Veilbound Secrets: The Oath Bearer's Curse

The following day’s training was relentless.

Lysandra was a force of nature, her every movement deliberate, each strike imbued with a purpose I couldn’t hope to understand. Her sword cleaved through the air, a blur of silver that defied my attempts to keep up. Every swing I blocked sent a jarring tremor up my arms, and every parry felt like a desperate attempt to stave off inevitable defeat. The weight of my sword grew heavier with each passing minute, the burn in my muscles spreading as fatigue set in.

My mind raced, but my body was slow. Her attacks were too fast, too precise. It felt as though she wasn’t merely testing me—she was dissecting every move, exposing every weakness. I was barely holding my own, and she hadn’t even broken a sweat. Her blade came at me with the ferocity of a storm, leaving no room for hesitation.

Under the relentless onslaught, something inside me faltered. The pressure was too great. I tried to anticipate her next move, but it was as if she could read my thoughts before I had them. A sharp pain erupted in my side as I failed to block her strike, and I staggered back, gasping for air.

Lysandra didn’t stop. Her blade flashed toward me again, and I raised my sword just in time, the sound of metal against metal ringing out like a death knell.

"The Warden’s Path isn’t just about strength," she said, her voice steady, almost calm, even as her sword continued its relentless assault. "It’s about discipline. Control. You need to understand that before anything else."

Control. That word again. I’d heard it countless times—from Lysandra, from Cedric, and even in the cryptic whispers that sometimes echoed in the back of my mind. But no matter how often it was repeated, the meaning remained elusive.

"What does control have to do with this?" I grunted, barely managing to deflect another strike that sent a jolt of pain through my wrists. Her words weighed as heavily as her strikes. "Isn’t swordsmanship about skill? Technique?"

Her eyes narrowed as she pressed forward, the force behind her strikes increasing. My arms screamed in protest, but I gritted my teeth, refusing to give in. "Skill without control is nothing," she said sharply, punctuating her words with a strike that sent me stumbling back. "You can learn every technique in existence, but without control, without mastery over yourself, you’ll always be weak."

I lunged forward, hoping to catch her off guard, but she sidestepped with ease, her blade twisting in a graceful arc that knocked mine aside with effortless precision. "The Veil isn’t just an abstract concept," she continued, her voice calm and measured. "It’s real. It’s the boundary between what is and what should never be. And the Warden’s Path teaches you to navigate that boundary."

Frustration built inside me, tightening my chest with every failed attempt to land a blow. "What does any of this have to do with swordplay?" I asked, breathless, as I narrowly avoided another of her perfectly timed strikes. "What is the Veil, really?"

Her blade came at me faster this time, and I barely had time to raise my sword to block. The impact rattled through my bones, and I grunted in pain. Lysandra stepped back, lowering her sword just enough to give me a moment’s reprieve. Her eyes bore into mine, intense and unwavering.

"The Veil," she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, "is the barrier that separates our world from the Wyrd—those twisted, chaotic realms where nothing makes sense. The Veilstriders walk its edge, keeping the balance between the two. They wield mana not just as a tool, but as an extension of themselves, bending space, time... even fate."

I blinked, struggling to process the enormity of what she was saying. The idea of wielding such power felt alien to me, and yet... I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow familiar, like a half-forgotten memory scratching at the edges of my consciousness. Bending time? Space? These were not things that should be within the reach of mortal hands. And yet, the way Lysandra spoke, it was as if they were just... another weapon.

I took a shaky breath and adjusted my grip on my sword. My muscles ached, and my head was spinning, but I wasn’t about to give up now. Not when there were so many questions still unanswered. “How does one become a Veilstrider?” I asked, more out of desperation than anything else. I had to know. I had to understand what I was truly training for, what lay ahead.

Lysandra didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she fixed me with a piercing gaze, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I thought she wasn’t going to answer at all, but then she stepped forward, her sword resting lightly at her side.

“Veilstriders aren’t born,” she said quietly. “They’re made—through discipline, through sacrifice. It requires more than just skill or strength. It requires an understanding of the Veil, of the forces that flow through it, and the will to bend them to your command.” Her gaze darkened, a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place passing over her features. “And it requires control. Without that, the Veil will consume you.”

The weight of her words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. Control. Discipline. Sacrifice. They were more than just principles—they were the very foundation of the power she was describing. And if I failed to master them, the consequences would be dire.

“Do you understand now?” she asked, stepping even closer, her presence towering over me. “This is more than just preparing for a fight, Aric. The Trial of the Founder awaits you. And when that time comes, the Oswin relic will judge you.”

The Trial. Cedric had spoken little of it, and what little he had said carried an air of secrecy, as if the relic was more than just an heirloom. It was alive in its own way, ancient and full of memories I was not prepared to inherit.

Lysandra’s gaze softened ever so slightly, but there was no comfort in it. She turned away, her footsteps echoing in the empty training hall as she left me to grapple with the implications of her words. The door shut behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the faint hum of mana in the air.

