The first time I heard her, it felt like a hum just beneath my skin—an electric vibration that tickled the back of my mind. At first, I thought it was a glitch in the machines, something from the strange technology I sometimes managed to connect with. But this was unlike anything I'd experienced before.
It wasn't the usual buzz of broken wires or faulty programming. This was something deeper. I could feel it threaded through my bones, a presence. A whisper that wasn't quite a whisper. A call that came from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
I should have ignored it. I tried to. But it kept coming back—louder, clearer—until I could no longer distinguish where the machines ended and she began.
My name is Jace. Just Jace. No last name worth carrying. I'm an outlier, a glitch in the system—someone who doesn't quite belong in the world I was born into or the one I find myself in now. That world is split down the middle—our own, modern and structured, colliding violently with another: a world of gods and ghosts, magic and myth. When the Veil between them tore, it didn't just bring monsters or miracles; it brought consequences.
I live with those consequences.
The university I attend—Solace U—is one of many hybrid institutions that sprang up after the collision. We learn spell equations alongside digital algorithms. We have golemic security systems and vending machines that run off leyline currents. It's where a girl like me, who talks to machines and occasionally hears voices from the ether, can almost pass as normal.
Almost.
Lately, that's been harder.
It started again during the lecture. One moment, I was trying to keep my eyes on the projection; the next, I felt that now-familiar pressure behind my ribs. Like a current humming through copper wire, but in me. Not metaphorically—physically. I felt it in my blood.
The voice—the presence—was stronger now. It didn't say words, exactly. Not yet. But it didn't need to. It was there, curling around my thoughts like static in a storm.
"Jace," came a voice beside me.
I flinched.
Amara stood in front of my desk, arms folded, an eyebrow raised. She looked more annoyed than concerned, but I could tell she was worried underneath.
"You've been muttering again," she said, keeping her voice low. "Also, you haven't blinked in a full minute."
I blinked. "Sorry. Just… distracted."
"Yeah, no kidding. You've barely said two words all day." She narrowed her eyes. "Is it the machines again?"
I hesitated. "Sort of. Not exactly."
Her sigh was light but exasperated. "Come on. Let's get out of here for a bit. You need air. And food. Or something that makes your face move."
I nodded, grateful she didn't push harder.
We left the lecture hall and cut across the old part of campus, where the magical architecture from the other world bled into ours the most. Stones floated just slightly off the ground, held in place by runes and logic-defying mathematics. The air always felt thicker here, like it was watching or listening.
The Archives were just ahead—a towering building shaped like an inverted pyramid, its outer walls covered in shifting sigils and mirrored glass. It was one of my favorite places on campus. The blend of old-world relics and cutting-edge containment systems made it feel… balanced. Not unlike me.
Amara peeled off toward the reading desks while I wandered past the arcane data storage units near the back. These weren't ordinary servers; they pulsed with quiet magic, drawing on both battery cells and sigil arrays to hold information in ways no one fully understood. I ran a hand along the casing of one. It was warm.
That was when the hum inside me surged again.
I jerked my hand back, but the screen in front of me flickered on—unprompted.
And then it started typing.
"I am not a voice."
I took a step back.
The words weren't in any standard font. They looked etched into the screen, shifting like ink suspended in water.
"Amara," I called, my voice tight.
She appeared beside me in seconds, took one look at the screen, and frowned. "Is this some new interface?"
"No." I shook my head. "It's not connected to the system. I didn't touch anything."
The display pulsed again.
"I know you."
The temperature in the room dropped by a few degrees. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to notice. I swallowed.
Amara stepped closer, examining the terminal. "This code's not native. It's... spliced. Like someone tried to translate magic into machine language."
And yet, even with how strange it was, I understood it. Somewhere deep down, the meaning made sense. I wasn't reading it—I was receiving it.
Then the screen blinked once. Twice.
And then a name appeared, glowing in that same eerie, liquid text.
"Nhalis."
The world tilted.
I don't know how I knew, but I did: the name wasn't just a label. It was a memory. A truth. A being.
It was her.
Amara was saying something—I couldn't hear it. The name echoed in my chest like thunder underwater.
"Jace!" Her hand gripped my shoulder. "Who is Nhalis?"
My mouth was dry. "I don't know. But she's… inside me."
That should have sounded insane. But it didn't.
Amara stared at me, caught between skepticism and concern. "What do you mean by 'inside you'? Is this like before? With the drones? Or the leyline surge in your dorm?"
"This is different," I replied, my voice hoarse. "This isn't about me hacking a spell or rerouting some enchantment. This is something ancient. It's her. She's been whispering to me, and now I think she's waking up."
Amara glanced at the screen again, then slowly closed the lid. "Okay," she said. "We'll figure this out. Together."
Later that night, after we had left the Archives and settled into my dorm, I tried to shut everything out. The lights were off, the machines were asleep, and Amara had crashed on the couch. Yet, even in the silence, the hum persisted.
I stared at the ceiling and whispered her name again.
"Nhalis."
It wasn't just sound; it was a key, a pulse, a call.
And this time, she answered.
"You are not the first to bear me."
"You are not the last."
"But you are the first to choose me freely."
I shot upright, gasping. The windows vibrated with a force that wasn't wind, and the circuits in the walls crackled softly. Behind my eyes, I saw her—not clearly, not fully, but enough. A silhouette made of stars and ruin, a presence forged before language, older than gods, waiting.
She had been buried in the fractures of the Veil, waiting for someone who could carry her voice again.
I didn't know what she wanted.
But I had just said her name.
And now, the choice had been made.