The summons came at dawn.
Not a polite knock, nor a formal notice—but a pulse through the compound's stonework, subtle and unmistakable, a summoning bell that rang only for one thing: a shadow-tracking sortie.
Kael was already dressed.
He had barely slept since his talk with Idrin. Since the name Aranel. Since the word Veilheart had lodged in his mind like a blade turned inward.
The others met in the marshaling chamber just beyond the east stairs. Cold lamps swayed above the stone floor, casting their sickly green glow on a small cluster of Whisperer cadets—all younger than Kael, but only just. Their hoods were lowered, expressions tight.
Mirell was there. Liris, too. And even Tovrin, whose throat still bore the faint shadow-burn from Kael's halted strike days before.
They didn't speak to him.
Didn't even nod.
Only one voice cut through the cold:
"Form ranks. Target shadow-class: wildborn Gloamkin, moving west through Fissure Vale. Designation: Echoing Beast."
The speaker wore gray Whisperer robes without the crest. A field handler. A man named Fel Corren, known for being neither cruel nor kind—but precise. The kind of precision that gets people killed if you're not.
He eyed Kael. "You're in third rank. Observation only. Do not engage unless ordered."
Kael gave a curt nod. Fel returned it, but without warmth.
"The Gloamkin entered Veil-worn territory last night," Fel continued. "This one didn't bleed into the physical as expected. It sings."
Tovrin frowned. "It what?"
"Sings. Low resonance. Our trackers say it affects sigil responses. It's not attacking—but it's drawing in the animals. Shadows shifting wrong. Too many disappearances."
Fel paced slowly.
"Something's off. This one doesn't match our books."
Kael felt Tenebris stir at that.
They never match the books.
They deployed an hour later, moving in tight phalanx formation through the southern gates and into the frost-rimed undergrowth of the Vale.
The trees here grew gnarled and hunched, their trunks splitting like mouths frozen in anguish. Mist drifted low across the mossy ground, curling around boots and blades like fingers too shy to grab but too bold to ignore.
Kael took rear-left, his veilcloak drawn tight, his pulse even—but cold.
No one spoke to him.
Even Mirell, who usually had a jibe ready, kept her eyes fixed ahead.
Only once did Liris glance back, her eyes unreadable.
The message was clear: You are not trusted. You are not one of us.
And Kael didn't care.
Not today.
They reached the Fissure by midday.
It was less a canyon than a tear—an open wound in the landscape, rocks slashed away to expose an ancient chasm beneath. The light dimmed here, and sound seemed slower.
A sigil pole was already planted at the overlook. Its light sputtered erratically.
Fel frowned. "It shouldn't be doing that."
He waved Liris and Mirell forward to triangulate the perimeter.
Kael knelt near the edge, letting his fingers brush the ground.
It felt wrong.
Too soft. Too warm.
Like it remembered being touched by something not of this place.
Something is waiting.
Tenebris pulsed once.
And then—Kael heard it.
A whisper.
Not loud. Not harsh.
But familiar.
A voice beneath the skin of the world.
It did not speak in words.
It sang in memory.
…come back to us…
Kael staggered slightly. His hand clenched around air, instinctively reaching for the coin he no longer carried.
Fel turned. "What is it?"
Kael didn't answer. Couldn't.
The whisper had recognized him.
And something inside it—a shard of sorrow, of longing—responded.
You are not lost. You are made.
"Veilshift!" Tovrin barked.
A tremor rippled across the chasm, low and bone-deep. Shadows pooled at the edge of the fissure—and then something moved.
Slowly. Gracefully.
The Gloamkin emerged.
It had no definite shape, not truly. A mass of tendrils and veil-thread, woven into the suggestion of a quadruped. Its face was blank save for a vertical slit that opened and closed like a breath.
It didn't attack.
It just watched.
And sang.
Low, steady hums rippled across the ground.
Mirell raised her weapon. "Why isn't it attacking?"
Fel didn't answer.
Kael stepped forward.
The hum grew louder.
And then, in a voice that wasn't his, he whispered: "It knows me."
Fel spun. "What did you say?"
Kael blinked, heart hammering. He hadn't meant to speak. Hadn't even formed the thought.
But the Gloamkin turned toward him.
And bowed its head.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
Fel raised his hand. "Do not engage. Record only."
The others held position—but their tension grew. Tovrin edged sideways. Mirell's stance shifted—barely, but Kael saw it. They were afraid.
Not of the beast.
Of him.
The Gloamkin's hum shifted key.
The sigil pole crackled. Sparks spat from its core. It failed.
And then Kael heard it again:
"Little Veilheart..."
He flinched.
Fel noticed. "What is it saying?"
"It knows what I am."
The Gloamkin lifted its head.
Its slit-eyes locked onto Kael's.
And then—without warning—it leapt into the fissure, vanishing into the gloom.
Silence returned.
Only the wind remained.
Fel stepped forward, scanning the depths with a handheld prism reader. "Gone. Shadowtrace ending midair. No residuals. It left of its own accord."
Mirell finally broke. "What the hell was that? Why did it… bow to him?"
Fel turned slowly toward Kael.
"Because something in him is older than the rest of us."
They returned in silence.
Kael walked behind the others, his mind burning with fragments of the whisper.
Veilheart.
Little Veilheart.
And a phrase from the journal:
"He sang in sleep. Said the Veil remembered being alive."
He didn't know if the others would report what they saw.
But he knew something had changed.
Not just for the team.
But inside him.
Tenebris did not speak.
But Kael could feel it watching, awake now in full.
And afraid.