The Crimson Dawn part 3

The Crimson Veil
They said the lake never saw dawn.

Even when the sun burned clear over the mountains, the mist over Helmir Lake lingered — thick, luminous, and unnatural. From its heart rose the silhouette of a fortress, half-seen, half-imagined, wrapped in a perpetual fog that shimmered like blood in morning light.

No map could mark it. No scout returned. Only the wind carried whispers of the Crimson Veil — the vampire citadel where light itself was swallowed.

The Inquisition believed it untouchable. Until now.

High Inquisitor Caelwyn summoned me before the council’s altar. “Mount Aurion guards what we need,” she said, eyes lit by the candle’s flame. “The Staff of Enlightenment — forged in the first dawn, blessed to tear the shroud from lies and shadow alike. Retrieve it, and the Veil will burn.”

I asked her if the stories of the staff were true. She only smiled, weary. “Truth or not, faith is enough to make light real.”

The climb began before sunrise.

Mount Aurion was cruel and steep, its air thin and razor-edged. The wind carried the faint wails of things that shouldn’t exist — feral vampires that clung to the ice, gaunt and blind, their flesh pale as frost.

By the second night, their shapes began to stalk me through the blizzard.

They came in silence — pale shadows that flitted between rocks and ice. I drove them back with fire and faith, the silver of my blade cracking in the cold. Their blood hissed as it met the snow, staining the drifts with dark smoke.

When the storm broke, I saw the mouth of the Crystal Caverns below, glowing faintly with trapped sunlight that had never touched the sky.

Inside, the light refracted endlessly through walls of glassy stone. Every step echoed like a prayer. The deeper I went, the colder the air became — not natural cold, but the stillness of something waiting.

Then came the puzzle: three radiant seals, each humming with dormant power. The inscriptions were in Old Zarathian — not prayers, but warnings. “Only the dawn-born may pass. The hand that carries night shall shatter the light.”

It took me hours to align them. When the final seal turned, the cavern trembled — not from collapse, but from awakening.

The passage ahead unfurled like a wound of gold.

At the end stood the Monastery of Thal-Kar, carved into the mountain’s heart. Frozen monks knelt in eternal prayer, their robes stiff with ice. In the center of the hall, upon a dais of crystal, rested the Staff of Enlightenment — a spear of radiant metal, glowing faintly like the memory of sunrise.

I reached for it.

And that was when she appeared.

A figure stepped from the shadows — pale skin, silver eyes, the faint scent of iron and rain. Her voice was calm, too calm for a creature of the night. “You shouldn’t touch it,” she said. “It burns us. Even those who wish to be free.”

Her name was Taylor — a day-walker. Half vampire, half something else.

I drew my blade on instinct. “Another guardian?”

She shook her head. “No. A betrayer. I want them gone — the ones behind the Veil. They chained us to the curse long ago. I intend to end them.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. For a moment, I saw pain, not deceit. The same kind that drives the faithful to kneel before empty altars.

Against every Inquisitorial doctrine I’d ever learned, I lowered my weapon.

We took the staff together. The light seared her skin, yet she did not cry out. “Pain is the only truth we still share,” she whispered.

When we descended Mount Aurion, dawn was already bleeding across the clouds. The fog over Helmir Lake churned as if restless. The Crimson Fortress pulsed faintly within — alive, waiting.

At the lakeside shrine, the runes of the old temple still glimmered beneath the moss. I placed the Staff of Enlightenment into its socket. Its hum deepened, gathering light from the rising sun.

But when I tried to activate it, Taylor stopped me. “Not yet,” she said quietly. “The light sleeps. You must wait for the sun’s breath.”

So we waited — two silhouettes by the water, the mist curling around us like ghosts.

And then, the first ray of dawn broke over the mountains.

The staff flared — a brilliant column of light that tore through the fog like a blade through flesh. The air screamed. The lake shimmered violently as the mists burned away, unveiling what had been hidden for centuries.

Stone towers, blackened walls, and crimson banners soaked in shadow — the Fortress of the Veil stood revealed at last, no longer protected by its eternal dusk.

