The silence in the archive room lasted so long that Caelan began to think everyone had forgotten how to breathe. It was Sarynne who broke it, her voice soft yet firm in the dusty air.
"Lysarion, no. We can't simply accept this as the only option."
Lysarion did not look at her, his fingers still tracing the words of the ancient text. "It is written here clearly. The Veil was woven with three threads. To repair it, all three must be brought together. Elyria has two. I have the third."
Rhaevan stepped forward, placing himself between Lysarion and the rest of the group. "There is always another way. Always."
"Do you truly believe that?" Lysarion finally looked at them, his eyes carrying a calm acceptance that was more frightening than any panic. "After everything we've seen? After everything we've lost?"
Caelan closed the book he was holding with a soft thud. "Ancient texts are not always right. They were written by people, not gods. People who may have misunderstood—or who may have lied."
Sarynne nodded, stepping closer to Lysarion. "He's right. And even if they are correct, we need to fully understand what the ritual demands. 'Becoming part of the Veil' can mean many things. It may not mean death."
Lysarion smiled, a sad, weary gesture. "My family has guarded these secrets for generations. I know what it means. My ancestor did not die when he became part of the Veil. He… ceased to exist as we understand existence. He became a function, not a person."
The idea hung in the air, more terrifying than simple mortality. Rhaevan felt a chill run down his spine. "And you think Elyria wants that for you? That she would accept such a sacrifice?"
"She has no choice," Lysarion replied. "Just as I don't. If the Devourer crosses the Veil, everything ends. Everything. This is not a matter of wanting or not wanting. It's simple mathematics."
That was when the shadows in the room began to move again. This time, it was not a controlled manifestation by Elyria, but something far more chaotic. The shadows writhed as if in pain, forming and dissolving into random patterns.
"Something's wrong," Sarynne whispered, instinctively stepping back. "She's fighting… against something."
An image began to take shape in the shadows—Elyria, or what remained of her, holding what looked like an invisible barrier. On the other side, indistinct forms pressed against it, trying to break through.
"There's… not… much… time…" Elyria's voice came in fragments, like a radio with interference. "He found… a weak point… near… you…"
Rhaevan looked around, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the sword that was no longer there. "Where? Where is the weak point?"
"Where… the palace… collapsed…" Elyria's voice faltered for a moment, then returned, weaker. "The ritual… to bring me back… opened a crack…"
Lysarion cursed under his breath. "The chapel. Where we performed the communication ritual."
Without another word, they all ran out of the archives and climbed through the passages to the palace's main level. Night had fallen, and the full moon cast a silvery light over the ruins.
When they reached the entrance to the underground chapel, they immediately saw the problem. The air above the entrance shimmered like heat over desert stone. And from the distortion, an ancient cold emanated—a cold that was not merely the absence of heat, but the presence of something that should never have known warmth.
"He's trying to come through," Caelan said, his voice tense.
Sarynne extended her hands, closing her eyes. "I feel… hunger. So much hunger. Not for food, but for… existence. He wants to consume everything we are, everything we were, everything we could be."
Rhaevan began to move toward the distortion, but Lysarion grabbed him. "No. If you get too close, he might latch onto you. Use you as an anchor."
"Then what do we do?" Rhaevan demanded, his frustration spilling over.
That was when Elyria's voice came again, not from the shadows, but directly into their minds, clear and desperate:
"I need a body. Temporarily. To strengthen the weak point on your side."
They all exchanged looks. "A body?" Sarynne asked aloud. "How?"
"Partial possession. Someone must let me in. Just for a few minutes. Enough for me to seal the crack."
The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with new dangers. Lysarion was the first to step forward. "I will. My connection to the Veil—"
"Not you," Elyria's voice interrupted. "You are too precious. Too important for what comes next. Rhaevan."
Rhaevan did not hesitate. "What do I need to do?"
"Just… let me in. And trust me."
Sarynne touched Rhaevan's arm. "It's dangerous. Possession, even partial, even by someone we trust… can have consequences."
"Worse consequences than the Devourer crossing over?" Rhaevan asked, already walking toward the distortion.
He stopped a few steps from the crack in the air, feeling the ancient cold prick at his skin. He closed his eyes. "I'm ready, Elyria. Come."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then Rhaevan felt a presence—not around him, but inside him. It was like diving into deep waters, except the waters were made of memories and emotions that were not his. He saw flashes of Elyria's cosmic existence, felt the weight of the Heart she now was, experienced the infinite loneliness of her new state.
And then Elyria took control.
Rhaevan's eyes opened, but they were no longer just his own. They shone with a soft silvery light, and when he spoke, two voices came from his mouth—his and hers intertwined.
"The crack," the two voices said in unison. "It's still small. We can close it."
Rhaevan's hands moved, tracing patterns in the air. Wherever his fingers passed, threads of silvery light and shadow wove together, mending the distortion in the air. The process was slow, meticulous, and with each movement, Rhaevan felt a drain on his vital energy.
"On the other side," the voices whispered, "he struggles. He doesn't want to lose this point of entry."
Lysarion stepped forward. "Can I help? As a weaver?"
"Yes," the voices replied. "Use your skill to strengthen my points. Do what we did among the stars, but on a smaller scale."
Lysarion joined Rhaevan/Elyria, his own hands moving in complementary patterns. As they worked, Sarynne and Caelan watched, ready to intervene if anything went wrong.
The process took perhaps ten minutes, but it felt like hours. When they finished, the distortion in the air had vanished, and the ancient cold had retreated. Rhaevan fell to his knees, gasping, and when he looked up, his eyes were only his own again.
"She's gone," he whispered, touching his own chest as if searching for some trace of her presence.
Lysarion helped him to his feet. "But she sealed the crack. For now."
Sarynne approached the place where the distortion had been, cautiously extending her hand. "The seal is strong. But it's temporary. Like putting a bandage on a wound that needs stitches."
From the air, one last message from Elyria arrived, weak but clear:
"Thank you. But now he knows he can create cracks. And he knows how. We have days, maybe a week. After that…"
The voice faded, leaving the unspoken threat hanging over them.
Caelan broke the silence that followed. "So we have a week. To find another solution. Or to prepare the sacrifice."
Rhaevan looked at Lysarion, and for the first time, he did not see a rival or a reluctant ally. He saw a man willing to give everything for someone they both loved. And he saw the terrible mathematics Lysarion had mentioned—an equation where love for one person had to be weighed against the survival of all people.
"Let's go back to the archives," Rhaevan said, his voice heavy with renewed determination. "If there's an answer there, we'll find it. And if there isn't… well, then we'll have a week to say our goodbyes properly."
As they descended once more into the depths of the palace, none of them mentioned the obvious—that even if they found another solution, it would likely demand its own sacrifice. Because in games with fate, no one emerges unscathed.
And above them, in the shadows of the palace ruins, something watched. Something that was no longer completely on the other side of the Veil. Something that had tasted a fragment of reality and now wanted more.
The Devourer had tasted it.
And he liked the taste.
To be continued…