BENEATH THE IVORY VEIL

Dusk was something that Laila Okoye never believed. It was the moment shadows grew longer than lies, familiar streets tilted ever so slightly into the realm of not being real. It was the moment her life changed; abruptly, unwanted, and mercilessly. She stood at the perimeter of the marketplace, where the other traders were locking up and going home. The smell of roasting maize and fried plantains lingered, a remnant of the day's commerce. Her headscarf was tied tightly, not out of modesty but concealment. Laila was taught to blend. She had learned young. She waited, though she would never admit it. The note she found that morning still burned in her pocket. Red wax seal, handwritten, no return address. One line, which read, Go to the edge of Oban street at twilight. Alone. He will meet you. Who he was, the note didn't say. But Laila had long since given up on questioning quirks. Her life had been a series of mysteries since the day her mother vanished ten years ago, with only a locked trunk and a whisper of something called "The Veil." And now, when she was twenty-four years old, Laila moved like a survivor. She spent the days working as a librarian, but not the sort who stayed behind the ancient counters. She translated old dialects, cross-referenced lost names, and chased breadcrumbs that no one else bothered to see. Her work never earned much, but what it revealed was more valuable than any amount. The wind changed. A figure stepped out of the alley to her left. Broad shoulders, tall, his face only partially hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. The thick coat is too warm for the air on this evening, and boots are inappropriate on city sidewalks. She didn't recognize his face or the gait, but there was something about him. Familiar. He stopped a few feet off, his eyes cool but intense. "Laila Okoye," he said. Not a query. Her muscles tensed. "Who are you?" He did not answer right away. Instead, he studied her like a riddle. "You look like your mother." Laila got a chill down her veins. Nobody ever talked about her mother. Most people assumed that she had just left town. "Did you know her?" "I followed her," he answered, "but not closely enough to stop what happened." She drew back a step. Her heart was racing against her ribs. "Then say what you've come to tell me and finish this riddle-talking." The man inserted his hand into his coat, slowly, so she'd not lash out, and produced a slim leather-covered book. Its cover was worn; a string held it shut. "This was hers. She wanted you to have it when you were ready." "I don't even know your name." "Call me Cassian. That is the only name you'll need for now." Laila didn't take the book. Not yet. "You said when I'm ready. What does that mean?" Cassian's expression softened, but only a little. "It means everything your mother battled to keep from you is stirring again. You are more than her daughter, Laila. You are the sole surviving key to the Ivory Veil." The words slap against her face. The Ivory Veil. She had found that phrase once before in a footnote of a forbidden history book buried in the restricted wing of the university archives. No author, no origin, only a sentence: *The Ivory Veil is both protection and prison; it hides what must not be seen. "You're serious," she whispered. "I don't dream," Cassian answered. "This is reality. You were born into a silence before you could speak. But that silence is breaking." A nearby merchant closed his stall with a bang, making Laila flinch. The sky grew dark to a deep purple. Cassian took another step closer. "Take the book. But understand this: the moment you touch it, there is no going back." Her hand trembled as she held it out. The moment her fingers touched the worn leather, something stirred in her; a hum under her skin, as though a harp string had been struck in her own heart. "What do we do now?" she demanded. Cassian shifted his weight, his nod barely perceptible. "Now, we begin." Together, they entered into the evening, the book tightly in her arms as a fragile truth. Laila did not yet know what it held, or what this so-called legacy demanded. But she knew, in the very core of her, dusk was no longer a time. It was a crossing place, and she had crossed it.