Chapter 17 - A door that wasn't meant to be open.

*POV: The Wizard*

Once, long ago, before the shadows under his eyes had fully taken root, he had been called a prodigy.

His name, Velmir Roulkand, was whispered with reverence through the halls of the Grand Academy of Light—a towering institution of marble spires, living ink, and enchanted ceilings. He had walked through it with certainty that he would become the most powerful wizard in the world. Magic answered to him. Theory bent to his will. Professors said he could shape entire disciplines by the time he turned thirty.

He was the kind of boy who wrote glyphs in the steam on windows, who watched lightning and asked it to pause mid-bolt. He studied with unmatched hunger, his eyes always scanning, searching, devouring.

He wanted to be remembered in history, and that every institution speak of his name and his adventures.

Graduating with highest honors, he accepted a post under the royal family of Tyrenthal. He became their favored court mage, advisor to minor lords, translator of ancient magical codices. For a time, he lived in glittering rooms with floors that shimmered like pools, attended endless banquets, was flattered and gifted. And he hated it.

Court magic was safe magic.

He began corresponding with more radical scholars—those who whispered of dimensional bleed, of world-strands that wove through ley-lines like invisible threads. He read fragments of papers from the **Guild of Ardent Worlds**, a secretive and tightly closed society rumored to study the passage between realities. They were said to have crossed into other planes, to speak with creatures made of thoughts, to write books in languages no human tongue could replicate.

When he finally tracked down an envoy of the guild and begged to join them, they said only this:

> “You lack the temperament. We don’t think you are a good fit for us, you should continue being the dog of the royal family.”

He was still smiling when he walked away. Smiling as though he had accepted it. But something snapped.

If they would not let him in… he would surpass them. He would tear open the boundaries between worlds himself and make them all watch.

They would speak of him not as a footnote or a curious dropout—but as the man who reshaped the very weave of reality.

He abandoned court. Burned bridges. Laughed in the face of royal summons. They called him a lunatic, a rogue, an unstable hazard to the arcane order, he vanished from the public eye.

But he didn’t disappear.

He scoured old maps until he found it: Emberwood—a haunted, half-forgotten forest where the weave between worlds thinned once every hundred years. A known ley-crossing, now dormant. It was the perfect place for his research, and if something went wrong, he could always run away and find a new one.

He arrived alone, with nothing but a staff, his grimoire, and a necklace of carved obsidian etched with runes most scholars would have declared nonsense. He walked until the trees grew too thick for light. And there, at the precise nexus where the lines intersected, he stopped.

He gripped the necklace. Whispered an old incantation. The pendant pulsed once—twice—and then fell from his hand.

When it struck the earth, it became a seed of stone. The roots spiraled outward—walls, archways, corridors. Within seconds, a tower burst from the forest floor, rising through the canopy like a spear of glass and silver.

His tower, this was a new beginning for him.

He surrounded himself with mechanisms of his own making—living flame-wisps that sorted his notes, spectral quills that wrote when he dictated, mirrors that reflected other things besides his face.

And the boy named Tomas.

He hadn’t intended to take in a student, but the child had come with his parents, he knew that they were searching for him, hoping he could train Tomas into a wizard. He recognized the potential of the boy, he had a wild spark of fire magic, entirely unshaped.

At first, he meant to erase the boy’s memory, but when he looked at Tomas in the eye, he couldn’t say no to the child. Even with the fear and the way he kept trembling when he saw the tower, he had asked the wizard when he entered: “Are you from the stars?”

The wizard had laughed for the first time in years.

“Closer than you know,” he said. And so the boy stayed.

For seven years, they worked. They studied.

And in secret, the wizard built his machine.

At the base of the tower, beneath all rooms, beneath the library and the scrying mirrors, there lay the Chamber of Gates—a ritual chamber so precise that one misplaced rune would shatter the spell completely. It took him years to inscribe it. Months to gather the rare materials. And even longer to draw the pattern of power from ley-thread to ley-thread.

He couldn’t simply open a door. He needed the cosmos itself to listen.

His obsession consumed him. He tested objects first—sending a feather through a shimmer that wasn’t quite light. Then a bird. Then a wolf. Some came back twisted. Others didn’t come back at all.

But he was close. So close.

And the Guild of Ardent Worlds would soon see what their rejection had made.

He stood at the center of the ritual circle, his grimoire floating above his hands, a dozen crystals orbiting like moons. Each one carved from a dead star, each humming with the resonance of a world just out of reach.

His voice rose.

“I call across the strand… I summon through the void… I burn the veil with rightful flame…”

The chamber vibrated. The walls wept condensation. The very trees around the tower bowed.

