Veilbound Secrets: The Oath Bearer's Curse

Later, the chamber began to stir again—not with the violent tremors of an impending foe, but with a soft, almost imperceptible shift in the air. A faint hum reverberated through the space, as if the room itself was exhaling, pulling his attention forward.

sigh

Aric let out a slow, weary sigh. His body ached, every muscle protesting as he forced himself to stand. He could feel his mana slowly trickling back, a sluggish warmth crawling through his veins, though it was far from replenished. The exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, but he had no choice but to press on.

With reluctant resolve, he took a step into the unknown, deeper into the trial's mysteries.

The path ahead unfolded like something out of a dream, surreal and untamed. As he emerged from the dim chamber, the air around him shifted, becoming heavier, filled with a damp coolness that clung to his skin. The oppressive weight lifted slightly as the scenery before him changed. The harsh, barren ground gave way to lush greenery, a vibrant contrast to the lifeless stone behind him.

And there, in the distance, he saw it—the fourth gate.

It wasn’t forged from cold, unfeeling stone like the previous ones. Instead, it was a natural archway, formed by bent trees and vines, their gnarled branches intertwining above to create a looming structure. The greenery had overtaken the gate, vines and moss winding across its surface, giving it the appearance of something ancient, reclaimed by nature. Glowing flowers bloomed sporadically, their faint light casting an eerie glow on the intricate carvings etched into the twisted bark.

Aric paused, 'Another sight to behold,' he thought wryly, taking in the stark contrast of the gate before him. Beneath his feet, the earth was rich and alive, but there was still an unsettling stillness in the air, as though even the plants themselves were holding their breath.

'That must be the fourth gate,' he mused, his eyes narrowing. 'It's been ages since I entered this trial... or at least it feels that way.'

He couldn’t help but be drawn to the archway. It was ominous, but not in the same way as the titan had been. No, this was a different kind of danger, one that whispered in the wind rather than roared in his face. The pull of it was almost magnetic.

"I barely survived that last fight, and now this?" He let out a bitter laugh. "I must be insane."

But even as the words left his lips, a shiver of anticipation ran through him. There was something different about this gate. Something otherworldly.

As Aric approached, the air thickened, heavy with mana and something far more ancient, more primal. The energy coiled around him, wrapping his senses in a palpable tension that set his nerves on edge. He pushed forward, crossing through the natural archway of bent trees and vines. On the other side, his gaze fell on a shimmering pool.

He hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. The pool’s surface glistened like molten glass, reflecting not only his own face but thousands of fragmented, flickering images—shadows of faces, moments, and memories he couldn’t place. Each one stirred faintly, like the echo of something forgotten.

Aric took a step closer, squinting at the spectacle before him. The Wellspring? The realization hit him like a cold shock to the spine.

He knelt at the edge of the pool, the shimmering water almost hypnotic. It looked exactly like the descriptions he had read about. Lysandra had given him a few books before his trials began—obscure tomes that hinted at ancient places of power, realms where the boundary between the past and present blurred. The Wellspring had been mentioned only briefly, a mere footnote among countless other arcane references. But he remembered it.

“The Wellspring...,” Aric whispered, his voice barely audible as he stared into its depths. According to the texts, it was said to contain the echoes of those who had passed through its waters—victors, failures, those who had dared to glimpse their future or confront their past. Lives lived and lost, legends that had faded into obscurity, all woven into the pool's essence.

A chill crept down his spine. He could almost feel the weight of their presence pressing down on him, waiting.

Lysandra’s voice echoed in his mind from one of their late-night study sessions. "The Wellspring is not just a place of reflection, but of reckoning. It reveals the truths you may not be ready to face."

Aric swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words now. The pool's surface shimmered invitingly, but beneath that allure, there was something darker, something dangerous. He could sense it—the subtle pull, the temptation to reach into the waters and lose himself in its depths.

The past wasn’t just preserved here. It was alive.

And it wanted him to join it.

He knew what the Wellspring was capable of, but knowing and experiencing were two different things entirely. The temptation tugged at him, daring him to step closer, to peer into his own forgotten memories, or unearth the secrets that lay hidden beneath his own skin.

His breath slowed as he stared at the flickering reflections. There was no telling what the Wellspring would show him—his past, his future, or something entirely different.

...

Kneeling at the water's edge, I stared down into the reflections. Fleeting images flickered: warriors clad in armor, scholars bent over ancient tomes, and others whose faces I didn’t recognize but who wore the Oswin relic around their necks. Their expressions were a kaleidoscope of emotions—triumph, despair, joy, and sorrow—each life condensed into a brief flash of memory.

The Wellspring seemed to hum with a life of its own, calling to me. A soft voice echoed in my mind, urging me forward.

"To know the past is to understand the present."