Taylor shielded her eyes. “By dawn’s first light…” she murmured, trembling, “…the lake breathes again.”

The light faded. The path was open.

Tomorrow, we march on the fortress. But tonight, as I watch the mist vanish into memory, I can’t shake the thought — the light did not just burn the darkness. It exposed us all.

Ashes of the Veil
Noon’s the hour of truth. That’s what they said before we launched.

The sun hung cold and distant above Helmir Lake, its light fractured by the smoke of war. Behind me, rows of Inquisition boats waited in grim silence — oars creaking, armor glinting. The fog that once guarded the lake was gone now, burned away by the Staff of Enlightenment. What remained was a battlefield waiting to be written.

The Fortress of the Veil loomed at the lake’s center — black stone and red banners, rising like a tomb above the water. Gargoyles lined its parapets, their wings twitching against the wind as though alive. The air tasted of ash and iron.

High Inquisitor Caelwyn stood at the prow of the lead boat, her voice steady though the light wavered across her armor.

“Strike fast,” she said. “Dusk brings their strength.”

She turned to me. “Lead the breach. The sun won’t wait for saints.”

The boats surged forward.

Crossbow bolts and fire spells arced from the ramparts, striking the lake in bursts of steam. I raised my shield as shards of burning wood rained down. Taylor crouched beside me; her eyes narrowed against the glare. The sun made her skin shimmer faintly, like polished stone.

“Still burns,” she murmured. “But not enough to stop me.”

When the boats scraped against the fortress dock, we leapt ashore. The first tower stood before us — its gate carved with runes that hissed when struck by sunlight. A dozen thralls poured out, pale and shrieking, their bodies half-charred by the day’s light. I cut them down quickly, the Inquisitors pressing forward with shouts of “For the Dawn!” echoing through the courtyard.

The tower’s interior was a spiral of blood and stone. Gargoyles stirred from their perches, their wings cracking as they came alive. Taylor’s blade flashed beside me — curved and silver-lined, glowing faintly from borrowed radiance.

“They used to guard the Veil,” she said as we fought. “Now they die for it.”

The second tower was worse — shadow-hounds, black as smoke and twice as fast. They moved through light like water, emerging from cracks where the sun couldn’t touch. The Inquisitors lost two men there, dragged into the dark. When I found them, there was nothing left but armor and dust.

Taylor knelt beside one of the fallen, her expression unreadable. “He screamed like one of us,” she whispered. “Not from fear. From remembering.”

We pressed on.

By the time we reached the final tower, the sun was already beginning its descent. The walls bled shadow. Every strike felt heavier, slower, as though the fortress itself resisted dying.

At the tower’s peak, I could see the main keep rising from the heart of the fortress — black stone glimmering faintly with red light. A heartbeat. A pulse.

The Blood Crucible.

“That’s the source,” Taylor said, her voice low. “That’s what keeps the mist alive. And him.”

“Lord Thaern,” I said.

She nodded. “My father.”

We stormed the main hall together. The chamber was vast and cathedral-like, lit by crimson glass that filtered sunlight into shades of blood. At the center stood Lord Thaern, tall and regal, his armor the color of dying coals. His eyes burned faintly with the hunger of centuries.

“Daughter,” he said, his voice cold and perfect. “You bring the flame to your own bloodline. How... poetic.”

Taylor stepped forward, trembling between rage and grief. “You chained us to the curse. You called it salvation.”

He smiled faintly. “And now you serve the hunters. You think light will forgive you? It never does.”

I didn’t wait for more.

The battle erupted — steel against sorcery, sunlight against shadow. Thaern moved like a phantom, his sword cutting through air with unholy precision. I parried once, twice, then felt my strength falter. Taylor struck from behind, her blade slicing through his armor.

He turned on her, fangs bared — and for a heartbeat, I saw pain, not hatred, in his eyes.

When my strike came, it was final.

Thaern fell to one knee, his body unraveling into ash. As he died, he whispered something — soft, fragmented, half a curse, half a prophecy. “The light... remembers what it burns.”

