The first rule of Eidolon Veil was not written on stone.
It was not announced.
It was not even enforced by guards.
It lived in the air the way frost lived in winter—silent, inevitable, punishing.
Do not intensify.
Anna learned it in the smallest moments.
The way the city chimed when she stared too long at Lexus.
The way a stranger’s silver-thread band brightened when they passed between them, as if the world preferred interruptions to intimacy.
The way the water beneath the causeways reflected outlines instead of faces—like the Veil could not tolerate the sharpness of identity.
By the third day, she could feel the system’s attention like fingertips against the back of her neck.
Not hostile.
Not cruel.
Just… corrective.
A world built to prevent grief by preventing attachment.
