SOULBOUND: THE ABYSS WITHIN

Chapter 90: The Whisper Becomes a Shadow

—The Veil Answers—

Ramses stood alone beneath the crimson glow of Soul Island's moonlight, the salt-laced winds of Lafrosa brushing against his dark coat as he looked out over the rippling coastline far below the central cliffside.

The chaos he had so masterfully orchestrated still echoed in the city—rumors of the battle between Muna Ikemba and Michelle Hawthorne, of Mira's collapse, of the Spirit Tribunal's intervention. Every single piece had moved, maybe not quite as he intended, but still.

His golden hair shimmered under the pale light as he let out a slow, deliberate breath.

> "They'll notice now... I'm no longer a whisper."

The Veil—the elusive Council of Nine—the remnants of the Dark Soulbornes, those cast into the abyss of history, hated and hunted.

He wanted in. And he had earned it.

But before his gloating could mature into full satisfaction—

> "Enjoying the view, are we?"

A calm, aged voice—firm and measured.

Ramses turned—and froze.

Sir Albert.

The Ikemba family butler, dressed in formal deep blue robes embroidered with ethereal silver lines of soul energy. His gaze, timeless and patient, bored into Ramses with the weight of an Elder Soulborne.

"Wha—how did you—"

"Ikembas don't repeat mistakes," Albert said coolly. "Muna may be reckless, but she is not a fool."

Ramses instantly dropped into a stance, soul energy flaring in warning—but futile. The gap was too wide. Albert didn't even raise his hand. He simply stepped forward, the air bending around him like time bowed to his will.

> "You're coming with me."

But before a step could be taken—

The wind tore itself apart.

Darkness split space.

And he arrived.

A shadow walked out of nothing—a silhouette that bent logic and light. A man-shaped shroud of cloaks stitched with null runes, veiled in entropy. His presence smothered the stars, twisted the atmosphere, and made even the ground recoil.

Mirex.

The Shrouded.

Leader of the Veil.

The head of the Council of now Eight—ever since Cirth the Black King perished.

Albert's brow furrowed slightly, his stance adjusting.

"Mirex," he greeted warily. "I should've expected this."

Mirex's voice was a distorted whisper layered with voices—male, female, ageless.

> "You're too old, Albert. Still playing the butler, when you could've ruled."

Albert's gaze didn't waver. "And you're still hiding behind shadows when your time passed centuries ago."

Ramses watched in disbelief, trembling. Mirex—the one he had only heard of in whispers—was here. For him.

Albert exhaled slowly. "He's still too green in his cradle of ambition."

Mirex tilted his head slightly, shadows leaking from his cloak like spilled ink. "He has done more for a youngling, that I have acknowledged."

Albert took a subtle step forward.

"I won't let you have him."

Mirex extended a hand—and the very sky bent.

Albert shifted, soul energy crackling with ancient force—but the attack never came.

Mirex simply chuckled. "Not tonight, Albert. Not with the Tribunal stirred."

He turned to Ramses, who stood paralyzed.

> "Come, boy. You've proven yourself useful. Now it's time you became more."

Ramses swallowed.

His heart thundered—but he stepped forward.

Albert clenched a fist.

"Mirex… this won't end the way you think."

Mirex paused. "No, old friend. It won't. Because this time—we're not shadows anymore."

The Veil tore open a passage of blackened soul flame and vanished with Ramses into the night.

Albert remained still.

The sea wind returned. The moon whispered above.

The old butler only reminisced gloomily of the old times, about the era of the Dark Soulbornes.