The Veil hung over Varn's Hollow like a wound in the sky, its silver-violet shimmer pulsing like a heartbeat. Lirien crouched in the shadow of a crumbling wall, their patched cloak blending with the dust and grime of the slum. The air buzzed tonight, heavy with the promise of a storm, and their scar—a jagged line across their collarbone—itched fiercely under their scarf. Eighteen years in this border town, and the Veil's eerie glow still made their skin crawl. It wasn't beautiful, not like the bards claimed. It was wild, alive, like it was watching them.
"Move it, runt," growled Jorr, the scrap dealer, his greasy beard catching the Veil's light as he shoved past. Lirien's fingers tightened on the salvaged knife at their belt, but they didn't flinch. Jorr was all bark, too lazy to throw a punch unless coin was involved.
"Not much to see," Lirien shot back, voice low and sharp. "Same sky, same glow. Unless you're betting it'll crack tonight." They stood, brushing dirt from their knees, their wiry frame barely casting a shadow.
Jorr snorted, lumbering toward the market square where the Hollow's scavengers gathered. Tonight was the Confluence, a rare alignment of stars that set the Veil ablaze, its colors swirling like oil on water. Folks whispered it was a bad omen, that the Otherworld—home to gods and monsters no one dared name—pressed closer on nights like this. Lirien didn't buy omens, but they believed in opportunity. Confluence nights meant distracted merchants, loose pockets, and Veil-touched trinkets ripe for the taking.
They slipped through the crowd, hood up, weaving past stalls piled with rusted gears and glowing crystals that hummed with forbidden energy. Being nonbinary in Varn's Hollow was a daily gauntlet—whispers of "freak" or "pick a side" followed them like flies. Lirien had learned to keep their head down, letting their quick hands and sharper wit speak for them. The slum didn't care who you were if you could survive its streets.
The Veil pulsed again, a deep thrum vibrating in their chest, like a call only they could hear. Stupid, they thought, shaking it off. The Veil didn't call anyone. It just hung there, keeping the mortal realm safe from whatever nightmares lurked beyond. That's what the Council of Mages preached, anyway, from their floating fortresses. Lirien trusted the Council about as much as they trusted Jorr's promises of "fair deals."
They ducked into an alley, heading for the ruins outside town. The Confluence drew scavengers to the border, where Veil energy seeped into the soil, turning scraps into treasures. Lirien had a knack for finding the good stuff—crystals that hummed, metal that didn't rust. It was how they'd survived, orphaned and alone, with no one to rely on but themselves.
The ruins were a labyrinth of collapsed towers and shattered statues, half-buried in sand. Moonlight filtered through broken arches, casting jagged shadows. Lirien's boots crunched as they climbed a cracked staircase, the Veil's glow painting their face in shifting hues. The air felt wrong tonight, thick with static, like the world was holding its breath. Their scar burned, sharp and sudden, and they winced, rubbing it through their scarf.
Kneeling beside a pile of rubble, they dug with their knife, sifting through dirt and stone. Their fingers brushed something smooth, cold, and pulsing with warmth. "What the…" Lirien pulled it free—a shard of translucent stone, no bigger than their palm, glowing with the Veil's silver-violet light. It thrummed in time with the sky, and their scar flared, a searing pain that made them hiss. The shard felt alive, whispering in a language they couldn't grasp.
A sharp crack split the air, like glass shattering. Lirien's head snapped up. The Veil rippled violently, and a fracture appeared, leaking black mist that coiled like smoke. Their heart pounded. The Council swore the Veil was unbreakable, eternal. But there it was, splitting wider, and something was moving inside.
A claw emerged, black as oil, followed by a creature that made Lirien's stomach lurch. It was a Wyrmling, a dragon-like beast the size of a hound, its scales shimmering with iridescent venom. Its eyes glowed red, and its jagged maw snapped as it landed, shaking the ruins. A second Wyrmling followed, then a third, their hisses echoing like a chorus of knives.
Lirien stumbled back, clutching the shard. "No, no, no," they muttered, scrambling for cover behind a pillar. Their knife was useless against these. The Wyrmlings sniffed the air, their heads swiveling toward the shard's glow. Lirien's scar burned hotter, and a wild, electric surge coursed through them, like lightning in their veins. The shard pulsed, and they swore it whispered: Fight.