The temptation was undeniable. I felt an urge to plunge into the water, to immerse myself in the stories of those who had walked this path before me. But there was a warning in the voice, too, a subtle caution that these memories were not just stories—they were chains that could ensnare me if I wasn’t careful.

I hesitated, torn between my curiosity and the fear of losing myself within the memories. What if the past overwhelmed me, erasing the present? What if the weight of those who had come before was too great to bear? The tension built inside me, my desire to learn clashing with my fear of losing control.

But the pull was too strong. I couldn’t resist the allure of the Wellspring, the promise of knowledge it held.

Splash.

With a deep breath, I plunged my hand into the water.

The chill was instantaneous, seeping into my bones. Ripples spread from my touch, distorting the reflections for a moment before they settled once more. As the surface stilled, I felt myself being drawn in, my consciousness slipping beneath the shimmering veneer of the pool and into the memories within.

I was no longer at the water’s edge. The subtle pull of the Wellspring had transported me into a visceral, vivid memory. The air around me thickened, the acrid scent of blood and smoke filling my lungs. All around, warriors clashed, their battle cries ringing through the chaos of a raging war. Steel against steel, bodies falling, the ground beneath my feet soaked in crimson. I looked down and realized—I was no longer Aric, but Eldric. How did I realize that? To be honest, I had no idea, it just seemed right.

Eldric’s body was mine. The weight of the armor, the sword heavy in my hand, the stinging cuts along my arms—they all felt real. Too real.

Each swing of Eldric’s blade carried not just skill, but desperation, a fierce determination that burned in my chest. With every strike, I felt the weight of an entire nation on my shoulders. Eldric’s heart raced with fear—fear of failure. But he didn’t falter. He couldn’t. I felt the crushing burden of leadership he bore, a relentless pressure to protect, to survive, to win. Every life that was lost, every comrade that fell beside him, etched a deeper scar into my soul. The sounds of war, the cries of the dying, melded with Eldric’s own thoughts—a ceaseless whirlwind of duty, pain, and responsibility.

This was how it began, I realized. Before Eldric became the founder, he was a man just trying to survive.

Through Eldric’s eyes, I witnessed the gruesome truth of my ancestor’s rise. He wasn’t born strong. He had fought, bled, and clawed his way through battles that seemed impossible. And each time, he rose again—harder, more determined, more unyielding.

A brutal strike from an enemy soldier sent Eldric sprawling to the ground, his sword clattering out of his hand. I felt the sharp sting of the blow, the suffocating panic as Eldric's fingers scrambled in the dirt to reclaim his weapon. The battlefield was chaos, a storm of bodies and blades, and in that moment of vulnerability, Eldric's life hung by a thread.

I will not die here.

Eldric's resolve burned through me like wildfire. With a guttural roar, he grabbed a fallen spear, using it to deflect the killing blow aimed at his chest. In a swift motion, he plunged the spear into his enemy’s gut, his body shaking with exhaustion but his spirit unbroken.

Suddenly, the scene shifted.

I was no longer on the battlefield. The sound of clashing steel faded, replaced by the lilting strains of music and the soft murmur of noble conversations. I found myself in the midst of a grand hall, filled with laughter, dancing, and the glimmer of candlelight. I was still Eldric, but this was a different kind of battle.

A woman’s laugh caught my attention. She spun gracefully across the floor, her golden hair catching the light as she danced. I recognized her—not from my own life, but from the stories passed down through generations. This was Sylvara, a pivotal figure in the Oswin legacy, though her story had always been shrouded in mystery. Her smile was radiant, but I could feel the tension in her every movement.

The nobles around her whispered behind their hands, their gazes sharp with envy and contempt. Sylvara’s beauty and poise couldn’t shield her from the poisonous undercurrents of political games, where alliances were fragile and betrayal always lurked. I could feel the weight of the stares on her, the knowledge that her every move was being scrutinized.

It wasn’t just battles that defined the Oswins, I thought. It was the delicate dance of power in courts just as deadly as any battlefield.

Sylvara’s laughter faltered for a moment, her eyes catching the disapproving glances of those around her. A surge of protectiveness rose within me—Eldric’s protectiveness. Sylvara’s world was one of diplomacy, charm, and manipulation, and though she wore a smile, the strain of keeping up the facade was crushing.

The hall faded, and I was thrust into a darker memory. The air was thick with dread, the oppressive silence suffocating. A single figure sat alone in a shadowy chamber—Mira Oswin. She was one of the family’s former heads, a powerful woman who had borne the full weight of the relic's burden. Her face was pale, drawn with exhaustion, her hands trembling as they hovered over the relic, which pulsed ominously before her.

No... no more, I could hear Mira’s thoughts. She was on the edge, the voices of the relic’s previous bearers tormenting her, pulling her deeper into despair.

“I won’t be their puppet anymore,” she whispered, her voice shaking with defiance and fear.

...