Ith’rael

Intro Veilrend 54: The Maw Beneath Thought She stirs within the fault-lines of reality—neither here nor gone, her form like oil on glass, ever-shifting, ever-patient. Ith’rael does not march. She infiltrates. Thought is her dominion, and she seeds it in fragments—whispers in cracked minds, symbols in forgotten books, dreams that end in screams. Now, she begins her true game. In the still hollows of crumbling churches, her champions awaken. A mad scholar in chains who writes in blood and prophecy. A fallen god who split his divinity for silence. A prophetess who speaks only lies—but always the right ones. Each one drinks of her shadow and believes themselves chosen. And in a way, they are. Not pawns. Instruments. Each plays a note in the dissonant symphony she composes. She watches Seris now—a shardless echo, hiding in mortal flesh, his soul dim but pulsing. His bond with Vael is soft, incomplete. A fault to exploit. If she can bend Seris, twist him from within, Thar’Zul will follow. Not by force. By inevitability. But the old ways resist her. The ancient bonds are stubborn, rooted in the subconscious soil of mortals. One name remains. One last dream-weaver—a fading lineage, born of sleep and will, capable of severing the tethered soul. This cannot be allowed. She turns her gaze inward, to her favorite vessel. Rhen. Still broken, still bleeding, still hers. Not through loyalty, but because he fears what would come without her. > “Find them,” she murmurs in his skull. “End their breath. End the path. The world must remain bound.” He obeys. Because what choice is there, really? The gods are dead. The truths have teeth. And Ith’rael smiles, her lips forming no sound, only shadow.