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Veil of the Forgotten: Chapter 01: The Embers Beneath the Surface

 A year had passed since the mysterious disappearance of Muztek—the rebel leader who had defeated the tyrant king and freed the capital from decades of oppression. With his vanishing, life seemed to drift back to a quiet normalcy, albeit under the shadow of a new force known only as Haznek. Their emergence had been sudden and absolute. Little was known of their origins, and even less of their leadership. Yet, they had assumed full control over the capital, and without any overt signs of tyranny or malice, the general populace slowly allowed themselves to exhale.

But beneath that fragile peace, unease lingered.

In a modest town on the outskirts of the capital, a young man named Ashwat led a humble yet respected life. Standing six feet tall, with olive-toned skin and a mane of lustrous black hair, he was known to all as the town's swordsmith. Each clang of his hammer echoed through the alleyways, shaping blades that would eventually find their way into the hands of the town's guards. His craft was his pride, and his discipline unwavering.

Yet, something had begun to unsettle him.

Over the past week, Ashwat had been laboring around the clock to fulfill an order of unprecedented scale—an enormous request from the capital for weapons. Swords, spears, shields—all in massive quantities. Such a request would secure his livelihood for years, but it gnawed at his instincts. Why would the city guards require so many weapons, and why now?

Concerned, Ashwat attempted to extract information from the town guards, but their lips remained sealed. Tension flickered behind their eyes, hinting at truths they dared not speak. As his supply of raw materials dwindled, he grew more anxious. The adventurers responsible for transporting ores from the nearby mines had not returned for days—another anomaly. Time was slipping, and no reinforcements came.

Left with little choice, Ashwat resolved to journey to the mines himself. Armed only with curiosity and a quiet dread, he departed at dawn.

The road to the mines was unnaturally still. Not a bird stirred, not a branch creaked. The silence, instead of comforting, cloaked the landscape in a veil of unease. As Ashwat approached the mine's entrance, a chilling scene met his eyes.

A cluster of figures stood silently—adventurers, city soldiers, and strangers clad in black robes that bore no insignia. Their presence was still, tense, and wholly unnatural. Ashwat remained hidden behind a cluster of boulders, unsure of what he had stumbled into.

Then came the rider.

From the darkness of the mine emerged a flaming beast—equine in form, but unearthly in nature. Its hooves scorched the earth, leaving smoldering footprints in its wake. Mounted atop this hellish steed was a towering figure cloaked in fire, his head veiled beneath a hood. The fire danced unnaturally around him, never consuming the fabric, yet radiating an aura of dread. He stood taller than any man Ashwat had ever seen—an ominous sentinel from some forgotten legend.

With silent command, the rider led the assembled group into the depths of the mine.

Moments passed.

Then came the screams.

They echoed from within the caverns—raw, primal, and filled with terror. They pierced the silent woods, reaching into Ashwat's chest and freezing his breath. He didn't wait to see what would follow. His body moved before his mind could catch up, propelling him away from the horror and back down the winding path toward town.

By the time dusk fell, Ashwat had reached the safety of his home. He slammed the door behind him, bolting it shut, and descended into the cool darkness of his basement. There, surrounded by barrels of oil, tools of his trade, and the cold stone walls, he sat in silence—his mind racing with the memory of what he had seen.

The flames.

The hooded rider.

The screams.

Something was awakening beneath the surface, and Ashwat had just caught a glimpse of it.



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