The village of Veyle huddled beneath cliffs that loomed like silent judges, their jagged edges cutting into a sky heavy with storm clouds. Elara Wren stood in the square, her boots sinking into the mud, her breath catching as the wind carried a faint wail—a requiem, low and mournful, like a voice from the grave. Her silver crescent pendant hung heavy against her chest, its faint warmth a reminder of her mother's warnings: Stay away from the cliffs, Elara. They sing of death. The villagers around her whispered, their faces pale, their eyes darting to Veyle Manor atop the cliffs, its spires piercing the fog like daggers. They spoke of Lady Seraphine Veyle, the manor's mistress, whose charity fed them through winters, but whose shadow chilled their hearts.
Elara's hands tightened around a worn journal, its pages brittle, found in her mother's trunk after her death last spring. The words inside were a warning, scratched in ink that looked like blood: The veiled sorceress weaves death, bound to a wraith that seeks the vessel. Beware the hollow moon. Her mother had never spoken of it, but the pendant's warmth, the wail from the cliffs—it felt like truth, sharp and cold. Elara's heart pounded, her hazel eyes scanning the crowd. She was twenty, an orphan now, but the village's fear mirrored her own, a fear she couldn't shake since Joren, the miller's boy, vanished near the cliffs last week.
Torin Hale, the blacksmith, stood nearby, his broad frame a steady presence, his hammer hooked to his belt. His scar—a jagged line from a forge fire—stood stark against his tanned skin, his gray eyes sharp with worry. "You shouldn't be here, Elara," he said, his voice low, rough with concern. "The manor's no place for you." He nodded toward the cliffs, where the manor's windows glowed faintly, like eyes watching them. Elara's stomach knotted—she trusted Torin, her friend since childhood, but the journal's words burned in her mind. "I need answers, Torin," she said, her voice trembling but firm. "Joren's gone. The wail—it's not just wind."
The crowd parted, and Lady Seraphine Veyle stepped into the square, her raven-black hair loose in the wind, her velvet gown trailing like spilled ink. Her silver eyes swept over the villagers, sharp and unreadable, her presence silencing their whispers. She carried a basket of bread and herbs, her charity a lifeline for the starving, but her smile was tight, like a mask hiding something raw. "The cliffs are restless," she said, her voice honeyed but edged, like a blade wrapped in silk. "Stay close to the church, for safety." Her eyes lingered on Elara, piercing, as if she saw the pendant under her cloak, the journal in her hands.
Elara's breath caught, her fingers brushing the pendant, its warmth flaring. The journal called Seraphine a sorceress, tied to a wraith, and her gaze felt like a trap. But the villagers bowed their heads, murmuring thanks, their hunger outweighing their fear. Lira, Torin's younger sister, stepped forward, her blonde curls bouncing, her blue eyes bright with awe. "Thank you, Lady Veyle," she said, taking a loaf, her voice earnest. Torin grabbed her arm, his jaw tight. "Lira, stay back," he muttered, his eyes on Seraphine, distrust burning in them.
Elara's heart raced—Lira's faith in Seraphine was blind, but the journal's warning wasn't. She stepped forward, her voice shaking but loud. "What's on the cliffs, Lady Veyle?" she asked, holding up the journal, its pages flapping in the wind. "This speaks of a wraith, a vessel. What are you hiding?" The crowd gasped, their eyes wide, but Seraphine's smile didn't falter, though her hands twitched, a crack in her poise. "You're bold, Elara Wren," she said, her voice low, almost a purr, but her silver eyes flashed with something—anger? Fear? "Some truths are better left buried."
The wail from the cliffs rose, sharper now, a requiem that made the villagers flinch. Elara's pendant burned, its light seeping through her cloak, and Seraphine's gaze snapped to it, her face paling. "Get to the church!" she shouted, her voice breaking, her hands raised as if to summon something—or stop it. The ground trembled, a low rumble from the cliffs, and a shadow moved in the fog, formless but alive, its red eyes glowing like embers. The Wraith. The crowd screamed, scattering, and Torin pulled Lira behind him, his hammer raised, his voice a growl. "What is that thing?"
Elara's legs shook, but she held her ground, the journal heavy in her hands. The Wraith's shadow coiled closer, its eyes fixed on her, not Seraphine, and her pendant flared brighter, its heat searing her skin. Seraphine stepped forward, her hands crackling with dark energy, a shield that pushed the Wraith back, but her face was tight, her eyes wild. "Stay away from her!" she hissed, her voice raw, trembling with something Elara couldn't name—fury, or desperation. The shadow retreated, its wail fading, but the cliffs rumbled again, stones falling into the sea below.
Lira clutched Torin's arm, her voice a whisper. "She's protecting us," she said, her eyes on Seraphine, full of awe. But Elara saw the tremor in Seraphine's hands, the fear in her silver eyes, and her heart sank. The journal's sketch—a girl with her pendant, marked The Vessel—flashed in her mind. Was it her? "Why me?" she asked, her voice breaking, stepping closer to Seraphine. The sorceress's mask slipped, her face raw with something—guilt?—before she turned away, her voice cold. "Go home, Elara. Before it's too late."
The fog thickened, the Wraith's shadow lurking at its edge, its red eyes watching. Elara's pendant pulsed, the cliffs' wail growing louder, and Seraphine's magic flickered, her hands shaking like she was losing control. Torin grabbed Elara's arm, his voice urgent. "We're leaving, now." But Elara pulled free, her heart set, her fear turning to fire. The journal, the pendant, the Wraith—they all pointed to her, to Seraphine, to a truth buried in the cliffs. As the shadow moved closer, its requiem a scream in the night, Elara knew she couldn't run—not from this.