The morning light struggled to pierce the Veilmark, creeping through the canopy in fractured, golden spears that illuminated the silvered mist coiling around the horse’s knees. Serena sat in front of Valan, the map-leaf held firmly in her hand. The glowing green lines of the Hearth-Hobs’ drawing pulsed in sync with the forest’s low-frequency hum, guiding them deeper into the charcoal-gray labyrinth.
"Tell me about them," Serena said, her voice barely a whisper against the wind. "The Dew Dancers. I’ve read the scrolls in the Veil libraries, but the scholars always treat them like legends."
Valan’s arm tightened slightly around her waist, his chest a solid warmth against her back. "They are real enough. Tall, lanky, and translucent, like a soap bubble stretched into the shape of a person.
