"The Boy Who Watches"

Caelan tightened his grip on the dagger.

The boy didn’t move.

He just stood there, barefoot on the cracked stone floor of Khal Veyra, surrounded by the soft rustle of shadows that shouldn’t have had voices.

“Who are you?” Caelan asked again, slower this time. “And what do you want?”

The boy smiled wider. “Want? Nothing yet. You haven’t broken anything important.”

The shadows shifted behind him—shapes half-seen in the firelight. Hands? Wings? Something older?

Caelan’s blood turned to ice.

He kept his blade raised. “You’re not real.”

The boy blinked. “Of course I am. I’m just not yours.”

“Mine?”

“You opened a door you can’t close, Caelan Virel,” the boy said, stepping closer. “That flame inside you? It’s not yours, either. Not really. It belongs to something far older—and far hungrier.”

The shadows stretched across the walls like ink in water.

Caelan backed up slowly. “What are you?”

The boy tilted his head. “What’s the word you humans like? Ah… I’m a Herald.”

> “Of what?”

The boy’s eyes flickered gold-black.

> “Of what’s waking.”

----------------

Suddenly—

> FWOOSH!

A dagger spun through the air—Liora burst from the shadows behind Caelan.

“Down!” she shouted.

Caelan dropped.

The blade sailed toward the boy—but never landed.

It froze mid-air.

Then… melted.

The boy looked at Liora with something close to disappointment.

“Now, that’s just rude.”

Liora grabbed Caelan by the collar. “Move!”

They ran, feet pounding against ancient stone.

The boy didn’t follow.

He only whispered—

> “We’ll meet again, flameborn.”

And then, he was gone.

They didn’t stop until they were half a mile from the ruins. The stars above were pale with dawn. Caelan collapsed against a boulder, breath ragged.

“What the hell was that?” he panted.

Liora didn’t answer at first. She stood, scanning the treeline. Sword drawn.

Then, softly: “A Herald.”

He looked up at her, eyes wide.

“You knew?”

“I’ve heard whispers. Old stories. They're not gods, not demons… something in-between.” She turned toward him. “They appear when the Veil weakens. Some bring omens. Others bring... death.”

“He said the flame isn’t mine.”

“He’s not wrong.”

Caelan stiffened.

Liora softened, just barely. “But it chose you. That’s the difference.”

They moved fast the next day, putting as much distance between them and the ruins as possible. Caelan said little. He was still shaken—not just from the boy, but from how it felt when the shadows had recognized him.

Like they’d been waiting.

Liora handed him a flask of water. “You’re too quiet.”

“I saw something in his eyes,” Caelan said. “He knew me. Knew what I’d become.”

“What will you become?”

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t push.

🌒 By nightfall, they reached a broken watchtower.

There, as they rested under cold stars, Liora opened up.

“I joined the Syndicate when I was thirteen,” she said. “They found me after my village was razed during the Salt War. Taught me to kill, to lie, to serve the crown’s hidden orders.”

Caelan turned to her. “You’ve seen war?”

She gave a bitter smile. “I’ve been war.”

Silence.

Then she added, almost too softly: “But no one ever called me necessary—until now.”

Caelan said nothing, but in the firelight, their eyes lingered a little longer.

Later that night, Caelan woke from a dream.

Or maybe a memory.

He was standing in a golden hall, younger, barefoot, holding a dagger far too heavy for his hand. In front of him, a king knelt, cloaked in fire.

A voice behind him whispered:

> “Blood seals the gate. Blood opens it.”

He looked down.

The king’s face was his own.