The quiet of the evening didn't last. After the chaos in the market, Marcel, Tarin, and Lira gathered in the sitting room of their home—joined by the mysterious woman who had arrived astride a beast of fire and stone.
Veyla Ardent sat with a relaxed posture, though her eyes moved with constant vigilance. Outside, her mount—named Emberjaw—waited silently beneath the trees. Its obsidian hide shimmered faintly in the moonlight, veins of molten orange pulsing like a heart made of magma. Villagers dared not approach it. Even the wind gave it room. Emberjaw's breath was a low, smoldering rasp—like a forge refusing to die.
Tarin watched from across the room, arms folded, eyes narrow. "You said the mark on Lira's wrist was ancient," he began. "How do you know that for sure?"
Veyla nodded. "I've spent years hunting down the remnants of the old world. I study the past because the Nine hide more than they reveal. That mark is blood-bound script. It only appears on those who have been touched by a relic's deeper magic. It means she's tethered to something bigger now."
Marcel frowned. "You said you saw her in a vision too."
Veyla hesitated. "Yes. Faint, fragmented. I've learned not to ignore those visions."
"And you found this place," Marcel continued, "even though it's not mapped."
Veyla leaned back. "This village radiated a flare through the shard network. Not just a pulse—something louder. Someone's presence—likely yours—sent a ripple too big to miss. I followed it here. But I only felt it after... something awoke."
Tarin looked to Marcel, confused. "Is this because of the system?"
Veyla's eyes flicked between the two. "You didn't tell him?"
"I didn't even know what to say," Marcel muttered.
Tarin looked shaken. "So it's real? The voice you hear... the shard... all of it?"
Marcel nodded. "I didn't want you involved. It already cost us enough."
"I'm already involved," Tarin said, then added with a grin, "Besides, someone has to keep you alive."
Lira sat cross-legged on the floor, watching quietly. She had heard every word, heart aching with the gravity of it all—but she didn't retreat. Not this time. "I want in," she said firmly.
Veyla turned to her, studying her. "You already are. The mark made sure of that."
"How can we trust you?" Tarin asked.
Marcel looked at Veyla for a moment, then answered for her. "Because she's not hiding what she knows. Or what she doesn't. And because she came here knowing the risk."
Veyla nodded. "I've been hunted for half my life. People want silence. I choose questions."
Her voice softened. "But my knowledge is limited. I know shards, relics, old texts. I've walked ancient halls—but even I haven't faced the Nine. Not directly."
And somewhere far beyond the safety of their walls, Elder Thorne watched. Unseen, unspoken, a presence pressing gently against the edges of perception. None of the siblings noticed. Only Veyla felt the weight in her bones—an ancestral pull, a pressure like standing beneath a storm too ancient to name. It wasn't sight or sound. Just gravity.
She stiffened, glancing toward the window.
"What is it?" Lira asked.
"Something... old," Veyla whispered.
But she said nothing more.
Marcel stood, his hand brushing the mark on his palm. "Then we learn together. All of us."
Lira nodded. Tarin grinned. Veyla looked around, the flicker of a real smile pulling at her lips.
Outside, Emberjaw raised its head to the wind.
And beyond them all, the game of shadows continued to play.