Author’s Note

Welcome to the world of Veilridge.

This is a story set in a land where truth has been buried, rewritten, or simply erased. A world ruled by crowns that shine too brightly to see the blood beneath them. Between frozen fortresses and fading maps lies a place that no longer exists—at least, not officially. Veilridge.

Here, you’ll follow a soldier sworn to a throne she once believed in, and a man shaped by shadows and memories long denied. This isn’t a story about good versus evil. It’s about loyalty, guilt, silence, and the quiet moments when doubt begins to speak louder than duty.

This book isn’t perfect. It’s still growing. If you notice something off, or if a line hits you in the heart (or misses entirely), I’d love to hear your thoughts. Feedback is not only welcome—it’s appreciated more than you know.

Thank you for giving this story a chance. I hope it stays with you long after the last page.

–4us

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

The land cradled itself in silence.

Nestled deep in the western lowlands of Virelya, between mountains carved by wind and memory, there once lay a hidden haven — a place untouched by flags or warhorns, unnamed on any official map. The people who lived there had no need for borders or crowns. They called it Veilridge.

It was not a kingdom, nor a fortress.

It was a refuge.

A place where the old bloodlines — vampire, elf, and others long exiled from royal courts — found peace among the fog-draped forests and moonlit rivers. No banners flew above its homes. No guards patrolled its streets. But there was safety, and that was enough.

They farmed with their hands. They read by starlight. They spoke in ancient dialects, carried rituals older than the continents, and celebrated the blend of their lineages as a gift — not a threat.

And above them all, the mountains stood like ancient guardians, casting long shadows across the valley. The peaks, known as the Veilridge Spine, formed a natural wall — a crown of stone that had protected them for generations.

Until the crown broke.

No warning came. No declaration.

Only fire.

It fell from the skies like a curse, carried on black-winged magic and the shriek of unnatural steel. Veilridge did not have walls, because it had never needed them. On that day, it needed everything.

What the invaders didn’t destroy, they corrupted. Magic burned through the fields like sickness. The rivers choked black with ash. The air turned sharp with iron and screams. Elders who remembered the first age were cut down alongside infants. Whole bloodlines vanished in a night.

The soldiers bore no sigil — but their steel was unmistakably Dravarethian. Forged in the furnaces of conquest, guided by orders from a king barely in his twenties.

No one knew why the order had been given.

No threat had risen from Veilridge.

No war had been declared.

And yet, to the court of King Aureth Velliar, the very existence of such a place was threat enough.

A haven for those who would never kneel.

Of the thousands who once lived there, only a handful escaped.

Some wandered the wilds in silence, afraid to speak the name of the land they lost. Others fell to time, hunted or forgotten. And some — the rarest of them — endured.

Not for vengeance.

Not yet.

But because the world would not remember them.

And someone had to.

What remained of Veilridge was scrubbed from records. The name stricken from every map. Any mention of the mountain range reattributed to old mining sites, long abandoned. The truth, wrapped in royal ink, was buried beneath centuries of propaganda and ink-stained lies.

But Veilridge was not a myth.

And history, no matter how deeply buried, always finds its voice again.

Before she was called commander, before the cold steel of orders became her truth, Josephine Amelia Basterbein had been the daughter of a soldier.

Her father, Captain Joseph Basterbein, fell on the northern frontlines during one of Dravareth’s earliest expansion campaigns. She was seven when they gave her his sword—still red with war—and told her he died a hero.

Commander Vaedric took her in after that. Not as a ward, but as a project. She entered the military academy before her eighth year and learned to silence grief through discipline. Through purpose. Through loyalty.

That loyalty had carved her into something precise. Cold. Sharp.

She had never questioned the shape of the blade they forged her into.

Until now.

......................

The wind was sharp atop the obsidian tower. Morning had yet to fully arrive, but the crimson banners of Dravareth already rippled violently in the dark wind. Josephine stood at the edge of the stone balcony, her gloved fingers, lined with frost-trimmed leather, rested against the black iron railing.

