint hint of amusement at her accusation. “I’m not playing both sides. I’m ensuring balance. That’s what the Veil does.”

  He leaned forward slightly, his tone measured and deliberate as if explaining something to a petulant child. “When one side tips the scales too far, chaos reigns. When another gains unchecked power, oppression follows. And sometimes, even heroes must be reminded that they are not exempt from that equation.”

  Magnus’s voice cut in, soft but resolute. “Including us,” he murmured, his vibrant green eyes locking onto Soren’s shadowed face.

  Soren inclined his head, his smirk returning faintly. “Including you.”

  Soren leaned back in his chair, the faint jingling of the bells on his hat breaking the heavy silence. His demeanor shifted, becoming more casual, as though the weight of the conversation had lessened for him alone. “But remember this, champions,” he began, his voice steady and tinged with warning. “You’re not merely venturing into the lair of a warlord or a tyrant. You’re walking into the den of a god—one fueled by desperation, ambition, and chaos. If you’re not careful…” He paused, letting the tension stretch like a taut string. “…you’ll never walk out.”

  The words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting.

  Elira, undeterred, rolled her shoulders with a confident smirk. Her amber eyes gleamed with a flicker of defiance. “We’ve faced worse,” she said, her voice brimming with boldness.

  Soren’s head tilted slightly, his veiled gaze sweeping over the group with an almost predatory calm. “Have you?” he murmured, the question soft yet razor-sharp. The way he said it made the room seem colder, as though he knew something they didn’t. His posture remained relaxed, but there was an undeniable weight in his words, an unspoken dare. “We’ll see,” he added, his tone carrying a subtle challenge.

  As the group began to rise, preparing to leave, Seraph lingered behind. Her silver eyes glinted like moonlight on steel, locked onto Soren with unwavering intensity. Her quiet voice cut through the ambient noise of shifting chairs and footsteps. “I’m trusting you,” she said, her words deliberate and laced with quiet resolve. “To keep your word about the truth.”

  Soren’s head inclined slightly, the movement graceful and calculated. His tone softened, though the enigmatic edge in his voice remained. “Survive Myrkos,” he said, his words slow and deliberate, “and you’ll have my answers. All of them.”

  For a moment, the world seemed to shrink around them, the quiet promise echoing like a tether between them. Then, with a subtle shift of his posture, Soren dismissed the gravity of the moment as easily as one might brush away a stray thread. His hands moved back to his pipe, his attention seemingly elsewhere, but the faintest trace of a smile lingered beneath his veil.