The wind howled like a starving beast, tearing through the skeletal remains of the Blackwood. Snow fell in slow, heavy drifts, coating the earth in a pale shroud. The tracks Cassian left behind were soon erased, swallowed by the storm's relentless breath.
He moved forward, one agonizing step at a time.
His wounds burned beneath the stolen cloak, pain pulsing with every heartbeat. The bandages had done little against the cold; he could feel the numbness creeping into his limbs, threatening to claim him. If he stopped now, he would never rise again.
But stopping was not an option.
Cassian had never seen snow before. Vordania's capital, with its towering spires and golden halls, rarely suffered the wrath of winter. But this—this was not Vordania. This was exile.
His exile.
The outlaw town of Varath's Hollow had been his last refuge before the Blackwood swallowed him whole. He had gathered what little he could—stolen rations, a dull blade, and a tattered map. The merchant's words still lingered in his mind.
"Few who enter the Blackwood return. Those who do… they're never the same."
He exhaled, watching his breath curl into the frigid air. His path was set. There was no turning back.
The first two days were nothing but suffering.
Cassian's body was weak, his ribs a constant source of agony. Hunger gnawed at him, sharpening his instincts. He had no choice but to adapt.
His first kill was a small hare—too slow to escape his thrown dagger. Skinning it had been a clumsy affair, his hands shaking from exhaustion. The raw meat sat heavy in his stomach, but it was enough to keep him moving.
He learned quickly.
Tracks in the snow told stories—where an animal had slept, where it had fled, where something larger had taken it. By the fourth day, he had fashioned a crude snare from thin strips of cloth, catching his second meal.
His wounds began to heal, but something else stirred within him.
A fire.
A hunger beyond survival.
Each day sharpened him. His hands grew steady, his body stronger. The wilderness did not care for weakness, and neither did he.
On the seventh night, Cassian encountered his first real challenge.
The scent of blood had drawn them.
He had been careless, cooking his meager kill over a dying fire. The pack had come silently, their eyes glowing in the darkness beyond the trees.
Wolves.
The leader moved first—a massive beast, its fur thick with the winter frost. It did not hesitate. Neither did Cassian.
Pain flared through his body as he rolled aside, the wolf's fangs snapping inches from his throat. He drove his dagger upward, steel meeting flesh. The wolf yelped, staggering back, its blood staining the snow.
The others hesitated.
Cassian did not.
He seized the moment, his body moving on instinct. The weak die. The strong endure. His blade found the beast's throat, and in the silence that followed, the pack melted into the shadows.
The lesson was clear.
Fear had no place in the wild.
The days blurred together.
Cassian became something else—something honed by the cold, by hunger, by survival itself. The fragile boy who had once walked the halls of Vordania was gone. In his place stood a man shaped by the wilderness, by exile, by blood and steel.
But survival was not enough.
He needed power.
And power required knowledge.
The merchant had spoken of a hidden cave—something old, something forgotten. He would find it. Whatever lay within, he would claim it.
For now, he walked the path of the exiled.
But one day, Vordania would know his name again.
Cassian the Veilborn would return.
And the
world would burn.
Cassian moved with purpose now. The wilderness no longer frightened him—it had become his teacher, his crucible. Each step through the frozen Blackwood hardened him further.
Days passed in silence, broken only by the wind and the crunch of snow beneath his boots. The hunger no longer gnawed at him the way it once had. He had learned restraint, learned patience. He took only what he needed from the land, leaving nothing to waste.
The cave was close.
He felt it before he saw it—an unnatural stillness in the air, a weight that pressed against his chest. The trees here grew twisted and blackened, their bark peeling like old flesh. A jagged opening yawned ahead, a wound in the earth.
This was the place.
The place whispered of something ancient. Something
forgotten.
Cassian hesitated only for a moment before stepping inside. The cold outside had been brutal, but the air within was different—thick, heavy, pulsing with a strange energy. His breath echoed in the vastness, swallowed by the dark.