The silver piping on her long officer’s coat caught the dawn light, its hem dusted with a fine edge of frost. Her peaked commander’s cap cast a shadow across her eyes, turning her expression unreadable.

Her eyes never fully opened — not out of fatigue, but precision. Like a blade half-drawn, her gaze was meant to cut, not to comfort.

Beneath her, the capital stirred—a machine of discipline, all gears and steel. The echo of marching boots rose from below, rhythmic and absolute. It was the vanguard’s final drill before deployment. Twelve soldiers, personally chosen and trained by her. Loyal, deadly, silent. They called her the Hound of Dravareth. A blade with no voice, no hesitation.

Josephine drew a slow breath. Cold. Clean. Tainted with steel and smoke.

At her side, five ethereal swords shimmered to life, floating like spirits forged of starlight and war. They circled her slowly, humming as if alive. She did not touch them. She never had to.

Behind her, a door creaked open. She didn’t turn.

“The king awaits you in the war chamber,” said Vaedric’s voice. Gravel rough, laced with pride.

Josephine turned, her silver hair catching the faint red glow of sunrise. “Has he decided the target?”

Vaedric nodded. “A village in the lowlands. Off the map. Likely harbors remnants of Veilridge.”

That name stirred something. Not fear. Not guilt. But a tremor.

She paused before the grand door, where two guards saluted without a word. As they pushed the doors open, golden light spilled from the chamber, revealing a towering man in regalia, seated upon a dais of jagged black stone.

King Aureth Velliar.

“Josephine,” he said, his voice low and final, like a blade drawn across whetstone.

She stepped forward and knelt. “Your Majesty.”

The king rose, descending the stairs slowly, every movement laced with authority. “There are rumors,” he began, “of movements in the borderlands. Veilridge... A place that should not exist. Survivors, perhaps. Traitors to the crown. I want you to investigate.”

Josephine’s jaw clenched. “If there are survivors, what are your orders?”

His eyes gleamed—cold, and gold like molten judgment. “Purge them. Burn the roots before they tangle again.”

She stood, heart steady, spine straight. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

As she exited the war chamber, a weight pressed against her shoulders—not the command, but the silence that followed. There had been no cheers, no banners raised. Only the quiet certainty that this mission, like so many before it, would end in blood.

...----------------...

By midday, Josephine was riding through the frostbitten plains of Virelya, the wind combing through her silver-gray hair like a whisper from the dead. The mission was simple. The target, obscure. But something gnawed at her. A feeling.

When she reached the outskirts of the mist-draped forest, she dismounted. Her boots crunched against the frost-laced grass as she ventured in, the trees parting like wary spectators. The wind shifted.

A shape dropped from the trees, landing in a crouch with the silence of a predator. He stood slowly, tall and composed, the fading light catching the pale edges of his face — sharp, inhuman, and calm in a way that unnerved. His eyes, grey and cold, locked onto hers with quiet confidence, as if he had been waiting for her all along.

“I was beginning to wonder if the king would send someone interesting,” the man said, his voice like smoke and dusk.

She froze. Her hand went to her side — but there was no sheath, no steel. There never had to be.

With a surge of will, the air around her crystallized, and one by one, blades of glimmering ice took shape at her side — six in total, suspended in the air, their frosted edges gleaming with silent menace. They hovered, cold and obedient, awaiting only her command.

The man before her smirked, and in each of his hands, he revealed a curved dagger, their blades glowing red like molten crystal — fossilized remnants of a creature lost to legend. The surface of the weapons pulsed with energy, not of magic, but of something darker. Life.

“I was hoping the king would send one of his knights,” he said, stepping forward, boots silent on the stone. “But instead… he sends his favorite hound.”

Josephine’s eyes narrowed. “Step aside.”

“Ah, loyal to the end.” He circled her slowly, blades humming. “Tell me, does your king ever answer questions? Like why Veilridge burned under moonlight? Or why the innocent screamed louder than the guilty?”

