The rain came in sheets that night, a wild, cold torrent that blurred the line between forest and sky. Thunder rolled over the village of Drenn like a warning, shaking the shutters of every cottage. The storm had come early this year, tearing down branches and turning roads to mud. To most, it was just weather. To Elyra, it was a whisper — a signal.
She stood beneath the low eaves of her cottage, cloak pulled tightly around her, eyes fixed on the twisting trail that led from the edge of the Veil. Her breath misted in the cold, and each gust of wind seemed to carry a voice just outside hearing. That same feeling had haunted her dreams for weeks — a quiet tug, as though the forest itself was calling.
Then, through the fog and rain, came the sound she hadn't expected: hooves pounding unevenly on the sodden path.
A horse stumbled into view, its flanks lathered with sweat and rain. Its rider was slumped, barely holding on, blood trailing down one side. Elyra's heart clenched. She ran forward without thinking, skirts soaked instantly, boots sliding in the mud. She caught the man as he slipped from the saddle, his weight crashing into her.
He was pale, soaked to the bone, and bruised. His dark hair clung to his face, and his lips were cracked, murmuring a name that didn't belong to this world. She caught only the end of it:
"...Elarion…"
Eyes the color of stormlight fluttered open for a breath — lightning catching in them just long enough to show the raw fear inside.
She had no time to question. Elyra dragged him inside, muscles aching, hands trembling. She laid him on her table, kicking the door closed against the wind. Her cottage, always warm and scented with herbs, now felt fragile, like the storm had followed her inside.
She worked by candlelight, unfastening leather buckles, peeling away torn fabric, revealing the wound: a deep gash just beneath his ribs. Not fresh — at least a day old — and dangerously close to festering. Her healer's instincts took over. Hot water. Clean linens. The soft murmur of old words passed down from her mother, laced with healing magic most had forgotten.
And then something dropped from his hand.
A ring.
It rolled across the floor, hitting the stone hearth with a dull clink.
Elyra turned, and her breath caught in her throat.
The ring was silver, dulled by wear, but unmistakable: a serpent biting its tail around a single, six-pointed star. The mark of Serith.
She hadn't seen the crest in the flesh before — only in the secret books hidden beneath floorboards, left by her mother before she vanished into the Veil. The House of Serith had been wiped from the history books two centuries ago after their fall from grace, their name whispered only in cautionary tales.
But here it was.
In her home.
She turned back to the stranger. Who was he? How did he come to wear a dead house's sigil? And why did he come from the forest that all of Drenn feared to enter?
As she stitched his wound, her mind swirled with memories of stories told by fireside — of the Serith queen who practiced forbidden magic, who vanished on the eve of war. A queen who, they said, had bound herself to the forest to escape death.
"Don't believe the stories," her mother used to say, voice low, eyes dark with knowing. "They only tell part of the truth."
Kael — that was the name stitched into the inside of his torn jacket. She traced it lightly with her fingers, then stood and threw fresh logs onto the fire. Rain still lashed the windows.
He stirred again.
"You have to stop her…" he rasped suddenly, his voice like gravel, startling her.
Elyra turned fast. "Who?"
He grabbed her wrist — his grip surprisingly strong despite his condition — and his eyes opened fully this time. "The Queen… she waits in the Veil. And she knows you're coming."
A long silence fell.
Then, just as quickly, he fell unconscious again.
Elyra stood frozen, heart thudding in her chest. She looked toward the hearth, the ring still glinting in the firelight. Outside, the wind howled — but beneath it, she swore she heard something more. A whisper in a voice she almost recognized, laced with longing and danger.
The Veil is waking, it seemed to say. And it remembers you.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose.
She should have been afraid. Should have locked the door, thrown the ring into the fire, and sent for the village guard at first light.
But instead, Elyra walked slowly to the ring, picked it up, and held it tightly in her fist.
The mark of Serith.
The beginning of everything.