And then—

A crack.

A thread of light opened in the air, bright and humming and impossibly deep, he had done it after so many years, a portal connecting two worlds.

And on the other side…

A world of ash and black glass.

Creatures stared back. Watching. Breathing.

The wizard’s grin widened.

“History will never forget me.”

“Master,” he heard his student Tomas, barely above a whisper. “You need to stop. It’s not stable. Look at it.”

But he wouldn’t stop, Tomas didn’t know the importance of what was happening.

“This is what I’ve been working toward for twenty years. The boundary between worlds is thin. I will pierce it.”

And then it happened.

A tear opened in the center of the circle—jagged and pulsing with violet light. Through it came a scream that wasn’t a sound at all but a pressure, a presence. Shapes writhed on the other side—claws, wings, eyes too many and too wide.

When the first creature slipped through, he saw how Tomas tried to kill it, interfering with the ritual.

He needed to stop him, he was close to his goal.

“Do not interfere! This is still under control!”

The second creature emerged—quadrupedal, barbed, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.

“This isn’t a gate that should exist, Master. It’s a wound to the world, and you’re letting them in. Please close it!”

“I will control it,” he said to Tomas, voice crackling like lightning. He could feel it, the connection was happening, all of his hard work was for this moment.

The portal pulsed. A third creature slithered through—no legs, just coils and teeth and something like a crown of bone.

“Run,” he heard how Tomas was whispering, his voice full of fear. “Run.”

The wizard open his arms, and started laughing with joy, it was done, he managed to do it.

Some creatures had passed and run after Tomas, but he didn’t care at the moment, the only thing that matter was in front of him. The portal to another world.

He stepped through the gate without fear.

The portal burned around him like the rim of a forge, warping light and space, the breath of two worlds pressing against each other in a violent exhale. As he passed through, for one disorienting moment, the world folded into colors he couldn’t name.

Then silence.

Then the crackle of ash beneath his boots.

The air here was heavier, hotter—thick with some invisible pressure that pressed against his skin like fingers. The sky was a muted crimson, vast and endless, with three pale moons hanging like bruises above a dead sun. Strange lightning flashed through clouds without rain or thunder. The wind carried the faint scent of sulfur and rotting metal.

This world… it was wrong.

But it was also his.

He took a step forward, then another. The land beneath him cracked—ashen soil and blackened stone, with occasional shards of bone jutting from the earth like broken teeth. Gnarled trees twisted toward the sky, stripped of leaves but still pulsing faintly with unnatural life.

He opened his journal, pages fluttering in the otherworldly wind.

> “Location stable. Breathable air. Mana dense—almost corrupted. May attempt elemental attunement if local life permits—”

-Snap.-

He froze, that sound was concerning.

A growl followed.

From behind a hill of black rock, it emerged—its body the shape of a massive dog, but twice the size of a horse. It had two heads, both armored with bony plates, and jagged horns curling from its skulls like blades. Its red eyes glowed with a malevolent light.

Its gaze met his.

It charged.

The wizard raised his hand and incanted.

“Rudien Kahl–Ferra!”

A bolt of fire erupted from his palm, slamming into the beast’s chest. The explosion lit the landscape with burning orange. When the smoke cleared, the creature’s body lay smoldering—twisted, broken, dead.

He exhaled.

“What a primitive creature, but it’s not something too concerning.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He took a step forward—

—and the ground beneath his feet burst open.

Bones flew everywhere. A skeletal hand reached for him.

A corpse knight, long buried, now risen by the world’s ambient curse. It swung a rusted blade at his side. He twisted and raised his staff, calling, “Ashen Wave!”

A rippling surge of fire exploded outward from his body in all directions. The skeleton disintegrated instantly, its bones evaporated to dust.

He didn’t smile, more creatures were approaching, he could feel them.

He turned—and saw wings.

Above him, a shadow blotted out the moons. A massive flying beast—bat-like wings, barbed tail, and dozens of red eyes across its underbelly—descended with a scream that cracked nearby stone.

The wizard dove to the side, barely missing its talons as they crushed the ground where he had just stood. Rolling to his feet, he snarled, “You want to dance?”

With a flick of his wrist, fire coiled around his arm like a serpent, forming into a whip. He lashed it forward—the fire struck the beast’s wing and seared through it. The creature shrieked, swiping again.

The wizard ducked under its tail and countered with a blast of condensed flame, aiming for its belly. The explosion scorched its eyes—but it wasn’t enough. It clawed again.

