The city was quiet, unnaturally so.
Eliara walked through downtown at dawn, mist clinging to the streets like breath that never left. Cars passed. Pedestrians moved. But no one saw what she saw—subtle distortions in the air, sigils smoldering on doorframes, windows that blinked when no one was looking.
She wasn't sure if she'd ever see the world the same way again.
She didn't want to.
Rowen met her at the edge of the river, where the old rail bridge stood abandoned. Beneath them, the current was slow and thick, like oil under glass.
"I got a message," Eliara said. "Seven more breaches."
Rowen's jaw tightened. "Then we're out of time."
"Where's the next one?"
He handed her an old map—worn, frayed, marked with strange geometric symbols across the city. She traced one of the marks with her finger.
"That's… the Museum of Natural History?"
"Built on top of an old node. Before the Veil, it was a crossing point."
"Between every world and ours."
Eliara felt a chill. "Why a museum?"
"Because memory is power," Rowen said. "And museums are full of it."
They entered just before closing. The museum's vast, echoing halls were dimly lit, full of glass cases and ancient bones. The security guard at the entrance didn't even blink when they passed.
Eliara noticed his shadow didn't match his body.
The compass thread twisted violently in her hand, yanking toward the lower levels.
"This way," she whispered.
They passed through exhibits of extinct animals, stone tools, ancient idols—until they reached the Hall of Forgotten Civilizations. Everything down here was dimmer. Dustier. The kind of place people didn't linger.
And at the center of the hall, surrounded by velvet ropes and placards in Latin, stood a massive stone door—unmarked, embedded in the floor, with no visible hinges.
Eliara stepped closer.
"It's humming," she said.
Rowen nodded. "That's the breach."
She knelt, touching the stone. The pendant around her neck pulsed in rhythm with the door. Her breath caught.
"There's something underneath. Moving."
"They've already broken through," Rowen said grimly. "This door's just a dam."
Suddenly, the air dropped ten degrees. A whisper crawled along the walls.
"You are late, child of the Veil."
The lights went out.
When they returned, the world was different.
The museum no longer looked like a museum. The walls bled shadow. The exhibits were shattered, their cases split open. And the floor had shifted—the stone door cracked in four directions, forming a jagged cross.
And from the cracks—light. Black light.
Shapes began rising from it. At first, they looked like smoke. Then smoke took form—limbs, teeth, skin that reflected nothing.
Creatures of the Void.
Eliara stood frozen, heart hammering. "What do I do?"
Rowen threw her the pendant—it had slipped from her neck during the surge. "Channel it! Seal the gate!"
"I don't know how!"
"You do!" he shouted, drawing a blade from beneath his coat. It shimmered like obsidian laced with starlight. "I'll hold them off!"
The first creature lunged.
Rowen met it mid-air, steel to shadow.
Eliara dropped to her knees at the center of the broken door, hands pressed flat to the stone. The pendant pulsed between her fingers.
Come on, she thought. Show me the weave.
Nothing.
The creatures shrieked, and she smelled burning metal.
Think, Eliara. Not as a barista. As a Veilkeeper.
She closed her eyes and listened—not to the fear, but to the threads. That low tone, that melody beneath the world. It was still there—hidden under the panic, the screaming, the clash of Rowen's blade.
She reached deeper.
And the weave unfolded.
The world split again.
Eliara floated above the breach, not physically but in presence—consciousness expanding, tethered by light and memory. She saw the threads around the crack, frayed and blackened, leaking Void into the weave.
But she saw something else too.
A memory, woven into the stones beneath her.
A woman, cloaked in silver and flame, standing over the same breach generations ago.
Her ancestor.
The woman turned, looked directly at her across time.
"Do not fear the dark. You were born from the light between."
Eliara raised her hands.
The light returned.
Not white. Not gold. Veil light—woven strands of silver and shadow, harmony in balance.
The stone door sealed beneath her, cracks fusing together like they were never there.
The creatures screamed—but they were no longer solid. Their forms flickered, unravelling at the edges, fading into mist. One by one, they were pulled back into the breach before it shut completely.
And then—silence.
Rowen leaned on his blade, breathing hard. One of his sleeves was torn, blood darkening the cloth. He gave her a crooked smile.
"You're getting better at that."
"I didn't do it alone."
"No," he said. "But you could have."
She helped him up, and they looked around the ruined hall. The lights flickered back on. The exhibits were whole again. The door—gone, as if it had never existed.
Only the compass in her pocket still trembled.
"Where's the next breach?" she asked.
Rowen hesitated. "Somewhere… worse."
"Worse than a museum full of nightmare fog?"
He met her eyes. "Worse than memory. The next breach is tied to emotion. Rage, grief—pure, raw feeling."
"Where?"
He exhaled slowly.
"A hospital."