Author's POV
Darswich basked in the anticipation of celebration.
The day before the Festival of the Eye had always pulsed with a different kind of magic. Streets hummed with laughter. Spiced wind from bakeries carried hints of cinnamon, roasted meats, and dreamfruit tarts. Lanterns floated above rooftops like captive stars, their painted faces gleaming in the Loud Moon's early rise.
The town looked alive.
But that was a lie.
Beneath the cobblestones, old runes had begun to glow.
In the eastern terrace of Darswich, a small boy with ash-colored hair chased an illusionary bird. His father, a horned beastkin with tired eyes, laughed from a balcony above. Nearby, a Shade Walker child skipped along a painted bridge, her shadow flickering between dimensions as if playing hide and seek.
This was Darswich at its most beautiful: chaotic harmony. A town where magic wasn't just tolerated—it was tradition.
And now, it was a weapon waiting to be triggered.
In a quiet chamber beneath the cathedral, the Conclave of Restoration met again.
Eldric Thorne stood at the center of the room, staring at the mural of the Blinded Prophet.
"Two days," Orien Fallow whispered beside him, sweat collecting at his temples. "That's all it will take. The runes are complete. The ley circuit is stable."
"Grimpel?" Eldric asked, still not turning.
"Oblivious. He begins his alignment work tonight. Thinks he's summoning love from the afterworld."
Eldric's jaw twitched.
Vessla Dune entered from the side door, her long dark coat stained with ink and arcane symbols. "The boundary stones are reacting to the primer. We just need the living tether. Once we offer it, the ritual ignites. The ley surge will pulse through every sigil we've laid across the Shade Quarter and beyond."
"Then it begins," Eldric said. He turned to face them. "Remember: the signal is the rising of the Loud Moon tomorrow night. Not before. Not after."
He paused. His eyes burned with something deeper than zeal.
"This city will remember purity again."
Grimpel sat alone in the abandoned observatory.
Star-charts lay scattered across the floor like forgotten memories. He traced one with a shaking finger. A path through aether. A crack in the veil. A hope he clung to like a madman.
The spell circle was nearly complete.
He murmured softly to himself, not even noticing the dampness in his beard or the tears dried into his collar.
The person he'd lost—who they'd taken from him—deserved to be seen again. Deserved a second chance.
He never once suspected that the magic beneath Darswich was being tuned not for reunion...
but for genocide.
Across the city, Nylessa stood in the twilight fog of the Wyrmgate courtyard.
A marble basin glowed at her feet. Water rippled unnaturally, reflecting not the moon above but the past.
She had seen the signs.
The subtle corruption of ley patterns. The unnatural stillness of the air.
And she had heard whispers.
Shade Walkers did not dream like others. Their sleep walked sideways, through shadows and future-echoes. Nylessa had seen fire, screams, blood.
She'd seen her brother's face, eyes wide with betrayal.
Something was coming.
And she suspected Grimpel was in the center of it.
Not because he was evil. But because he was broken.
That evening, a hidden meeting unfolded in the Shade Quarter's Bonehall Inn.
Three non-human leaders sat in whispered argument.
Droneth the beastkin, Mira the oracle, and Khaelen the half-fey steward.
"We need to act before the festival," Mira urged, starlight glistening down her cheeks. "The pattern is too familiar. Old stories return with new faces."
"What do you want us to do? Declare war before we're attacked?" Droneth snapped. "We have families, children, entire districts that trust our patience."
"And that patience is exactly what they will burn," Khaelen said coldly. "They count on us hesitating."
"Grimpel was seen entering the observatory last night," Mira whispered. "And the humans grow bolder. Their children speak of purges. Their merchants stock ironroot. Their guards wander too close to sacred ground."
"We can't accuse them with nothing."
"Then we bleed waiting. Again."
A knock came at the door. A Shade Walker courier slipped inside, handed Nylessa a folded rune-paper.
She read it silently.
Her breath caught.
"It begins tomorrow."
As the night deepened, banners were strung tighter, lanterns refilled, and rituals practiced.
Children rehearsed the Eye Dance.
Mothers embroidered masks.
Vendors rehearsed pricing for charms and cider.
And beneath it all, the city stirred with invisible magic, channeled and hungry.
In the Shade Walker district, Nylessa sat on the rooftop of her family home. Her mother sang a lullaby downstairs. Her younger brother chased fireflies with his horns glowing faintly in joy.
She watched them.
Memorized them.
Because deep inside, she feared tomorrow would steal them from her.
In a hidden cellar beneath the library, Eldric unrolled the final plan.
A sigil made from ashbone and crimson thread.
"When the moon rises," he said, speaking to Orien, Vessla, and a handful of others, "Grimpel will activate the ritual. The ley surge will sweep through the boundaries. Every beast, Shade, fey, and unnatural being will be struck. Not all will die. But enough."
"And the rest?" Vessla asked.
"Will scatter. Or become weapons in our next war."
They raised goblets in toast. Eldric looked to Alira's mask resting nearby.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, "we take back the Eye."
The Loud Moon rose like a slow judgment over Darswich.
And the gods, watching from beyond the veil, did not blink.