He somersaulted backward—his cloak nearly torn by its claws—then twisted the whip in both hands, calling out, “Ignar Verrath: Split the Sky!”

The whip became a spiral of flame that lashed out in three arcs. The first scorched its chest. The second took off one of its legs. The third hit its throat.

The beast collapsed, black ichor oozing from its wounds.

But there was no time to rest.

Dozens more appeared—climbing over the hills, flying from above, rising from beneath. Some were small—dog-sized, but fast, darting like shadows. Others were towering, skeletal frames wrapped in black iron, dragging swords larger than a man. Some crawled. Others slithered.

All of them screamed.

The wizard’s eyes widened, this was something he didn’t expect when he first step into this world.

The creatures were drawn to him, to his magic, the more creatures he killed the more would appear.

He was invading a new plane, and it was responding.

“Come, then,” he growled, slamming his staff into the ground.

He cast shield spells—Korrin's Barrier, Mirror Flame, Binding Circle—a fortress of magic coalesced around him.

The first wave hit.

A dozen clawed creatures leapt at once—he incinerated three midair, blasted five more into cinders, and was tackled by one. Its jaws snapped inches from his neck before he drove a flame-wrought dagger into its spine.

More came. He burned them. Buried them. Sliced them. Magic swirled around him in a symphony of destruction.

And yet they kept coming.

His breath grew ragged. His mana wavered. His shield faltered.

Then—

Silence.

They stopped.

From the crest of a nearby ridge, she appeared.

A tall and thin figure could be seen approaching. Shrouded entirely in a veil that shimmered like black glass, her form both there and not.

She glided forward, not walking, not flying—just drifting—as if the laws of weight and gravity held no dominion over her.

The demoness.

A silhouette cloaked in veils darker than shadow, each layer glimmering faintly with runes too ancient to be read. Her face was hidden, but even veiled, it felt like she was watching him—gazing past his flesh and into his bones. Into his soul.

Where she passed, the world reacted.

The ground cracked under invisible pressure. Flowers curled in on themselves, bleeding from their roots. Trees twisted as if trying to recoil, bark blistering, leaves turning to ash midair.

She was beautiful in the way dying stars were beautiful—blinding, distant, dangerous.

“Stop right there!” He screamed at the entity, but she ignored him. “I know you can understand me, you’re no mindless beast. Good. Speak your name.”

She raised a hand—not to speak, but to reveal something.

A small and round mirror. Held in a clawed hand like a relic of some forgotten age.

The wizard froze, sweat dripping down his brow despite the ash-cooled air. His instincts screamed to flee, but pride and panic worked against each other.

His fingers flared with magic. “Ignis Sphera!”

A fireball roared toward her.

She didn’t flinch. The mirror in her hand tilted—just slightly—and the spell bent sideways midair, spiraling harmlessly into a rock behind her.

He grit his teeth. “Whore of shadow—fine. Try this.”

He raised both hands. Flame surged from the ground, coiling into a serpentine whip of fire that cracked toward her with a thunderous snap.

The whip struck her chest. Or—it should have.

The mirror again. It absorbed the blow entirely. As if fire was nothing more than light.

His hands trembled.

But he wasn’t done.

He drew in a breath and focused, pulling mana from the leylines beneath the corrupted soil. A circle of heat spiraled outward from him. The glyphs at his feet glowed red-hot.

“Infernia Cycle—Cage of Flame!”

Fire erupted around her, forming a perfect sphere of crackling red and violet flames. The ground hissed. The air shrieked. The dome burned like a newborn sun, a prison of living destruction.

He collapsed to one knee, panting. That much power should have turned anything inside it to ash.

Should have.

The fire flickered.

Died.

Snuffed out, like a candle under a thumb.

She still floated there. Unharmed.

Unchanged.

Then she moved her head—just a fraction. The veils shifted.

And beneath them, he saw her eyes.

*Shinigami eyes,* he thought.

Wide and black and bottomless, carved with swirling white glyphs like ancient star-charts, they pulsed with something that wasn’t light but revelation—a knowing that made his mind scream.

He staggered backward, clutching his skull. Visions flooded in. Threads of fates unraveling. Timelines splitting. His name, already etched on a thousand tombstones across a thousand dead futures.

“You…” he whispered, trembling. “You’re not just a creature.”

It didn’t matter what spell he used, the creature would reach him eventually, and when that happened, he knew that it would be his end. Cold sweat was covering his back, with every step the creature took, the more powerful her aura grew.

Panicking, he screamed, “Rageth’s Wrath! Descend!”

A meteorite split the sky, hurtling down with burning fury, it took almost all of his mana to cast it, but it was his last resort, if that spell didn’t work, then there was little he could do against her.

