Kaelin stood before the Veil as a pale light shimmered across its surface, not unlike the ripple of wind over water. The dawn mist curled around her ankles, carrying the scent of blooming dewroot and river mint. Ashmark had never known such peace—and yet, she sensed a tremble at its edges.
Lys stood beside her, her cloak of faded white now stitched with a spiral in green thread. It had been given to her by a child who said she wanted her to look like she belonged. She had cried for hours after that.
“They’re coming,” Lys whispered.
Kaelin turned her gaze to the Veil. “More like you?”
“Not all will be so gentle.”
---
The council met in the Spiral Grove—a glade where stories were exchanged without judgment. Elira floated a map made not of land, but of threads.
Each thread was a world.