Before she could respond, he moved.

Like a shadow uncoiling, he lunged. Josephine’s swords snapped into action, two striking toward his sides while another darted for his chest. He twisted, just narrowly avoiding the piercing blades.

The red daggers in his hands clashed with the ethereal ice — not a ring of metal, but a sharp, brittle crack. Frost splintered in the air with each collision, cold mist blooming as spirit clashed with fury. The hiss of heat meeting cold sent tendrils of vapor spiraling between them.

When she moved, the ground seemed to crackle beneath her boots, a whisper of ice trailing behind each motion.

“You hesitate,” he murmured, ducking low as his blade sliced toward her legs — but she was already airborne, spinning. Three ethereal swords circled her in a radiant storm, and her own blade struck forward like a flash of judgment

He parried, spinning to the side, his red daggers whistling through the air. She launched another strike, two ethereal blades now forming a dance around her, controlled by pure thought. He weaved between them, his own style brutal and fluid.

“You know nothing of loyalty,” she spat, sending a sword arcing overhead.

“And you know nothing of truth.” He caught her sword on the curve of his blade and twisted, forcing her to leap back.

Their battle surged across the field. Sparks of blue and red painted the crumbling stone. Josephine remained focused, her swords moving with disciplined rhythm, her expression calm — serene even — though each blow she delivered carried the weight of her training, her past, and her devotion.

He grinned through it all.

At last, they broke apart.

“He made you strong,” the stranger said, stepping back as her blades hovered in a circular formation around him. “But strength without question is just another form of chains.”

Josephine’s blade hovered inches from his throat. “And you’re a ghost clinging to a graveyard.”

A heartbeat passed.

Then he stepped back into the mist.

“When you ask the right questions,” he said, vanishing into the gloom, “I’ll be waiting.”

Josephine lowered her blade. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. But her stance held firm.

“That wasn’t just a skirmish,” she thought.

“That was something else.”

She didn’t chase. She didn’t call out.

“His words, his eyes… they weren’t trying to win. They were trying to wake me up.”

“But from what?”

The thought unsettled her. She wasn’t ready to ask it out loud.

She stood still, her heart pounding beneath the armor of duty. The wind returned, rustling her cloak like a whisper of warning.

And for the first time, her sword no longer felt weightless.

In the distance, the bells of Dravareth began to toll.

The echo of Josephine’s boots followed her down the long marble corridor like a judgment refusing to be silenced. Her cloak, dampened by frost and sweat, dragged behind her with every heavy step. The lamps along the hallway flickered dimly, casting warped shadows across the stone like grasping fingers.

She had not spoken since the encounter.

The soldier stationed outside the war chamber recognized her instantly. He said nothing, only stepped aside and opened the door.

Within, the chamber was warm and quiet. Too quiet. It smelled faintly of parchment, steel, and something deeper—like incense burned over bloodied altars.

King Aureth Velliar sat atop his iron seat, his fingers steepled before his lips, eyes closed in thought—or calculation.

Josephine dropped to one knee before him. “Your Majesty.”

The king opened his eyes.

He studied her without speaking. The silence dragged. Not oppressive—deliberate. He wanted her to speak first.

“There was resistance,” she said finally, her voice calm, though something frayed beneath it. “Not from the village. From... someone else. A hybrid. Skilled.”

“Survivor?”

“Unclear.”

The king’s brows knit ever so slightly. “Describe him.”

She hesitated. The image of his eyes—gray like storm-clouds, ancient and tired—flashed behind her lids.

“Tall. Vampiric traits. Elf lineage. He wields two red blades... forged of something I couldn’t identify.”

“Magic?”

“Possibly. But not traditional.”

Aureth leaned back slowly in his throne, the iron creaking beneath him like a beast disturbed. “Did he identify himself?”

“No, sire.”

Truth

Aureth’s gaze narrowed. “And your mission?”

“Complete.”

That was the lie

“So it was him after all.”

