Eldric Thorne's POV
The Festival of the Eye was never meant to be a celebration.
Not originally.
Centuries ago, it had been a mourning rite—a vigil held by the first settlers of Darswich to honor the Lost Sight: the mythical moment when the gods turned their eyes away from mankind. The "Eye" in question was once a reminder of abandonment, not blessing. But over time, the pain dulled, the stories softened, and the truth was wrapped in lace and laughter.
Now, people danced beneath the Loud Moon in drunken joy, never realizing they celebrated the very night the gods walked away.
I remembered my sister, Alira, whenever the moon was full. She used to paint masks for the festival. Each one was different—each more beautiful than the last. Her final mask, unfinished, sat in a glass case in my study. It was shaped like a hawk's face, lined with silver feathers. I often wondered if she would have worn it that night, had she not been murdered.
They never found the killer. There was no trial. No arrests. Just silence. The town officials blamed "unrest" in the Shade Quarter, as they always did. My parents drank themselves into ashes. And I was left with memories, rage, and a name that no one dared to speak:
The Conclave of Restoration.
We were not savages. We were scholars, soldiers, priests, and merchants who remembered what Darswich was meant to be—a haven for humanity. Not a haven for beasts, witches, and whisper-folk.
Alira's death lit the fire in my chest. But it was what came after that gave me purpose. The lies. The apathy. The slow rot that had crept into the heart of our city, hiding behind colorful banners and shared markets.
Now, we had a plan.
And it would begin in two days.
The cathedral's west wing was cloaked in candlelight. We met in silence, seated in a circle beneath the mural of the Blinded Prophet—the one human saint the non-humans hadn't defaced.
"He's taking the bait," said Orien Fallow, a wiry man with parchment skin and fire in his eyes. "The fool thinks we want to help him breach the veil to retrieve his lost one."
"And you're sure he doesn't suspect?" asked Vessla Dune, our newest recruit, a scribe turned saboteur whose husband was slain during the Shade Riots three winters ago.
"Grimpel is desperate," I said. "He doesn't see a conspiracy. He sees an opportunity."
Orien chuckled. "The best lies wear the face of hope."
We had chosen Grimpel for a reason. Not just because of his power, or his foolishness. But because he had once been one of them. A friend to the beasts. A defender of the Wyrmgate.
That made his betrayal poetic.
After the meeting, I walked alone through the upper terrace of Darswich, cloaked in the mask of a merchant—one of many lives I wore. The city was already festooned with colored banners, paper lanterns, and clay idols. Children practiced the Eye Dance in the courtyards, their laughter mocking the solemnity the festival once held.
A familiar voice stopped me at the corner.
"You're wearing your grief like a cloak again, Thorne."
I turned to see Nylessa, the guardian of the Wyrmgate.
She leaned against a wall like shadow given form—moonlight tangled in her braids, tattoos glowing faintly beneath her collar. Her smile was laced with venom.
"You think I don't know what you're doing?" she asked.
I adjusted my gloves. "If you had proof, I imagine you wouldn't be smiling."
"I don't need proof," she said. "I have instinct. And instinct tells me you're about to get a lot of people killed."
"People?" I sneered. "Which people? The ones with horns or the ones who bleed ink when they cry?"
Her expression darkened. "You always did mistake diversity for danger."
"And you always mistook mercy for wisdom."
She pushed off the wall. "Be careful, Eldric. You poke the veil too hard, and it might poke back."
I let her walk away. She didn't need to die. Not yet. Not if she kept guarding her gate and watching her shadows.
But I knew she wouldn't. She never had.
That night, we met Grimpel in the abandoned observatory.
The place reeked of old dust and moonlight. The telescope was cracked. The star-maps scattered. But the runes on the floor glowed with the same old hunger.
Grimpel arrived with scrolls under one arm and guilt in his eyes.
"Everything's ready," he said. "The ritual will draw energy from the ley-lines beneath the city. I'll need a conduit. Something living. Something bound to the Veil."
Orien offered a polished bone dagger. "We'll find your tether."
Grimpel hesitated. "I still want your promise. No one gets hurt. This ritual isn't for power—it's for restoration."
"Of course," I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "No one will suffer. Not if we succeed."
He nodded. "Good. Then I'll begin the primer tonight. We'll align it with the Loud Moon. It's the only time the veil weakens naturally."
We watched him go. Orien snorted. "He really believes he's the hero."
"That's what makes him useful," I said. "The best weapons never know they're loaded."
Later that evening, I sat before Alira's mask.
I told her everything. About the plan. The ritual. The purge that would follow.
"You'll be avenged," I whispered.
Outside, the moon hung low, weeping light.
Just two more days.
And the gods would look upon us again—with clean eyes, free of monsters.
Even if we had to blind the rest of the world to make it happen.