The Loud Moon burned like a vengeful god above Darswich, now little more than a canvas of fire and screams. The Veil had not only split—it had birthed horrors.
Creatures emerged—hungry, snarling, elegant in their cruelty. They did not walk or crawl. They floated in ragged grace, each draped in remnants of forgotten gods. Their skin pulsed like exposed nerves, black-veined and translucent, revealing twitching muscle underneath. Their mouths—if they could be called that—were long slits, opening vertically to show rows of spiraling teeth. Wings unfurled from their backs, not feathered, but formed of dripping membrane and broken mirror shards. They hunted by scent—not of flesh, but of soul.
And supernatural blood reeked to them like honeyed rot.
In the crumbling observatory, Grimpel stumbled to his knees, eyes locked on the impossible.
One of the creatures hovered where the circle had been. It drifted toward Thorne, who stood with arms outstretched, smile wide.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Thorne said.
Grimpel turned to him, heart pounding. "What have you done?"
Thorne didn't blink. His robes fluttered in the ether-laced wind. "I've cleansed a mistake. They killed her—my sister. Alira. Do you remember her, Grimpel? You taught her. You told her all people were equal. That was before they stabbed her in the street and left her for carrion."
"You blamed all of them? The Shade Walkers didn't—"
"They're monsters! All of them! Horns, fangs, wings, scales! They call us 'human' like it's a slur. But look at them now. Look at what your spell has summoned. Look at what justice truly is."
Grimpel's mouth opened, but no words came. The revelation hit like a blade to the spine. He had done this. Not Thorne. Not Orien. Not the Conclave. They had planned it, yes. But he had opened the door.
"You used me," he said, the words torn from a throat gone dry.
Thorne chuckled. "No. We believed in you. And you didn't disappoint."
Grimpel rose, slowly. His legs were shaking. His mind splintered with guilt and horror.
"Where are you going?" Orien called behind him.
Grimpel paused at the shattered archway of the observatory, his voice dull and empty. "To watch. To see what I've damned. Maybe if I see enough of it... I'll finally stop believing in anything at all."
Then he was gone.
In the smoldering ruins of her home, Nylessa wept over her mother's cooling corpse.
The wards had failed. The air smelled of blood and burnt herbs. Avenil's fingers still clutched the half-drawn sigil of defense. But even the strongest magics had faltered.
Nylessa had not moved for hours. She sat among the fallen candles and incense, cradling her mother like a broken doll.
And then she felt it.
A pulse. A scream—not of voice, but of blood.
Her brother.
Pain exploded through her chest as the bond flared. He was being hunted. She saw flashes—fanged mouths, talons, eyes of shadow and gold.
Nylessa stood, body trembling. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. Her hands were wet with blood.
She whispered her mother's name once.
Then she ran.
The streets of Darswich were painted in gore.
The Veil-beasts had no language, no hesitation. They descended like locusts, drawn only to those with blood that shimmered differently. The fey fell first—their wings torn and consumed like delicate silk. Beastkin had their claws ripped from their bodies, horns shattered and fed to snarling maws. Even dreamwalkers were ripped open at the soul, their third eyes burst like overripe fruit.
Those who had something other—were hunted.
Humans screamed too—but only the ones who still loved non-humans. Who had kin among them. Who tried to help.
And then came the worst.
The self-mutilations.
Winged children sobbed as they begged their parents to cut their limbs. Teenagers smashed their own third eyes on stone walls. A Shade-blooded woman sliced off her fingers to hide the sigils on her skin.
It was useless.
The creatures didn't smell difference.
They felt it.
They drank it.
One by one, the desperate were found and flayed.
Grimpel watched from the bell tower of the old academy.
He wept in silence.
The shard pulsed in the air now—visible to the naked eye. A star of ruin, tethered to the cracked Veil above the city. The creatures poured from it like ants from a split hive.
He saw a beastkin woman torn in half by two creatures who sang as they fed. A shade-walker child flung herself into a well, only to be pulled out again by something with too many arms and no mercy.
He watched and did not look away.
He had done this.
All of it.
Nylessa sprinted across burning bridges, over toppled market stalls. She passed sobbing children, corpses twisted into prayers. The air tasted of copper and despair.
She did not slow.
Every heartbeat brought her closer to her brother. Every breath was a scream.
In the distance, the tower of the academy rose like a broken fang. She headed toward it. Toward the shard.
Toward whatever hope remained.
To be continued..