Then silence.

Taylor stood motionless. Her eyes glistened with something I couldn’t name.

“He’s gone,” she said. “End it.”

I raised my blade — and with her nod, drove it through his heart. The ash scattered like embers.

At the chamber’s core, the Blood Crucible pulsed one last time. I struck it with the Staff of Enlightenment. The crystal exploded in a burst of radiance that swept through the fortress, burning away the last of its shadows.

The walls cracked. The gargoyles crumbled. Outside, the last vestiges of the sinister fog retreated. The lake shimmered under the low, descending sun — clear for the first time in centuries. The light stretched the returning Inquisitors’ shadows long across the docks.

The Inquisitors raised their banners on the docks. Caelwyn’s voice carried across the water:

“By dawn’s first light... the lake breathes again.”

I turned to Taylor. She watched the fortress being taken over by the Inquisitors. “He was a monster,” she said quietly. “But even monsters leave ghosts.”

I asked her what she would do now.

“Walk,” she said. “Until the sun forgives me.”

The Dawn That Remains
The Inquisitor’s horns blown triumphantly as our boats cut across the quiet lake — no longer shrouded by crimson mist. The fortress behind us burns in silence, its towers collapsing into ash and memory. The Inquisitors raise their banners — gold trimmed with white — and the light of the late afternoon sun crowns them in radiance.

Taylor stands at the bow beside me. Her hair catches the sunlight, and for the first time, she doesn’t flinch. She stares toward the sinking ruins of her father’s citadel. There’s no grief in her eyes — only a hollow, strange calm.

“You did what I couldn’t,” she says quietly. “You ended him.”

I don’t reply. The wind carries the smell of burning blood and wet stone. Whatever victory this is… it feels too heavy to celebrate.

We traveled for hours. When we reach the Citadel Solaria, the great gates open before us. The streets are lined with initiates and templars in prayer, their chants echoing like soft thunder in the marble halls. High Inquisitor Serath awaits in the Grand Spire, his armor gleaming beneath stained glass that now depicts the fall of the Crimson Veil.

“The light has found its champion,” he declares, voice resounding through the chamber. “Your blade has carried the Dawn into shadow’s heart.”

They place a silver brand upon my gauntlet — the mark of the Dawnblade. I kneel, though my knees tremble from exhaustion more than reverence. Around me, the Inquisition rejoices. But when I lift my eyes toward the windows, the sky outside is still streaked with the faintest red.

Later that evening, I stand alone by the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The city below glows with lanterns, not flames. For the first time in weeks, there’s peace. Then I hear soft footsteps — light as dusk.

Taylor steps from the shadows. She’s dressed simply now, her cloak drawn, her eyes faintly aglow but calm. No chains, no silver sigils. Only a quiet defiance.

“It’s strange,” she murmurs. “To stand in the light and not burn.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.

“No,” she replies with a faint smile. “But I wanted to thank you… for ending the curse. For giving me a chance to be something else.”

The wind catches her hair, and for a moment I swear she looks almost human. She steps closer, placing something in my hand — a shard of her father’s blade, blackened and smooth.

“There are others like me,” she says. “Hiding. Waiting. Maybe… one day, they’ll find their dawn too.”

And then she’s gone — slipping away into the crowd below, disappearing into the common night she once called home.

When I report her disappearance, Serath merely sighs.

“If the Light spared her, perhaps it knows something we do not,” he says, almost to himself.

The days that follow are quiet. The citadel grows brighter — banners of gold and white now hang where ash once clung. Initiates train in the courtyards again, laughing, praying, living. But sometimes, I still hear whispers from the shadows.

“The Crimson Veil has fallen, yet shadows remain.” “You’ve done well, Hunter. The night still lingers, but we sleep safer now.”

And when I travel beyond the citadel, I still find them — pale wanderers in the woods, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Remnants of the old blood. They hiss, they fight, they fall.

Each time I draw my blade, I remember her words. Maybe one day, they’ll find their dawn too.