A pause. Then, almost to himself, Aureth added, “I suspected the shadow belonged to Veilridge.”

He rose from his throne—slowly, deliberately. The hem of his dark mantle brushed against the marble floor, the fabric adorned with obsidian embroidery that shimmered like oil under the candlelight.

He descended a step, his presence towering even without armor.

“And yet you return with no body.”

His voice turned cold, clipped. “If he crosses our borders again, I want him dead. No more shadows. No more ghosts.”

She could feel it in his tone. He didn’t believe her. Not fully. But he wouldn’t press further—not yet.

Aureth’s words had cut through the air like frostbite: no more shadows, no more ghosts.

Josephine kept her expression neutral, but her stomach coiled tight.

She had killed on command before. Without hesitation. Without question.

But this time…

She had made a choice. One she hadn’t even admitted to herself.

Her hands remained steady. Her breath measured. But beneath the surface, something had shifted — something quiet and dangerous.

Josephine bowed — lower this time. Not out of reverence, but to hide the flicker in her eyes.

Then she turned, boots echoing softly on the marble floor as she left the chamber — her back straight, but her focus fractured.

Behind her, the king’s voice echoed once more.

“Josephine.”

She paused mid-step.

His eyes were sharp now, piercing. “Tell me. Did you waver?”

Her throat closed for a moment.

“No, my king.”

Another lie.

She did not look back as she exited the chamber.

...----------------...

By the time she reached the outer training yards, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting long amber shadows across the fortress walls. The stone spires burned gold in the fading light, sharp and silent like watchful sentinels.

Josephine stood before them, arms folded, face unreadable.

She watched the recruits as they assembled — some already in formation, others still fumbling with their footing. Their movements were too loud, too clumsy.

Her gaze flicked upward again, toward the burnished towers. For a brief moment, she let herself breathe — not relax, but recalibrate. The day’s weight pressed against her spine like a phantom blade.

She blinked once. The softness vanished from her expression.

“Line up!” she barked. “No gaps. I want full control over spacing and timing. Again.”

They moved in unison. Sword arcs. Step formations. Channeling ethereal resonance. Blades hummed and flickered blue as they flowed through the drills she had carved into them.

Yet her mind wasn’t fully there.

“They follow without question,” she muttered. “Just like I did.”

Every time a blade ignited with that familiar ethereal glow, she saw his—those red, curved daggers pulsing like blood-fed fire. She saw his eyes not as a monster’s, but as someone staring into her soul with the weight of something broken and ancient.

The thought echoed in her mind, uninvited:

“Justice doesn’t wear a crown.”

She had no memory of him saying it. But the words lingered as if they’d been carved into her by the weight of their fight.

She paced between the lines of soldiers, correcting stances, adjusting wrist angles, issuing sharp nods.

But inside, her thoughts churned.

Had she truly never asked herself why she fought?

Was it to honor the father she barely remembered?

To prove herself to Commander Vaedric?

Or had loyalty simply filled the silence grief left behind?

“Don’t falter, Basterbein.”

The voice wasn’t hers—it was Aureth’s. From years ago. From one of the first times she had hesitated during a mission. She had carried those words like a shield ever since.

Yet now... that shield felt cracked.

She stopped in front of one of her youngest recruits—a boy barely past seventeen, eyes too wide to belong in Dravareth. His stance was off by a margin, too rigid in the shoulders.

She adjusted his elbow gently.

“Too stiff,” she said, her voice cool but calm. “You can’t force control. You have to feel it. Let the energy flow with you, not against you.”

The boy blinked, surprised. Not used to softness. Not from her.

She moved on without another word.

As the drills concluded and her soldiers dispersed, Josephine remained behind, staring at the edge of the training field. Snow had begun to fall in thin, delicate flakes—uncommon for this region in spring.

She extended her hand, letting one melt on her glove.

”Do you ever ask yourself why you’re fighting?”

Yes.

Yes, she did now.

But she still didn’t have an answer.

Not yet.