"When the Veil shivers, even silence remembers its name."
The Book of the Veil, Verse 41
The rain came before dawn, soft and secret, falling through the mist-wrapped trees that guarded Bramblehollow like patient ghosts. The village roofs glistened with dew, and from every chimney a thin curl of smoke drifted up into the gray. Beneath one of those roofs, Linda Shawn dreamed of the forest burning in silver light.
In the dream, she stood in a clearing she did not know. The air shimmered, alive with whispers — voices older than words. When she reached out, her hand glowed faintly, and the grounds beneath her rippled like water. Trees bowed. The wind spoke her name.
Then, from the heart of that light, she saw a figure — faceless, crowned in shadow — reaching toward her.
Do not hide what you are, the voice murmured. The Veil is thinning.
She woke with a gasp.
The small cottage was dim, the hearth long since gone cold. Rain tapped the windowpane, steady and unhurried. For a moment, she laid still, the sound of her heartbeat matching the rhythm of the falling drops. The dream clung to her like smoke.
Her palms tingled. When she opened them, faint trails of mist swirled across her skin, curling up from her fingertips before fading into nothing.
"No," she whispered, clutching her hands to her chest. "Not again."
The feeling passed. But she knew it would come back — it always did.
Linda rose quietly, careful not to wake Aunt Monica who slept in the adjoining room.
She pulled on her cloak, patched and faded from years of wear, and stepped outside into the gray morning. The air tasted of wet moss and cedar.
Bramblehollow stirred awake around her, farmers heading for the fields, merchants hauling carts toward the market square, children chasing geese through puddles.
It all looked normal, peaceful even. But Linda had learned that peace in Bramblehollow was only a thin layer of ice over deep, dark water.
People here feared what they did not understand — and nothing frightened them more than the thought of magic.
She could still remember the last girl who had been accused of witchcraft — though that word was whispered, never spoken aloud. They hadn't burned her, not officially; the Church of the Divine Orders forbade such barbarity. Instead, the villagers had simply stopped speaking to her. Doors had closed. No one sold her food. Within weeks, she'd vanished into the forest, and no one ever mentioned her again.
Linda had been twelve then, Old enough to understand the lesson.
So now she kept her head down, kept her hands gloved even in summer, and kept her dreams locked behind her ribs where no one could see them.
As she crossed the lane, Old Man Carver, the cooper, raised a hand in greeting. "Morning, Miss Shawn! Off to the market?"
Linda smiled faintly. "Yes, sir. Need to fetch more herbs for Aunt Monica."
"Good girl," he said, nodding approvingly. "And tell your aunt I still owe her for mending my shoulder. Those hands of hers could fix a corpse."
Linda laughed politely, but something in her chest tightened. Her aunt's healing herbs worked, yes — but not all of them came from this world. And not all of them were Monica's doing.
She moved on quickly, her boots squelching in the mud.
The market square lay at the heart of Bramblehollow, surrounded by timbered houses whose crooked roofs leaned toward one another as if sharing secrets. Stalls were being set up — baskets of apples, jars of honey, bolts of cloth from the capital. The air buzzed with chatter and the scent of wet earth.
Linda passed a stall selling silver charms — trinkets carved with the sigils of the Five Orders.
Lumis for protection, Aethon for strength, Eryndor for endurance, Thalen for luck, and Veyra for truth.
She paused at the last one, her reflection glimmering faintly in the polished metal.
"Pretty, isn't it?" said the merchant, a broad-shouldered woman with kind eyes. "Veyra watches over the honest.
Linda forced a smile. "Then she'd find few friends here."
The merchant laughed, but Linda's heart wasn't in the jest. She felt a familiar stirring beneath her skin again — that trembling awareness that the world was alive around her. The air shifted, the leaves of nearby trees quivering though there was no wind. Somewhere, deep beneath the cobbles, she could feel the earth breathing.
She swallowed hard, turned away, and headed toward the herb-seller's stall.
