Fragments of the Truth
The archives were silent, save for the faint flickering of lanterns casting long shadows across the ancient stone walls. Cassian moved swiftly, his footsteps light as he traced the familiar path through the depths of the Thalrasi library—a place few could enter without permission.
He shouldn’t have been here.
But after his meeting with Selyne, after the weight of the prophecy scroll she had placed in his hands, he needed answers.
The library’s restricted section was sealed, bound by centuries-old protective sigils. But Cassian knew the gaps in the security, the flaws in the enchantments that the High Council never thought necessary to repair. He easily bypassed the first layer of wards, tracing a precise pattern over the lock before slipping inside.
Rows upon rows of leather-bound tomes and brittle scrolls lined the shelves. History erased—knowledge forbidden.
His eyes scanned the titles, searching for anything that referenced the Phoenix. The Eclipsed One. Anything that would prove—or disprove—what Selyne had told him.
Then, he found it.
A thin, tattered book with no title, its spine cracked from age. When Cassian opened it, dust rose from the brittle pages, and the ink faded but was still legible. He flipped through, his breath slowing as he took in the words:
“And so the Phoenix shall rise, her fire rekindled, her power untamed…”
He turned another page, heart pounding.
“Beside her, the Eclipsed One shall stand, bound to fate, bound to fire, bound to…”
The sentence stopped.
The page had been ripped.
Cassian’s grip tightened on the book as he scanned the following few pages. More passages were missing, torn from the book with deliberate precision.
His stomach twisted. Someone had erased parts of the prophecy.
The High Council had lied.
His mind raced. If the Phoenix and the Eclipsed One were meant to bring balance, not destruction, the Council had spent centuries ensuring that knowledge was buried. Ensuring that they were hunted before they ever had the chance to understand what they were.
His hands curled into fists.
He had spent his life serving the Order, believing in their mission.
Believing in their cause.
And now, he wasn’t sure what to believe.
A distant noise—the soft creak of a door opening.
Cassian exhaled sharply and tucked the book beneath his cloak. He couldn’t be found here. Not yet.
Stepping back into the shadows, he slipped out the way he had come, his mind churning. The truth was fragmented, but it was enough.
The Phoenix had risen, and so had the Eclipsed One.
Now, he just needed to find them before it was too late.
The Veil Keeper’s Shadow
Cassian sat in the dim glow of the Thalrasi archives, the forbidden text spread before him. The pages crackled with age, their ink faded but still legible in the flickering candlelight. His pulse thrummed as he traced his fingers along the passage he had just uncovered.
A name he had never seen before.
Noctyros, the Veil Keeper.
The words were buried deep in a passage about supernatural cycles—hidden among obscure references to fate, balance, and rebirth. The moment he read the name, a chill crawled up his spine, an instinctive warning whispering at the edges of his mind. This was something the High Council did not want him to see.
He exhaled and continued reading.
“The cycle is not of nature’s design, nor of mortal will. The Veil Keeper ensures its path, shaping destiny with unseen hands. Balance is but an illusion, for the weave has been frayed and rewoven a thousand times.”
Cassian frowned, scanning the surrounding text for more. The cycle has been manipulated.
The implications sent a bolt of unease through him. The Thalrasi had always claimed to be the guardians of balance, eliminating supernatural threats to ensure Order. But what if they weren’t preserving balance at all? What if they were merely following a pattern orchestrated by something far more significant—something ancient and unseen?
He flipped to the next page, but the passage ended abruptly. The following pages had been ripped from the book, leaving only jagged remnants where knowledge had been stolen. Someone had removed the truth.
His breath came faster as the puzzle pieces shifted in his mind. Who ensured they failed every time if the Phoenix and the Eclipsed One were always meant to return?
A distant sound echoed through the archive halls. Cassian stiffened, quickly slipping the book into the folds of his uniform. With a sharp breath, he extinguished the candle, blending into the shadows just as footsteps approached.
He had read enough. The High Council had been lying for centuries.
And now, he had to decide what to do with the truth.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Secrets in the Bloodline
Cassian moved swiftly through the halls of the Thalrasi citadel, his mind still unsettled from the audience with Lord Varek. The orders to hunt the Phoenix were clear, but something about them felt wrong. He had eliminated countless supernatural threats before, but this mission felt different. The urgency, the secrecy, the quiet intensity behind Varek’s words.
He wasn’t the only one who sensed it.
As he rounded a corner, a hooded figure stepped from the shadows, blocking his path. Selyne Morath.
His aunt.
He exhaled sharply, his expression unreadable. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Selyne pulled back her hood, revealing sharp, calculating eyes—eyes that mirrored his own. Though her dark hair was streaked with silver, nothing was frail about her. She was a warrior, once—a hunter. But now, she was something else—a ghost within the Order, a whisper of rebellion hidden in the cracks of their perfect system.
“I needed to speak with you,” she said, voice low, urgent. “Before you make a mistake.”
Cassian crossed his arms. “Is that what you think this is?”
She stepped closer, and he noticed the tension in her stance for the first time. She was worried. And that alone was enough to make his pulse quicken.
“You’ve been ordered to hunt her.” It wasn’t a question. She already knew.
Cassian’s jaw tensed. “I follow orders.”
Selyne scoffed. “Don’t insult me, Cassian. I know you. You follow orders because you believe they serve a greater purpose. But this? This isn’t balance. This isn’t justice.”
He frowned. “Then what is it?”
Selyne’s gaze hardened. “A cover-up.”
Silence stretched between them. Cassian stared at her, searching for deception, but there was none. She believed what she was saying.
“The High Council is not telling you everything about the prophecy,” she continued, voice lowering to a whisper. “The Phoenix’s rebirth is not a threat to balance—it threatens their control. And you are being used to make sure no one ever questions it.”