Instinct took over. Lirien thrust their hand out, the shard flaring blindingly bright. A pulse of violet energy erupted—Chaos Pulse, a voice in their mind named it—slamming into the nearest Wyrmling. The beast shrieked, its scales cracking as it collapsed into writhing shadows, dissolving into mist. The other two lunged, claws raking the pillar. Lirien dove, rolling across the sand, and thrust the shard again. Another pulse exploded, weaker this time, knocking one Wyrmling back but only grazing the other. It roared, venom dripping from its fangs, and charged.
Lirien's breath hitched. They were done for. But the shard flared, and glowing words appeared in their vision, crisp and impossible:
[System Activated: Veil Shard Interface]
[User: Lirien Veyra]
[Skill Unlocked: Chaos Pulse, Level 1]
[Skill Unlocked: Beast Ward, Level 1]
[Objective: Survive]
"What the hell?" Lirien gasped, dodging a claw. The words hovered, like a mage's spell, but no mage had ever helped someone like them. The shard's heat surged, and they instinctively raised it, willing something to happen. A faint barrier shimmered around them—Beast Ward—and the Wyrmling's claws skidded off, sparks flying. It snarled, circling, as the other Wyrmling recovered, its tail lashing.
Lirien's mind raced. They'd just done magic. Forbidden, dangerous magic. The kind that got you hunted by the Council or worse, dissected by their mages. The shard burned against their palm, and their scar throbbed in time with the Veil's crack, which was shrinking but still leaking mist. They shoved the shard into their cloak, heart slamming against their ribs.
A screech pierced the air—not a Wyrmling, but something smaller. A swarm of Glimmerwings, glowing insects the size of coins, poured from the crack, their wings humming like a storm. They swirled around Lirien, their light disorienting, stinging their skin with tiny shocks. Lirien swatted at them, but the Wyrmlings used the distraction, lunging again. Lirien raised the shard, the Beast Ward flaring just in time to deflect a claw, but the effort left them dizzy, their vision swimming.
A blast of fire roared past, engulfing the nearest Wyrmling. It shrieked, thrashing as flames consumed it. The Glimmerwings scattered, and Lirien spun to see a figure in a hooded cloak, a staff glowing blue in their hand. "Stay down, kid," the figure called, voice smooth and sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. Another firebolt shot out, singeing the second Wyrmling, which fled into the ruins.
Lirien gripped their knife, panting. "Who are you?"
The figure lowered their hood, revealing a young man with sharp features and messy black hair, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Name's Toren. And you're trouble." He glanced at the Veil, where the crack was fading. "That little light show? The Council's scouts will have felt it. They'll be here soon, and they don't play nice."
Lirien's stomach twisted. The Council—mages who ruled from floating fortresses, crushing anyone who touched unsanctioned magic. People like Lirien, nonbinary outcasts with no name or power, didn't survive their attention. "I didn't ask for this," they snapped, backing away. The shard felt heavy in their cloak, its hum a constant reminder of the chaos they'd unleashed.
Toren tilted his head, studying them. "Doesn't matter. That shard you're hiding? It's got their attention. And those Wyrmlings? Just the start. The Otherworld's waking up, and you're holding the key." He paused, softer. "I can help you, but you've gotta trust me."
Trust. Lirien nearly laughed. They'd trusted before—merchants who swore fair trades, neighbors who promised to keep quiet about their scar, their difference. Every time, it ended in betrayal. But the shard's hum, the System's glowing words, and the distant drone of airship engines told them they were out of time. The Glimmerwings buzzed faintly, regrouping in the shadows, and Lirien knew more creatures would follow.
"Fine," they said, voice tight. "But if you stab me in the back, I'll take you down with me."
Toren grinned, a flash of teeth in the dark. "That's the spirit. Now run."
They sprinted through the ruins, the Veil pulsing overhead, its crack a silent promise of more beasts to come. The shard burned against Lirien's chest, and the System's words flickered: Survive. As airship engines roared closer and Glimmerwings swarmed in their wake, Lirien realized surviving was just the beginning. Whatever this shard was, whatever they were, the world—and its monsters—were coming for them.