They stood in the firelight—the children of the Veil.
Their skin shimmered like moonlight drowned in oil, bodies barely holding their shape, eyes reflecting nothing but emptiness. Some looked human, others twisted—limbs too long, heads tilted at unnatural angles. Some bore scars from runes carved directly into their skin.
“They were like me,” Rowan whispered.
His voice was barely a thread, but Quinn caught it. He knelt, gripping Rowan’s trembling hands.
“They were like you, baby. But you’re still here. You’re you. And we’ll protect them too.”
“If there’s anything left of them,” Jace muttered, voice tight with dread.
Mother Thorne stood behind them like a queen made of ash and flame.
“You see them now. My children. The failed gates. The half-formed keys. The broken dreams.”
She step
