Before him, the Gate of Veyra rises into the bruised twilight sky—a structure that should not exist. It is not built of stone or metal, but of something older. Veins of pale light pulse through its surface like a heartbeat, slow and rhythmic. The border between two kingdoms. The line between day and night.

Behind Y/n, the last lights of Aurelion's western fort glimmer like dying embers. Before him, beyond the Gate, the shadows of Nyxvar gather thick as smoke. The wind changes. It carries a scent Y/n has never known—damp earth, pine, something wild and untamed.

Y/n has stood here every night for three years. Same hour. Same post. The guards call it devotion. The court calls it duty. No one has ever asked what Y/n calls it.

The Gate hums. It has been humming louder these past weeks.

A guard shifts somewhere behind Y/n, boots crunching on frost-cracked stone. The clink of armor. The low murmur of men who have learned to speak softly near the border.

Then, through the hum, through the wind—something else.

A voice. Low, rough, barely carried on the air. Coming from beyond the Gate.