The walls were lined with carvings, their edges worn smooth by time. Faces, symbols, words in a language he did not recognize. He traced his fingers over them, feeling the rough indentations beneath his skin.
"Names."
That was the first thought that came to him. These were names, etched into stone by hands long dead.
But why?
A flicker of torchlight revealed something ahead—an altar, cracked and worn, standing in the heart of the chamber. Upon it lay a single object.
A mask.
Cassian approached, his heartbeat steady. He could see it clearly now—a mask of dark metal, its surface etched with the same strange markings as the walls.
It was beautiful in its own way. And terrifying.
The shape was almost human, but not quite. The eye slits were narrow, elongated. The lower half curved into sharp, angular lines, as if molded for someone meant to be feared.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold surface. A jolt ran through him, not of pain but of recognition.
This belonged to him.
It had always belonged to him.
He lifted the mask, feeling its weight in his hands. The carvings along its surface seemed to pulse, as though whispering secrets only he could hear. The world around him faded, the cave falling away into nothingness.
A voice rose from the silence.
"The Veil does not hide… It reveals."
Cassian exhaled slowly. He understood now.
He had been a slave. A forgotten son. A corpse thrown to rot in the dark.
But here, in this place, he had been reborn.
He placed the mask over his face.
The metal was cold, but it did not bite. It fit as though it had been made for him.
No—as if he had been made for it.
Cassian the Exiled had died in the Blackwood.
Cassian the Veilborn walked out.
And the world would soon remember his name.
The night wind howled through the Blackwood as Cassian emerged from the cave. The mask clung to his face like a second skin, its presence both foreign and familiar. He had expected it to feel suffocating—but instead, it was liberating.
For the first time since his execution, he was no longer Cassian, the bastard prince. No longer the discarded heir.
He was something else now. Something new.
Something that did not belong to the world of men.
The Veilborn had risen.
Cassian's grip tightened around the crude dagger he had fashioned in the wild. A tool of necessity, not power. But that would change soon.
His instincts sharpened. The forest was alive tonight.
Something was watching him.
Not the beasts that lurked in the underbrush, nor the ghosts of the nameless dead. No—this was different. Human.
A rustle in the trees. The snap of a twig.
He moved before the thought even fully formed—his body a coiled spring, honed by weeks of survival. He twisted, driving his dagger into the darkness.
A hand caught his wrist mid-strike.
Then another slammed into his ribs, sending him stumbling back.
The figure stepped into the moonlight.
A man, tall and lean, clad in tattered black leathers. His face was hidden beneath a hood, but his stance spoke of experience—balanced, calculating. The mark of a killer.
"Fast," the stranger murmured. His voice was rough, like gravel scraping against steel. "Good."
Cassian straightened, keeping his stance low. His ribs ached, but he ignored the pain.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The stranger tilted his head slightly."That's my question, boy." His eyes, gleaming like a wolf's in the dark, flickered to the mask. "But I think I already know."
Cassian said nothing.
The man took a step closer. "They say the emperor killed you."
A pause.
Cassian's fingers flexed around the dagger. "He tried."
A chuckle. "Then it seems we have much to discuss."
Cassian did not lower his guard. "Why would I speak with a man who stalks me in the dark?"
"Because, Veilborn—" the stranger's voice dropped, amusement fading.
"—I'm not the only one hunting you."
A sharp whistle split the air.
Then, from the trees, came the sound of footsteps.
Many footsteps.
Cassian turned. Shadows moved between the trunks, the gleam of steel flashing in the moonlight. Low murmurs, the unmistakable sound of weapons being drawn.
He was surrounded.
The stranger smiled, stepping back into the darkness.
"Now," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
"Let's see if you deserve that mask."
Cassian exhaled slowly.
His dagger felt small in his hands. Insufficient.
But it would have to do.
The first blade came for his throat.
He moved.
Darkness and steel crashed together.
The Veilborn's legend had begun.