The village of Veyle was a cluster of sagging roofs and crooked chimneys, its streets slick with mud from the storm that lingered like a curse. Elara Wren moved quickly through the alleys, her cloak heavy with damp, her boots splashing in puddles that reflected a sky bruised with clouds. The requiem's wail from the cliffs last night still echoed in her ears, a mournful cry that had shaken the square where Lady Seraphine Veyle's dark magic pushed back a shadow with red eyes—the Wraith. Elara's silver crescent pendant pulsed against her chest, its warmth a nagging reminder of her mother's warning: Stay away from the cliffs, Elara. They sing of death. The journal in her hands, its pages brittle and stained, burned with its own truth: The veiled sorceress weaves death, bound to a wraith that seeks the vessel.
Elara's heart thudded, her hazel eyes scanning the empty streets. Joren's disappearance, the village's fear, Seraphine's sharp gaze in the square—it all pointed to secrets bigger than her mother's warnings. She was twenty, alone since last spring, and the pendant's heat felt like a call she couldn't ignore. The journal's sketch—a girl with her pendant, labeled The Vessel—had her face, and Seraphine's trembling hands, her cry to stay away, hinted at something more than control. Was she the Wraith's master, or its jailer?
Torin Hale caught up, his blacksmith's frame a steady shadow, his hammer swinging at his belt, its weight a silent promise. His scar—a jagged burn from a forge fire—cut across his cheek, his gray eyes sharp with worry. "You're chasing ghosts, Elara," he said, his voice rough, low, like he was afraid the alleys would hear. "That thing in the square… it's not safe." He grabbed her arm, his grip firm but gentle, his warmth cutting through the cold. Elara's throat tightened—she trusted Torin, her anchor since childhood, but the journal's weight was heavier. "I can't stop, Torin," she said, her voice shaking but steady. "Joren's gone. My mother knew something. I need to know what."
Lira trailed behind, her blonde curls tangled, her blue eyes flickering with stubborn faith. She clutched a vial of herbs from Seraphine's basket, her lifeline when the crops failed. "Lady Veyle's not what you think," she said, her voice small but fierce, her hands trembling. "She's good, Elara. She saved us." Torin's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing. "Good? She's got blood on her hands, Lira. Wake up." Elara's stomach knotted—Lira's trust in Seraphine's charity was a wall, but the journal's warning, the Wraith's eyes on her, screamed of danger. She wanted to snap at Lira, but her own doubt held her back. What if Seraphine's shield was protection, not a trick?
They reached the village archive, a crumbling stone building tucked behind the market, its windows boarded, its door warped by years of neglect. The air smelled of damp paper and rot, and Elara's pendant flared, its heat prickling her skin. The journal mentioned an archive, a place where her mother had searched for answers about the order—a secret group tied to the Wraith, to the curse. Elara pushed the door open, its hinges groaning, revealing shelves sagging with scrolls and books, their pages yellowed like old skin. Dust swirled in the dim light, and the requiem's whisper—a faint, chilling wail—seemed to seep from the walls.
"This place is a tomb," Torin muttered, his hammer unhooked, his eyes scanning the shadows. Elara ignored him, her fingers tracing the journal's page: The order's sin hides in the archive, where the vessel's truth was buried. She moved to a shelf, her hands shaking, and pulled down a ledger, its cover etched with a crescent moon like her pendant. Inside, names were listed—her mother's, others, all marked Cursed Blood. A note in faded ink read: The vessel bears the Wraith's hunger, bound by the order's rites. Elara's breath caught, her heart racing. Was she the vessel, marked for the Wraith?
A floorboard creaked, and Widow Maren appeared, her face lined like cracked earth, her eyes sharp with suspicion. The village's keeper of records, she leaned on a cane, her voice a low rasp. "You're digging in dangerous dirt, girl," she said, her gaze flicking to the journal, then Elara's pendant. "Your mother came here, asking questions. She paid for it." Elara's chest tightened, her mother's death a fresh wound. "What did she find?" she asked, her voice raw, stepping closer. Maren's eyes narrowed, her hands trembling. "The order cursed your bloodline, Elara. They wanted to trap a darkness—the Wraith. Your pendant—it's their mark."
Torin's hand tightened on his hammer, his voice a growl. "Who's this order? Where are they?" Maren's laugh was dry, like dead leaves. "Hiding, always hiding. But they watch. They know you're here." Elara's paranoia flared, her eyes darting to the boarded windows, half-expecting eyes in the dark. Her pendant burned, its light seeping through her cloak, and the ledger's runes glowed faintly, red like blood. Lira stepped forward, her voice shaking. "Lady Veyle's not with them," she said, her faith wavering but stubborn. "She'd never hurt us." Torin snapped, "She's tied to that thing, Lira. Open your eyes."
The archive trembled, a low rumble like the cliffs last night, and the requiem's wail rose, sharp and close, from outside. Elara's pendant flared brighter, its heat searing, and a shelf cracked, spilling scrolls that revealed a hidden door, its frame carved with runes matching the ledger's. Maren's face paled, her voice a hiss. "You've woken it," she said, stepping back. Elara's impulsiveness surged—she pushed the door open, revealing a stone passage descending into darkness, its air thick with the scent of iron and decay. "We're going in," she said, her voice trembling but fierce, her emotions raw.
Torin grabbed her arm, his grip bruising, his eyes wild. "You're not thinking, Elara. That wail—it's the Wraith." Lira's face crumpled, her hands clutching the vial, but she nodded, her voice small. "I'm with you." Maren's cane tapped the floor, her voice a warning. "The order's waiting down there. You'll find truth, but it'll cost you." The wail grew louder, a shadow flickering outside the windows, its red eyes glowing through the boards. Elara's heart pounded, her pendant's light dimming as the passage's darkness called. Was she chasing her mother's truth, or walking into the Wraith's requiem?