Nestled within a rift that did not exist on any map, Ebon Hollow was a place older than kingdoms, older than war, older than even memory itself. It was not built, nor was it shaped by human hands—it had always been.


    The land itself bore scars of something ancient, something unfinished. Blackened cliffs jutted from the earth like the ribs of a dead god, encircling the Hollow in a jagged, impenetrable wall. Rivers of ink-dark water slithered through the valley, their surfaces still, untouched by the wind. The air was thick, heavy with a silence so deep it felt as though the world held its breath.


    The only way in was a single path—the Mourning Bridge—a skeletal causeway of petrified roots, suspended over an abyss that swallowed all light. Beneath it, the void stretched endlessly downward, its depths unseen, unfathomable. Those who crossed without the blood of the Kierane would not make it far; the Hollow had ways of rejecting intruders.


    At the heart of this forgotten land, the Silent Keep stood. A temple-fortress of obsidian and shadow, its walls veined with silver glyphs that pulsed like fading embers. No banners hung from its towers. No torches burned in its halls. It did not need them. The Keep was alive, its presence a constant weight, pressing down on all who dwelled within.


    The windows were narrow slits, cut into the stone like watchful eyes. The doors—great slabs of black iron, bound by chains heavier than mountains—remained sealed for generations at a time. The corridors within twisted in ways that defied sense, shifting subtly when unwatched. Even those born of the their sometimes found themselves lost.


    Yet despite its bleakness, Ebon Hollow was not empty.


    The Kierane Clan lived as shadows among shadows, their presence barely perceptible. Hooded figures drifted through the Keep''s endless halls, their footsteps soundless, their voices seldom heard. They were not warriors, nor rulers. They were keepers.


    Keepers of the last threshold.


    Keepers of the Veil.


    Because beneath the Hollow, in a place no living soul had ever seen, something older than the Clan itself lay waiting.


    And the chains that bound it—


    Would not hold forever.


    Beneath Ebon Hollow, past the labyrinthine catacombs and the cursed tunnels where even the dead dared not linger, lay the Black Sepulcher.


    It was a tomb carved from nothingness itself.


    The walls were smooth like glass but swallowed light like an abyss. The ceiling stretched endlessly into shadow, as if the sky itself had been devoured.


    The floor? There was no floor. Only the Veil.


    A vast, undulating mass of black silk stretched across the chamber like a great ocean, shifting and breathing as though alive. It was not cloth. Not flesh. It was something in between. Something wrong.


    And within its folds, they waited.


    Figures—hundreds, thousands—entombed within the fabric, their forms distorted, frozen in the moment of their defeat. Limbs stretched unnaturally. Faces locked in silent screams. Some had the shapes of men. Others were less human—things with too many eyes, too many mouths, bodies that bent in ways the world had long forgotten.


    The Veilborn.


    The last remnants of a war lost before history was even written.


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    The crazy army Thanos released before dieing.


    Each had once been a god-killer, a warlord of the void, their Cores not of Titan power, but of something deeper—something born from the absence of light itself.


    They had been sealed here, beyond time, beyond existence. The Kierane Clan had ensured that no hand would ever touch the Veil. No voice would ever call their names.


    Because if even one of them awoke—


    The world would remember why they had been forgotten.


    ---


    Beneath an ink-stained sky, where the world forgot to look, the Kierane Clan lived in the silence of eternity. They did not farm, nor trade, nor war. The live in seclusion.They did not seek power. They did not speak of themselves.


    Ebon Hollow was their prison, their temple, their grave. The fortress walls did not protect them from the world—they protected the world from what lay beneath.


    And among them, Elizabeth Kierane walked alone.


    ---


    The training yard of Ebon Hollow was not a place of clashing steel or roaring warriors. It was a place of whispers.


    Cloaked figures moved across the black stone, their feet gliding soundlessly. They fought not to strike, but to erase—every motion an art of disappearance. Their weapons, thin as threads, cut only what needed to be cut. Their blades gleamed with silver runes, not to wound, but to seal.


    A single misstep meant nothing. A second misstep meant death.


    Elizabeth stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching. She had no sword, no partner.