For a long time, I stood there, the silence pressing in on me. My sword hung loosely at my side, the weight of it feeling more like a burden than a tool. I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, but the questions swirling in my mind refused to let me rest.

The Veil. The Warden’s Path. The Trial. Everything seemed to be connected, but the more I learned, the more elusive the truth became. My thoughts were a tangled mess, and I found myself drawn once again to the ancient texts stacked on the table near the edge of the room.

One book in particular caught my eye. It was different from the others—older, more worn. Its cover was dark, the leather cracked and faded, but something about it called to me. I hesitated, but curiosity got the better of me. I reached out and touched the cover, and immediately, a strange warmth spread through my fingers.

The book felt alive.

I opened it slowly, the pages brittle beneath my touch. At first, the parchment was blank, but as I watched, ink began to bloom across the surface, forming words that hadn’t been there before.

“The Veil is the blade, and the blade is the Veil. To wield one is to wield both.”

The words sent a chill down my spine. I flipped the page, my hands shaking slightly. More lines appeared, scrawled in the same strange script.

“Those who walk the edge of the Veil are not bound by the laws of men, nor the laws of time. But the Veil does not forgive. Those who falter will be claimed by the Wyrd.”

The Wyrd. That word again. It had been spoken in hushed whispers by those who feared it, but no one had explained what it truly was. Only that it was... dangerous. Unknowable. The book’s warnings echoed in my mind, but I couldn’t tear myself away from it. I needed to know more.

As I continued reading, the temperature in the room seemed to drop, a coldness creeping up my spine. My breath came in shallow gasps, and the words on the page began to blur. The room around me felt distorted, the air growing thick and oppressive, as if I were standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable.

“Beware the pull of the Wyrd,” the text warned. “For it is insidious. It whispers in the dark, promising power but demanding your soul.”

A sharp knock broke through the oppressive silence, and I slammed the book shut, my heart racing. Lysandra stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

“You’re not ready for what’s inside,” she said, her voice low, though her tone left no room for argument.

Reluctantly, I handed the book over, though a part of me wanted to argue, to keep digging into the knowledge it offered. But Lysandra’s expression brooked no defiance. She placed the book back on the table, her eyes lingering on it for a moment longer than necessary.

“Control, Aric,” she said softly, her voice carrying an edge of warning. “Remember that.”

Without another word, she turned and left, leaving me standing alone in the cold, dim room.

Control. She had mentioned that word multiple times now that a question lurked—one I didn’t dare ask aloud.

If control is the key to everything, what happens when you lose it?

As Lysandra’s footsteps faded down the corridor, the silence enveloped me again, pressing in with an almost tangible weight. The faint chill that had crept into the room lingered, and I shivered, feeling more alone than ever. My eyes drifted back to the old book, now lying innocently on the table, its pages closed but its presence unnerving.

What was it?

The Wyrd. The Veil. Words that everyone seemed to know but refused to explain in full. And yet, they haunted me, clinging to every lesson, every cryptic answer Lysandra gave. They whispered from the edges of my mind, faint but persistent. Every interaction, every memory I had of the last few days felt imbued with a deeper meaning that I couldn’t yet grasp, and it gnawed at me.

I wanted to know more. I needed to know more.

But there was something in Lysanda’s gaze when she had taken the book from me—a hesitation, a shadow that told me I wasn’t ready. And I hated that. It made me feel like a child again, too weak, too inexperienced, like I had no say in the path my life would take. It reminded me of Cedric, of the silent expectations that loomed over me from the moment I woke in this world.

Frustration burned in my chest, warring with the exhaustion that had settled deep in my bones. The training, the cryptic warnings, the weight of the relic—it was all too much. And yet, here I was, trapped in this spiral of confusion, forced to piece together fragments of a puzzle I didn’t even know the shape of.

I’m drowning in all of this.

I sheathed my sword and collapsed onto one of the benches that lined the far wall. My hands were shaking, not just from the physical strain, but from the pressure. It felt like the walls of my life were closing in, the expectations of my family, the looming Trial, and the questions no one seemed willing to answer all conspiring against me.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to calm my thoughts. But even as I sat there, trying to find some clarity, my mind kept circling back to the same thing.

The Veil is the blade, and the blade is the Veil.

What did that even mean?

My fingers absently traced the hilt of my sword, as if seeking some hidden truth within its cold steel. Lysandra had spoken of discipline, of control. But I was beginning to realize that control wasn’t just about mastering my movements or my sword. It was something far more elusive—something deeper. Something inside me.

Was that what the Trial would test? Was that what the relic sought when it passed judgment?

I didn’t know. But as much as I wanted to resist, as much as the idea of facing the Trial filled me with dread, there was no escaping it. The relic would come for me, just as it had come for every Oswin before me. And when it did, I would have to face whatever lay beyond that moment—whether I was ready or not.

...