It neared her—and for a heartbeat, she paused, then she opened her mouth and screamed.

The scream shattered the meteor into dust.

The air itself trembled.

His eyes widened in disbelief.

But the scream had drained her. He could feel it. She wasn’t moving now. Just hovering.

He turned around, his most basics instincts were telling him just one thin ‘Run’. The same way that his student had escaped from him. He started moving his legs with fear in him, that woman was not someone who he could go against with.

The portal—his original one—was still open.

She raised a hand again—not fast, not slow. Deliberate.

A spell formed at her fingertips, though she never spoke. A ring of black flame circled the mirror. It began to spin.

“No,” the wizard gasped, trying to stand.

The spinning stopped.

Then reversed.

And the pain hit him like a thunderclap.

He screamed and fell to his knees. The magic in his chest twisted, turned against itself. Spells reversed, mana unraveling in a spiral of agony. Blood dripped from his ears.

She was dismantling him. Unmaking the essence of his being.

Studying his body, as if he was a new creature for her experiments.

A predator curious about a smaller mind.

The wizard crawled.

He didn’t know how long he had.

The tower. The gate. The mirror.

He pulled a stone from his pouch—shattered it. The burst of raw mana gave him just enough push to roll through the floor and reached the portal.

He leapt through, heart hammering, the scream still echoing in his skull.

Back in his world, he skidded to the floor of the ritual chamber.

He wheezed. Tried to close the gate. Muttered incantations. Burned mana stones. Nothing worked.

The portal pulsed, still open.

He reached toward his pocket and retrieved a forgotten ornament, it was the sacred amulet. Gold inlaid with runes of sealing. A gift from the royal family after he stopped a magical plague a decade ago. He’d saved a kingdom once.

He grabbed the amulet. It stung his fingers as it absorbed his last droplets of magic.

“Let this end—Seal!”

He hurled it at the portal.

A pulse of divine power expanded outward. The rift shrieked, its edges drawing inward like pulled cloth. Reality tried to knit itself shut.

It worked.

The gash in the air shrunk, folding, folding—

Until it was no larger than a coin.

And then…

A finger slipped through.

Pale, elongated. Perfectly still.

The Veiled One pressed her index finger against the shrinking edge.

The portal stopped closing.

Then it reversed.

The amulet cracked with a high, crystalline scream.

The rift widened again, like an eye reopening.

He turned and ran.

Stumbling through the tower’s twisting stairs, he ignored the smoldering tapestries, the cracked floors, the melted wards. His left foot bled—he barely noticed. His robes, once regal and crimson, now dragged in tatters behind him.

He burst into his inner sanctum—a dark chamber shaped like a dome, its stone blackened from old rituals. No windows. Only a massive, dust-shrouded object dominating the far wall.

A mirror.

Twelve feet tall. Rimmed in bone.

At first glance, it was simply a reflective surface.

But this was no ordinary mirror.

This was his contingence.

His escape.

For years, he’d funneled forbidden research into its design. A failsafe against ambition gone wrong. A door that lead to another continent, the moment he used it, it would be gone, it was a one way trip, leaving everything behind.

He hadn’t stepped through it before because he’d never needed to.

Now? It was all he had left.

He reached the pedestal before the mirror and pulled open the hidden drawer. Inside: seven pristine mana stones, gleaming blue like frozen stars.

Each one worth a fortune.

Each one harvested by his own hand.

He shoved them into the mirror’s base. The glyphs lining the silver frame lit one by one—click, click, click—like a lock turning.

Then, he placed both ruined hands on the mirror.

“Unseen paths… open to me,” he croaked, his voice shredded from smoke and desperation. “Carry me where no gods watch.”

The surface shimmered. The reflection fractured. The room behind him cracked and bled light through the doorway he left unsealed.

His tower would fall. Of that he had no doubt.

He could not save this world from what he had done.

But he would not be destroyed by it.

The mirror rippled once—twice—then opened like a wound stitched from glass.

Through it, he glimpsed only mist and silence. A void between places.

Perfect.

He stepped forward, dragging his burned legs, each breath shallower than the last. At the mirror’s edge, he paused.

Behind him, the wind from the portal had returned. He didn’t look back.

He could feel the Veiled One watching.

Let her watch.

Let her hunt.

Let her ruin this world.

With a final breath, the wizard whispered:

“Let them clean up what they refused to understand.”

And he vanished into the mirror.

The surface sealed shut behind him.

The tower groaned.

Outside, the skies above Emberwood began to darken again.

But this time, no spell would stop what was coming.