    She was not allowed.


    She was not one of them.


    Her mother, Lady Selene Kierane, observed from above. A statue of a woman, wrapped in mourning silk, her gaze unreadable. She did not speak, nor nod, nor scold.


    She simply watched.


    Elizabeth met her eyes, just for a moment.


    Then she turned away.


    ---


    The Kierane did not fight wars. They did not spill blood.


    Their only enemy was the thing that breathed beneath their feet.


    At the core of their existence was one duty—to maintain the Veil, the barrier between this world and the one that should never return.


    Every day, the elders gathered deep in the Hollow''s Black Sanctum, their voices merging into a low hum, weaving the seals that held the Veilborn in place.


    Every day, the younger ones were sent to the lower halls, brushing charcoal sigils over the stone, reforging the crumbling glyphs.


    Every day, the silent hunters patrolled the borders, ensuring that no one found them.


    It was not a life of glory. It was not a life of choice.


    It was a life of waiting.


    Waiting for the day the chains would break, according to the prophecy.


    Waiting for the day they would not be enough.


    And Elizabeth—


    She was the one they feared most, because she always hear whispers of the veilborns, and she was whisperimg back.


    ---


    Elizabeth did not fit into the Hollow''s silence.


    Where others obeyed, she questioned.


    Where others erased themselves, she existed.


    She was not supposed to touch the lower seals, but her fingers traced the symbols when no one watched.


    She was not supposed to dream of the world beyond, but she stole books from the archives and read them beneath the moonlight.


    And she was not supposed to hear the Veilborn whispers.


    But she did.


    Soft voices curling beneath her skin.


    Distant echoes that should not be there.


    Names that had no meaning, but felt like hers.


    The others knew. They did not speak of it.


    But they feared her.


    Even her father, Lord Rael Kierane, who had carved the strongest seals with his own blood—


    Would not touch her.


    Even her mother, who had never once called her daughter by name—


    Would not look at her.


    The Hollow had stood for a thousand years.


    The Veil had held for a thousand more.


    But Elizabeth—


    She had been born with the feeling that the end was coming.


    And worse still—


    That she would be the one to open the door.


    ---


    The Night the Veil Tore


    The Hollow did not shake. It did not tremble.


    It simply… breathed.


    Elizabeth stood at the lowest chamber of Ebon Hollow—the Black Sanctum, where no light had touched in a thousand years. It was not a place where people walked. It was a tomb. A place where voices faded, where footsteps did not echo.


    She was not supposed to be here.


    But the whispers had called her.


    And she had listened.


    ---


    The Veil of Mourning did not look like a prison.


    It was a curtain of black silk, stretching from wall to wall, shifting as though caught in a wind that did not exist. It was thin—too thin to be holding back the things the Kierane feared.


    But the moment Elizabeth stood before it—she knew.


    The runes on the walls flickered. The seals, carved into stone and reinforced for generations, were fading—like breath on glass.


    Something was wrong.


    She reached out—


    Not to tear it.


    Not to break it.


    Just to understand.


    Her fingers brushed the fabric—


    And the world shattered.


    ---


    A sound tore through the chamber—low, deep, and endless. It was not a roar. It was not a scream.


    It was laughter.


    Slow. Hollow. Amused.


    The Veil rippled.


    The silk split.


    And from the other side—


    A hand emerged.


    Pale. Elongated. Unfamiliar.


    Not human.


    Elizabeth staggered back, her breath locked in her throat.


    Then—the thing stepped through.


    It was tall, wrapped in black robes that did not move. Its face was covered by a mask—not carved, but grown from its flesh, smooth as polished bone.


    Its eyes were purely black


    Endless black


    But the moment they turned toward Elizabeth—


    She felt herself vanish.


    Her name. Her thoughts. Her body.


    For a moment—


    She was nothing.


    Then—it spoke.


    A voice like silk, like knives.


    Like something that had been waiting.


    "Ah… The door is open, ...Fuck it''s closing back, i will have to deal with this."


    "Now where are we" The veilborn said.


    And the Veilborn stepped into the world.


    ---


    To be continued