Ashes of the Veil

Orola, the little town nestled between river and forest, woke slow that morning — soft light, quiet air, and the scent of oranges and woodsmoke drifting from hearths. Gina’s cottage was simple, a perfect home for one. Sitting crooked on the edge of the market square, its windows fogged from the steam of drying herbs. Morning sunlight filtered through the leaves outside, spilling gold across her kitchen table. She loved mornings — quiet, untouched. The only hours that still felt safe. Her hands moved automatically: trimming lavender, stirring honey into tea, binding marigold stems with twine. Magic stirred faintly with each motion — a subtle warmth pulsing through her fingertips, coaxing petals to open wider. Just enough to help things grow. Never enough to draw attention. By the time she reached the market square, Orola was already awake. Merchants shouted, carts rattled, children darted between stalls. Gina kept her head down, clutching her basket — until a familiar voice called out. “Always early.” She turned. Harold stood by the fruit cart, grinning. The sun caught in his almost golden brown hair, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. His green eyes, bright and inviting, held a warmth that made her heart flutter. “You’re late,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. He shrugged, eyes bright. “Only because I wanted you to notice.” Gina rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. There was an unspoken tension between them, a pull that made her cheeks flush. - They wandered through the market together, trading small jokes and stories. Harold carried her basket, pretending it weighed more than it did, and she pretended not to notice the way his fingers brushed hers when he passed her a coin. Each touch sent a spark through her, a warmth that spread from her fingertips to her core. He was the kind of warmth she didn’t question — all easy laughter and talk of orchards, rivers, and the songs his mother used to hum when she was still well. He made her forget she was a girl people whispered about. His presence was a comfort, a sanctuary from the whispers and stares. When they stopped by the flower stall, he plucked a marigold and tucked it behind her ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of her ear, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. “There,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “Now the sun looks jealous.” Her heart stuttered. “You’re terrible at flattery.” “Yet you’re still blushing.” “Maybe it’s the heat.” “Maybe it’s not.” She laughed — a quiet, involuntary sound that felt too good. The sound of his laughter, the feel of his touch, it all made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t in a long time. - They lingered by the river after the market emptied. The water mirrored the pale sky, the reeds bending like they were listening. Harold leaned back on his elbows, his body relaxed and inviting. Gina couldn’t help but steal glances at him, her heart racing with each stolen look. It was midday already, but they sat in the shade of an old oak tree, so old it looked like it had been there since the Old Gods. Gina stared out into the water and suddenly felt a longing. “I wish mother was here to see this” she said, catching Harold off guard. He never really knew Gina’s mother. Since they were kids they had always met at the market, at the river, or corners of the village they used to explore together. Never once had they invited one another into their home. Then one day 2 years ago, Gina met with Harold at this very river with glassy eyes. “I had to bury my mother today” she said while fiddling with a tree branch. Harold didn’t know what to say, he just held her hand and they spent that one afternoon in silence by the riverbed. - “Father asked about you,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking the peaceful silence. Gina hesitated, her stomach turning cold. “About me?” “He heard about your herbs — how you help the townsfolk. He wants to meet you. Thinks you could make something for Mother’s sleep.” Her stomach turned cold. “He’s never spoken to me before.” Harold smiled, trying to ease her worry. “He’s proud, not cruel.” She nodded, though uneasily. “All right.” But she couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness settling like dust in her chest. - The manor loomed over Orola like a warning — pale stone, silent halls, air too still, too polished. Harold felt the unease and held Gina’s hand as they walked through the big open doors of the manor. The air was warm, but the foyer felt so cold and empty, she suddenly missed her warm cottage. There were four doors in the foyer; two on the left and two on the right, and a giant staircase that led upstairs. Harold took her into the far-right room, and she felt sudden dread. Lord Eldric stood by the hearth when they entered — tall, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding. His eyes, sharp and calculating, seemed to see right through her. “So,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “The girl with the golden hands.” Gina dipped her head. “My lord.” “You have a gift,” he said, eyes sharp. “Few in this land can bend nature’s breath.” “It’s only practice, my lord.” “Practice,” he repeated, stepping closer. His gaze lingered on her, and she felt a chill run down her spine. “Or instinct?” Before she could answer, Harold excused himself to fetch his mother’s tonic. “I’ll be right back” he whispered into her ear. The moment he let go of her hand, her heart sunk. She didn’t want to spend one second alone with Lord Eldric. The door closed. Silence filled the room, thick and heavy. Eldric’s gaze lingered, his eyes roaming over her with an intensity that made her pulse jump. “My son’s taste is... unexpected,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “I didn’t mean to—” He moved forward, his presence overwhelming. “You didn’t mean to what?” Her pulse jumped. She stepped back, her breath catching in her throat. “Please, my lord. I should go—” His hand caught her wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “I only want to see what kind of magic you are.” Something was off. The fire hissed. The air bent. And somewhere outside, the wind shifted — as if the world itself were holding its breath.