The next night, thunder cracked over the city. Not from the sky—from the Veil.
Rifts opened in the air above Monroe Tower. Citizens screamed as glowing fissures lit up the skyline.
Elara rushed to the rooftop, blade in hand. Aldric met her there, face pale.
"It's breaking through."
"What do we do?"
"We delay it," he said. "Buy time."
The rift widened—and the Herald emerged. Not fully. Just a projection. But even that made the sky darken.
It spoke with many voices, like wind through broken glass.
"Elara of the Glyph. Heir of the Scribe. Daughter of the Moon's corpse."
She stood firm. "You have no claim here."
"I am the memory that will devour your future."
It reached for her—but her glyph burned white.
A beam of lunar light exploded from her chest, slamming into the Herald's essence. It shrieked, recoiling.
The rift snapped shut.
Elara collapsed, gasping. Aldric caught her.
"You faced it," he said, awed.
She nodded weakly. "It knows me."
He looked up at the sky, where the rift had vanished.
"And it's coming."