But as she moved through the crowd, a shout split the morning.
"Watch your step, girl!"
A cartwheel had snapped loose from a passing wagon, rolling toward her with dangerous speed. She froze — and instinct, not thought, answered.
The world slowed. She felt the air rush around her like a tide. Her hand rose, and the wind rose with it — a sudden gust that struck the wheel, sending it spinning harmlessly aside before anyone could see.
At least, she thought no one had seen.
Then she heard it: a gasp, sharp and unmistakable, behind her.
She turned.
A man stood there — a traveler by the look of him, cloak heavy with road dust, eyes wide in disbelief.
For a heartbeat, they stared at each other. Then Linda dropped her gaze, turned, and ran.
Linda did not stop running until the noise of the market had fallen away behind her and only the hush of the forest remained. Mist drifted between the trees in slow ribbons, silver-white against the dark trunks. Her breath came quick and sharp, each exhale a ghost in the chill air.
Fool, fool, she scolded herself. Someone saw.
She pressed her palms against a tree's bark, half expecting to feel warmth still humming beneath her skin, but the magic had gone quiet again—hiding like a frightened animal. Only the heartbeat of the forest answered her touch. The moss was damp, alive. A droplet slid from a fern and landed on her wrist. It glittered, then sank into her skin and was gone.
The forest knew her; it always had. When she was small, she'd come here to escape the stares of the village children. The woods would greet her with murmurs, leaves rustling though no breeze moved them. Sometimes, when she sang softly to herself, the song echoed back in a higher pitch, like another voice hiding among the trees.
Now the whispers returned, faint but distinct.
Child of the waking earth… Why do you hide?
Linda spun around.
Nothing but mist.
The voice had been everywhere and nowhere, thin as breath.
"Who's there?" she demanded, though her voice shook.
Forgotten… forgotten too long.
The words rippled through the air, vibrating in her bones. She stumbled backward, tripping over a root, and fell to her knees. The ground pulsed once—subtle but real—and a circle of pale fungi glowed faintly where she'd landed. Light spread from them in filaments, tracing the veins of roots beneath the soil.
She watched, transfixed, as patterns shaped themselves—a spiral, then a symbol she didn't recognize. The glow brightened until the mist shimmered like water reflecting sun.
Then the light died.
Only her own ragged breathing filled the silence.
She rose unsteadily. The symbol remained, faintly etched into the dirt. She reached down, brushed it with her fingers. The mark was warm.
A sound broke the stillness: hooves, distant but coming closer. Panic shot through her chest. Soldiers? The village warden? Whoever that traveler had been, if he'd spoken of what he'd seen, they'd come looking.
Linda bolted deeper into the hollow, following deer paths through thickets of fern and briar. Branches snagged her cloak; her boots sank into soft earth. The forest darkened as she ran, the canopy thickening until day seemed to dim to twilight.
At last she stopped beside an old stone well half swallowed by vines. No one used it anymore—the villagers said spirits lived beneath it. That was reason enough for her to trust it more than any human place.
She leaned against the crumbling rim, trying to calm her racing heart. From somewhere below came the faint trickle of underground water.
"Please," she whispered to the silence. "Don't let them find me."
The well gave no answer—but the wind shifted, warm and gentle now, carrying the scent of wild mint. For the first time since the market, the tension eased from her shoulders. She closed her eyes.
The same dream-voice spoke again, softer this time.
"The Veil trembles, child of storm and root. They will seek you… but so will we."
A shiver ran through her. "Who are we?"
No reply—only the slow beatings of her own heart and the whisper of leaves like a sigh.
When Linda finally dared to leave the hollow, the rain had stopped. The air was heavy, expectant. She made her way back toward the village, moving quietly along the stream that curved behind the mill. She rehearsed excuses in her head—a stumble, a breeze, nothing strange at all—but her thoughts tangled and frayed.
She didn't notice the figure watching from across the water: the same traveler from the market, cloak drawn close, eyes narrowed in wary fascination.