Cassian didn’t move, but inside, something shifted. Doubt. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one he did not like.
“I expect you to think,” she said, stepping closer. “I expect you to question why they want her dead so badly before she even has a chance to understand what she is.”
"Did you read the missing parts of the prophecy I gave you?"
Cassian nodded.
“It was erased from history. And I know the kind of man you are.”
The Eclipsed One and the Phoenix were never meant to destroy the world.
They were meant to change it.
He lifted his gaze to his aunt, the weight of realization settling deep in his bones.
“Find the girl, Cassian. But before you kill her, ask yourself who you’re really serving.”
With that, she turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving him alone with the truth.
The Interrogation
Cassian leaned against the cold steel table, his fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against its surface. The room was dark, save for a single overhead light casting harsh illumination onto the bound figure slumped in the chair before him. The supernatural informant, a wiry fae with sunken silver eyes, winced as he struggled against the enchanted bindings that held him in place. Runes glowed faintly against his skin, suppressing whatever magic he might have attempted to summon.
“You’re testing my patience, Lysic,” Cassian said, his voice a smooth purr laced with ice. “I don’t enjoy wasting time. Especially not when it concerns something as important as the missing prophecy texts.”
Lysic let out a shaky breath, his gaze flickering between Cassian and the shadows across the walls. “I told you—I don’t know who took them. The texts were wiped from the archives before I could even confirm what they contained.”
Cassian tilted his head slightly, studying him. “See, that’s where I have a problem. You don’t seem like the type to be out of the loop. Especially not when it comes to something this valuable.”
Lysic swallowed hard. “I only know whispers, rumors. The Thalrasi have been collecting pieces of the prophecy for years. But they weren’t the only ones. Someone else wanted them gone, someone powerful.”
Cassian’s gaze darkened. “Names. Now.”
Lysic hesitated. Then, with a pained sigh, he muttered, “The Unseelie. Or at least, factions within them. They feared what the texts foretold, enough to risk erasing history itself. But they failed. Pieces still remain.”
Cassian’s fingers tightened into a fist. “Where?”
Lysic’s lips twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace. “That’s the tricky part, isn’t it? The last remaining fragments were scattered. Hidden. The Mirage has one, the Thalrasi another. And the last? Gone. Vanished.”
Cassian stepped closer, the weight of his presence pressing down like a storm cloud. “Gone where?”
Lysic shuddered. “No one knows. But if someone does… it would be the ones who erased it in the first place.”
Cassian exhaled sharply, pushing away from the table. This was bigger than he had anticipated. The missing prophecy wasn’t just lost—it had been hidden deliberately. And if the Unseelie were involved, it meant more than just forgotten words.
It meant danger was coming.
He turned back to Lysic, his expression unreadable. “You’ve been helpful. I’ll make sure you live to regret it.”
Lysic flinched, but Cassian was already walking away, the weight of revelation pressing down on him.
The prophecy wasn’t just missing.
It was being silenced.
The Gathering Storm
Lord Varek stood at the head of the grand war chamber, flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows over the stone walls. The air was thick with tension, and the scent of burning incense curled through the room like an omen. Seated around him were the commanders of his elite hunters, men and women clad in black leather and steel, their expressions hard, their bodies coiled like drawn bows.
He was not a man of magic, nor a creature of the night like those he hunted, but there was something undeniably unnatural about him. His presence alone commanded silence. His face, carved from the rigors of war, bore no traces of hesitation, only the calculated steel of a man who had walked through fire and emerged colder. His eyes—silver, almost luminous in the dim light—were his most unsettling feature, piercing through the gathered warriors like a blade through flesh.
Behind him, dominating the far wall, was the sigil of the Order of the Forsaken. A grand, intricate carving of dark metal and crimson energy, the symbol exuded power and purpose. A massive, double-edged sword pierced through its center, entwined with jagged, wing-like structures resembling angelic and demonic forms. Runes of an ancient language curled around its circular frame, glowing faintly in hues of deep red, their meanings long forgotten to all but the highest-ranking members of the Order. The sigil was not just a mark of allegiance—a promise, a blood-bound vow to rid the world of all supernatural threats.
Varek lifted a gloved hand, and a hush fell over the chamber. “The time for shadows has passed,” he said, his voice calm, yet carrying the weight of an executioner’s decree. “The enemy grows bold, believing themselves beyond reach. We will remind them of their folly.”
A murmur rippled through the room, anticipation laced with bloodlust.
“The Unseelie and their ilk have long played their games from the shadows. They whisper and weave, thinking themselves untouchable.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto each hunter in turn. “No longer. We strike first. We strike hard. And we leave nothing behind.”
He turned, motioning toward the massive iron doors at the chamber’s far end. They groaned open, revealing a line of warriors standing at attention, their armor gleaming in the low light. Each bore the sigil of the Order of the Forsaken—a mark of elite hunters trained to eliminate the supernatural ruthlessly.
“These are the ones who will lead our first wave,” Varek said. “You will accompany them. I want every den burned, every stronghold reduced to ash. No more waiting. No more tolerance.”
One of his lieutenants, a broad-shouldered man named Orin, stepped forward. “And what of Ronan? Of the Midnight Mirage?”
Varek’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained unwavering. “He will fall. In time. But first, we dismantle his alliances. We take his power piece by piece until there is nothing left.”
Orin nodded, satisfied. The room hummed with a new kind of energy—certainty, inevitability.
Lord Varek lifted a hand once more. “Go now. Make ready. By the next moon, we begin.”
As the hunters dispersed, he remained where he stood, staring into the flames of the great hearth. He was a man of patience, of order. But now, the time for patience had passed.
Now, it was time for war.
