The sky was still black when Velan returned to the upper levels of the estate.
But he wasn't alone.
Perched silently atop the southern wall, masked figures watched the training grounds below. They wore robes of neutral grey, faces hidden behind bone-carved masks shaped like snarling beasts.
The Guardians of the Secret Cult.
Velan had heard the rumors. Whispers of shadow protectors older than the clan itself. Sworn not to the elders or the court, but to the bloodlines they deemed sacred. Watching. Judging. Never interfering… unless threatened.
Tonight, one of them had followed him from the waterfall cave.
And now… he stood at Velan's door.
---
Velan opened it.
No words were spoken.
The Guardian stepped in. Tall. Cloaked. Mask carved like a jackal. His presence was oppressive — not in anger, but in expectation. He carried a scroll, sealed in black wax with a three-fanged emblem.
He handed it over.
Velan stared at the symbol. "What is this?"
The masked man finally spoke.
His voice was old. Calm. Drenched in layered tones like he wasn't just one person — but many memories speaking through a single throat.
> "You carry the Mark of Anaiyaal. The last one who did… led a war."
Velan tensed. "I don't want a war."
The Guardian tilted his head. "Then learn to end it before it begins."
He turned toward the door.
Then paused.
> "You are not yet a threat to the clans, Velan. But power unchecked is the same as flame in dry grass. It spreads. And it devours."
Velan stepped forward. "What do you want from me?"
A pause.
> "We don't want anything. But others will."
> "Especially… them."
He pointed out the window, beyond the hills.
Velan followed his gaze.
In the distance, on the northern horizon, strange storm clouds churned unnaturally — green lightning lashing across the sky.
> "That," the Guardian said, "is not weather. That is movement. The Dead Moon Clan is stirring. Their Sealed Prince breathes again."
Velan's heart froze.
The Dead Moon Clan—a name spoken only in nightmares. A hidden cult once burned out by the combined might of four clans centuries ago. Their techniques were forbidden. Their rituals involved the possession of unborn souls.
"Why now?" Velan whispered.
The Guardian stepped into the hallway's shadows.
> "Because something old has awakened. In the earth. In the blood. And in you."
---
🐍 At dawn, in the hidden scroll chamber…
Velan opened the scroll given by the Guardian.
It was not a technique.
It was a warning.
Drawings of beasts stitched from bone and smoke. A map marked with cursed burial grounds. And at the bottom, a name circled in blood-red ink:
> Maayan — The Sealed Prince of the Dead Moon Clan.
Beneath it, one final line:
> "If he wakes… the clans will fall."
Velan sat in silence.
He was no longer just a servant. No longer a disciple. He was a shadow walking between two dying fires — one from the past, and one that had yet to be lit.
> "You carry a prison," Anaiyaal whispered within. "But now you are its gatekeeper. Choose your locks wisely."
---
🌒 That night, near the southern border…
In a ruined temple swallowed by vines, a group of masked monks chanted in unison, hands pressed to a circle of bone-carved stones.
At their center lay a sealed coffin, glowing with green and silver.
A voice echoed from within the stone:
> "Velan... you wear my mark. But your soul is still yours."
> "Let's see how long it stays that way."
And then the coffin began to crack.
---
End of Chapter 8