Author's POV
The moon hung low over Darswich, bloated with prophecy. It did not blink. It did not smile. It watched.
The Loud Moon—so called for the echoes it stirred in souls—cast long shadows over cobbled streets alive with celebration. But beneath the music and revelry, something stirred. Something ancient. Something hungry.
The Festival of the Eye roared on, but the heart of Darswich beat with unease. In a quiet corner of the city, under the crumbling bones of the observatory, the ritual was beginning. Elsewhere, other hands prepared to stain the stone with blood.
Grimpel stood at the center of the binding circle. The runes beneath his feet pulsed with quiet intensity, blue fire licking across carved sigils, drawing breath from the ley-lines beneath the city. The moonlight filtered through the shattered dome above, casting the mage in argent flame. He did not see what brewed outside. He did not know.
But the city did.
In the Shade Quarter, Mira—oracle, mother, and councilor—pressed a scroll to her chest.
"They have gathered beneath the cathedral," she whispered, eyes shining with prophecy and fear. "They're not only speaking. They're summoning."
Beside her, Droneth bared his fangs. The beastkin elder adjusted the iron clasp on his wrist. "We confront them now. Before they move the final piece."
Mira nodded. "I'll gather the others. If we strike swiftly, we might still stop the ritual."
Outside, the others prepared—warriors, oracles, memory-keepers. They were ready to march.
They would never arrive.
The streets between the Shade Quarter and the cathedral had been seeded with silence. Human conspirators in plain clothes blocked the paths, disguised as festival revelers. When the non-human elders began their trek, they were met with steel.
The first blow landed silently—a knife between the ribs of a young fey. She fell without sound, her blood darkening the cobblestones.
Then came the screams.
Droneth roared, his claws tearing into the traitors. Spells fired. The air reeked of blood and ward-fire. Bodies collapsed on colored banners. The festival music drowned in wails.
Mira tried to cast her foresight, her eyes bleeding starlight—but an arrow silenced her chant.
Far from the slaughter, in a moonlit tower wrapped in ash trees, Avenil prepared tea.
She was Nylessa's mother.
Her skin shimmered like mist on midnight water, her voice soft and fragrant as lavender smoke. She smiled as she placed the kettle on the fire. The festival lanterns danced outside her window, casting soft patterns on her walls.
Then she froze.
Her eyes widened. She clutched her chest.
"No," she whispered. "Not Nylessa—"
But it was not her daughter in danger.
It was her.
The door splintered open.
A human man entered. Masked. Sword drawn. Behind him, two more followed.
She backed away slowly. "You don't have to do this."
"We do," the lead whispered. "For purity."
She raised her hands, weaving old words, whispering the lullaby-spells of her ancestors.
But she was too late.
The blade pierced her stomach. She gasped.
Another followed, into her side. Then a third, merciless and final, through her chest.
She collapsed into the shadow of her own light.
The tea never boiled.
Nylessa staggered.
She was still at the Wyrmgate, guarding the threshold, when it struck her.
Her knees buckled.
A scream caught in her throat, strangled and sharp, more pain than sound. Her hands trembled as her vision spun. Her mother. The bond between Shade Walkers and blood kin was deeper than words.
She felt it.
The moment the heart stopped. The moment her song went quiet.
"Mother..." she rasped.
She turned from the gate.
Left her post.
She ran.
It was her greatest mistake.
Across the city, in a silent alley where the walls still remembered magic, Vessla Dune led a small unit of Conclave enforcers toward the Veil perimeter. They carried with them a crystal pulsing red—a soul siphon, carved from shard residue.
The Wyrmgate stood unguarded.
They placed the siphon into the sacred altar.
The stones hissed.
Something shifted in the air—like breath being stolen. The Veil twitched.
It began to fray.
Back in the observatory, Grimpel stood in the center of the circle, unaware.
He breathed slowly, trying to steady his heart.
Thorne and Orien stood outside the ritual ring, their expressions unreadable. They had told him they would channel protection sigils. That they would guard him from spiritual interference.
He believed them.
"Almost time," Grimpel whispered.
He glanced at the locket tucked in his robe.
"I'll see you soon."
The runes blazed.
The moon reached its apex.
And the Veil—once silent—began to scream.
Nylessa knelt beside her mother's body, cradling her in bloodstained arms.
Her sobs were soundless.
She rocked gently, like a child.
The warmth was leaving Avenil's skin.
Nylessa pressed her forehead to her mother's and whispered the old words. The Shade Walker prayer for the departing.
The candles in her mother's room flickered.
And in that moment—broken, furious, grieving—Nylessa changed.
Not in body.
In soul.
She rose.
She turned toward the heart of the city.
Toward the observatory.
Toward the ritual.
Up in the tower, Grimpel did not know the blood price being paid for his spell.
He did not know who truly stood beside him.
But the runes flared.
And the Veil opened a little wider.
And a voice, old as sorrow, whispered into the fold:
"One more soul. One more crack."
Then silence.
And the ritual began.