The library was quiet in the way tombs were quiet—heavy with what was unsaid.
Kael moved between the shelves like a ghost, his hood low, fingers trailing along the leather-bound spines of tomes no one touched. These were records from before the Sundering—before the formal rise of the Whisperers, before the Veil had fractured like stained glass under fire.
Before Veilblood was a curse.
The sigils burned in his memory—those stones, the way they'd pulsed and flared when he entered the ring. Even now, days later, he could feel their echo beneath his ribs, a residual ache like bruises the eye couldn't see.
And Tenebris had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
Whenever he approached thoughts of the sigils, of the ancient Veilbound lore, it withdrew—not in fear, but in avoidance. Which disturbed him more. Tenebris didn't fear much. But it clearly refused to remember something.
He slid a text from the shelf. Veilbound Codex: Precursor Lineages.
Cracked binding. No index. He flipped slowly.
The ink inside was fading, but he caught fragments:
"The Sigil Stones mark loci of convergence. Six: each bound to a primal aspect—Memory, Shroud, Echo, Tether, Dusk, and Heart."
"Only Veilforged can stand among all six and survive unbroken."
"Only Veilblood can awaken them."
His breath caught.
He re-read the line three times.
Veilblood.
He was sure that word hadn't been spoken aloud in the compound for months—maybe years. Not officially. Not in whispers. Only in the deepest archives… and in his dreams.
He skimmed further, heart pacing:
"In trials of resonance, one must show restraint. The Heartstone devours impulse. The Echo tests what lingers after action."
"No subject survived all six trials intact. Most were claimed by Gloamkin mutation—fragmented or lost."
He closed the book, mind racing.
Resonance.
That's what the test chamber had been. It wasn't about detection—it was about response. A mirror turned inward. They wanted to see what the Veil would reveal when pressed.
And Kael had passed… or so they let him believe.
He replaced the codex and moved toward the back wall. These shelves were older. Dust lay thick across every surface. He selected a small black ledger with no title.
The ink inside was jagged, rushed. It wasn't a book—it was a journal.
"Bran won't listen. He thinks the boy's just strong. But I saw the sigils burn. Not resist—warn. That's not a normal reaction. That's Veilblood activity, I swear it."
Kael froze.
"I told Eline. She didn't deny it. Just told me to 'watch for fracture points.' She's too close. She doesn't see the cracks forming."
"We'll need to report him. Carefully."
The next line was smudged.
Kael slowly shut the book.
That night, Kael dreamt of stone.
He stood again in the circle of sigils, only now they were broken. Shattered crystal stabbed through ash, and from beneath the ruin, hands reached—blackened, clawed, whispering in words without language.
In the center stood Eline.
But she wasn't facing him. She was facing another Kael, cloaked in shadow, eyes glassy like water turned to obsidian.
Tenebris coiled behind him—wings of ink, voice like falling dusk.
"Choose," the shade whispered.
Kael stepped forward.
But when Eline turned to him, her eyes held only one thing:
Fear.
He awoke in a cold sweat.
The mirror shard beside his bed had cracked.
The next morning, the signs were subtle—but clear.
At breakfast, fewer eyes met his. Two instructors paused when he passed—then quickly pretended to be speaking of something else. Ferin didn't return his nod. Even Malric's greeting, usually clipped but sincere, came late, cautious.
And Eline?
Nowhere.
Her name was off the roster board.
The instructors offered no explanation.
But when Kael checked the duty logs himself—coded and kept in the watchtower alcove—he found a note beside her name written in the terse shorthand of the internal Council:
"REASSIGNED—Black Archive. Surveillance rotation."
Surveillance.
She was being watched, too.
Or worse—she was part of the watching.
He went to Bran's quarters at sundown.
Still empty.
Kael lingered by the door, hand poised to knock again, but stopped.
He'd begun to notice something else now. Footsteps behind him that didn't echo when he turned. A feeling at the back of his skull like threads tugging gently. The way his name would catch in someone's throat and vanish before it was spoken.
The Council Whisperers weren't just watching.
They were waiting.
For a misstep. A fracture. A trigger.
And the more Kael uncovered, the more he realized:
They already knew more than he did.
He descended into the west catacombs two nights later.
Here, where the Veil was said to be thinnest, the older structures remained—corridors sealed with sigil locks, burial alcoves with names erased. Here, Kael found a wall where six sigils had once been etched in a ring.
Now, only two remained visible.
The others had been scorched away. Not removed. Destroyed.
He reached toward the nearest glyph.
Tenebris recoiled sharply—No. Do not touch that.
Kael withdrew. His fingers burned where they had neared the stone, even without contact.
"What was it?" he asked aloud.
Tenebris's voice came slow, reluctant.
"A gate. Or what's left of one. The Veil used to have paths—living paths. Anchored by those marks. The rest were shattered in the Fracture."
"Were you part of them?"
A long silence.
"I was their guardian. I was their jailer. I don't remember which."
Later that week, Kael stood once more on the rooftop, wind colder now.
Winter would come early this year, he thought.
He held the cracked mirror shard, the edges now worn and dulled. The crescent mark remained. But it had changed.
The curve no longer arced upward.
It curved down, like a setting sun.
Or a falling moon.
A whisper crawled out of the wind, not Tenebris—but something else.
"The gate opens soon."
Kael didn't sleep that night.