The gate did not creak open. It did not groan or shriek or hum with power like some ceremonial relic of legend.
It simply folded.
Like paper curling at the edge of firelight, reality peeled back and revealed something older beneath—a wound, a breath, a veil.
The three of them stepped through: Clive, Selvara, and Grimpel.
None of them spoke as the last remnants of Darswich disappeared behind them. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the air on the other side of the Veil had no room for mortal voices. Every breath was muffled by the weight of something unspeakable. Ancient magic, half-memories, shadows of footsteps too old to trace.
Grimpel floated backward through the threshold with a chuckle. "You know, I miss when doorways didn't feel like swallowing a pinecone wrapped in regret."
Clive said nothing. His eyes were fixed ahead, tracking every movement, every shift of the glimmering passageway. His aura pulsed slightly, the Wyrmstone around his neck flickering like a second, wilder heartbeat.
Selvara shivered. A cold trickled down her spine, not from the chill air—but from a sound. A whisper.
"Remember your stitches. They must always bleed clean."
The voice belonged to no one she could see. But she knew it.
Maedra.
She gritted her teeth. Clive turned slightly, as if sensing her discomfort, but said nothing.
Nylessa remained behind for a moment longer, staring into the curling Veil like it might speak back. She had sensed it the moment they crossed over. Faint, but piercing.
A presence.
A call.
Not the shard.
Someone.
Someone she had not allowed herself to hope for.
For three hundred years, the urge had sat in her belly like coals waiting for wind. Now it burned.
He was here.
She followed them in.
The Veil had layers.
The first was the Tethered Threshold. A place of fractured reality. Gravity pulsed instead of held. Buildings shimmered like heat mirages, made from familiar Darswich stone but warped, melted slightly at the edges. Voices echoed with a half-second delay, and color bled into itself like over-wet paint.
The ground beneath them cracked with each step, and ghost-ribbons of sound drifted up with their footprints.
Grimpel spun lazily in the air. "Ah, the vestibule of nightmares. Smells like burnt hope and perfume. Selvara, is that you?"
She rolled her eyes, but there was no force behind it. Her arms stayed tight to her sides. Something here pressed against her skin like a wet cloth.
"I hate this place," she muttered.
Clive grunted in agreement. His hand stayed near the hilt of his blade. The Wyrmstone pulsed again, stronger now. As if it recognized something.
Nylessa walked behind them, quiet, her eyes flicking from corridor to corridor. She wasn't looking for danger.
She was hunting memory.
They were halfway through a broken corridor of broken mirrors and strange, breathing roots when they heard it.
Running.
Heavy footfalls. Panting. A sharp grunt.
And then, a figure burst from one of the side halls, nearly colliding with Clive.
The man was dressed in rags, his boots half-melted from some long-gone magic. His hair was a tangled mess, and he had the wild eyes of someone who'd been speaking to shadows far too long.
Veil-beasts followed. Thin, long-limbed creatures of shifting flesh and bone, hissing as they skittered through the echo-paths.
Clive didn't hesitate.
His blade slid free with a hiss like thunder cracking.
The first beast leapt.
Clive moved faster.
One swipe cleaved through its body like slicing mist. The creature crumbled into dust before its scream finished.
The second fell just as quickly. The Wyrmstone around his neck flared once, and a lance of red light shot from his hand—unbidden, instinctive.
The Veil beasts hissed. Then scattered.
Silence.
The ragged man blinked. Then laughed.
"Well, shit. That was dramatic."
He stood, brushed himself off, and offered Clive a crooked grin.
"Name's Verrin. I've been stuck here three months, give or take. Hard to count days when the sky keeps bleeding sideways."
Clive said nothing. Just nodded.
Selvara was already circling him, checking for weapons. "You were alone?"
"Still am. But not by choice. I came in looking for someone. Got distracted by the fact that this place eats faces."
He eyed Clive again, then let out a low whistle. "You're strong. Scary strong. That sword's not the only thing that's sharp."
Then, spotting Selvara's scowl: "And you're pretty. Rigid. Must be fun at parties."
Grimpel floated in closer. "You smell like a metaphor for bad decisions."
"And you smell like a taxidermy project that quit halfway through," Verrin shot back, grinning.
Nylessa tilted her head. "You said you were looking for someone. Who?"
Verrin's grin dimmed slightly. "A girl. Had a mark like mine."
He pulled his shirt aside briefly, revealing a symbol near his collarbone. It shimmered.
A Veil-bond.
"She came here before me. I'm not leaving without her. But I can't get through the second layer alone."
Clive frowned. "You know the path?"
"Parts of it. Enough. Maybe. You help me, I help you."
He clapped his hands. "Deal?"
Selvara looked at Clive. Clive looked at Nylessa. Nylessa shrugged.
"Fine," Clive said. "But keep up."
"Oh, I always do. And might I add—the sexual tension between you and robo-blade here? Exquisite. Really adds spice to the death-maze aesthetic."
Selvara turned crimson. "I will gut you."
"Promises, promises."
Grimpel cackled. "I like him. He's like if I had legs and fewer morals."
They moved forward.
And the Veil watched.