By the time Linda reached the edge of Bramblehollow, the lamps were being lit.
Each door glowed with the soft gold of oil flame, but the light did little to warm the narrow lanes. The rain had left everything slick, and the smell of wet wood and hearth smoke clung to the air.
She pulled her hood low and slipped between the shuttered stalls of the market.
The crowd from earlier had thinned; only a few late traders remained, packing away unsold fruit, folding tattered awnings. Voices murmured—low, uneasy.
"…swore I saw it, light like a torch but no fire."
"…a gust from nowhere blew the whole stall over."
"…the priest says the old signs stir again—bad omen, that."
Each whispered fragment struck her like a lash. She kept her head down, forcing herself to walk calmly. The gossip moved faster than the wind in Bramblehollow; by morning, half the village would have a version of what happened.
At the well of the square stood a man she didn't recognize. Tall, lean, dressed in travel-stained leather and a dark cloak pinned with a silver clasp shaped like a crescent. His hair was wind-tossed, his expression distant as he watched the townsfolk disperse. Something about him seemed too alert, too precise for a mere wanderer.
Linda ducked behind a cart. She recognized him—the traveler from the market, the one who'd seen the basket burst and the wind rise. He had followed her.
The stranger turned suddenly, scanning the shadows. His eyes were sharp, catching the lamplight. She held her breath, frozen, until a group of children ran past laughing, and his gaze shifted. In that instant, she slipped down a side alley.
Her boots splashed through puddles. The alley twisted between cottages before ending in a stone wall overgrown with ivy. She pressed against it, trembling. The rain started again, fine and cold, pattering against her cloak.
Footsteps echoed softly. Slow. Deliberate.
Then a voice—calm, low, almost kind.
"You shouldn't run. It makes people wonder what you're hiding."
She turned.
The stranger stood at the mouth of the alley, half in shadow, and half in the pale glow of a lantern.
"I'm not hiding anything," she said, but the lie came out thin.
"Then you won't mind a few questions." He stepped closer, boots quiet on the wet stones. "Your name, for instance."
"I don't see how that's your concern."
He gave a small smile. "Everything strange in Lockwood is my concern. I serve the royal envoy." He drew the cloak aside just enough to reveal a silver insignia at his belt—two crossed swords beneath a sunburst crest.
Her breath caught. Royal envoy—meaning the crown's eyes and ears. Meaning he answered to the palace… to Prince Philip Astride himself.
"Why is the envoy interested in a poor village girl?" she asked, trying to sound steady.
"Because something impossible happened in that market," he replied. "And impossible things have a way of drawing the wrong attention. I need to know whether you were at the center of it."
The wind shifted; her damp hair whipped across her face. "I think you have the wrong person."
"Perhaps." His tone softened. "But if not—if you did something today—you should tell me before others come asking. The church, for instance, is not as gentle."
For a heartbeat, she almost spoke, the words trembling on her tongue. But then she remembered the whispers in the forest, the glowing symbol, the voice that called her child of storm and root. Whatever this power was, she couldn't let the crown—or anyone know.
She shook her head. "There's nothing to tell."
He studied her a moment longer, as if weighing truth against fear. Finally, he inclined his head slightly. "Very well. But I'll be staying in Bramblehollow for a while. Should you remember anything… find me."
He turned and walked away, vanishing into the mist.
Linda stood there long after he'd gone, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the night. When she finally made her way home, the village seemed to hold its breath.
Every shuttered window, every flickering lamp felt like an eye watching.
Inside her small cottage, she bolted the door and leaned against it, shaking. Her grandmother's old chest sat by the hearth; inside lay a bundle wrapped in faded cloth. She drew it out with trembling fingers.
It was a pendant—an old circle of stone strung on a leather cord. Strange runes wound across it, half-worn away. Her grandmother had told her never to show it, never to speak of it.
"It belonged to your mother," she'd said once. "And before her, to the first of our bloodline who could call the storm."
Now the pendant pulsed faintly, as if remembering its name.
Linda gasped and dropped it. The pulse faded. The cottage fell silent again—except for the whisper of rain against the window.
Outside, beyond the edge of the woods, the royal envoy's scout—the same stranger—mounted his horse. He glanced once toward the village lights, expression unreadable.
In his gloved hand, he held a small piece of parchment, sealed with crimson wax. The message he'd been sent to deliver bore the sigil of Prince Philip Astride.
"Find the source of the disturbance in Lockwood's borderlands.
Bring the one responsible to me—alive."
He looked toward the forest where faint lightning flickered behind the clouds.
"I've found her," he murmured. "But she doesn't know what she is yet."
Then he spurred his horse into the dark.
The royal citadel of Lockwood rose like a crown of stone above the river, its towers catching the moonlight like blades. From afar, it seemed serene; up clos,e it breathed the weight of centuries. Soldiers patrolled the battlements, their armor dull with rain. Beyond the walls, the forest spread in all directions—dark, ancient, and restless.
Philip Astride stood alone on the eastern balcony of the palace library, his cloak heavy with mist. He had been reading the reports for hours: villages whispering of lights in the woods, animals fleeing fields that had never known wolves, water that ran backward for a heartbeat. One more line of ink among a hundred would have meant nothing—except for the final note written in a courier's careful hand.
"An envoy reports a disturbance near Bramblehollow. A possible elemental surge. A witness claims to have seen a young woman at the center."
A young woman. Philip's fingers tightened on the parchment. The last time anyone had written of an elemental surge, it had ended in fire and screams.
Footsteps sounded behind him. The envoy—the same man who had confronted Linda—knelt briefly before speaking.
"My lord, I've returned."
"You've seen it yourself, then," Philip said without turning. His voice was calm, but it carried that quiet command that made even seasoned officers stand straighter.
"Yes, Your Highness. The disturbance was small, but genuine. Wind and light with no visible source. The locals were frightened. I found the girl they spoke of."
Philip faced him now. His eyes, the color of iron under water, searched the envoy's face.
"And?"
"She denies involvement. But…" The envoy hesitated, choosing words with care. "She fits the old descriptions—the way the air bends around her. And she carries something I can't identify, a stone amulet with runes similar to those in the forbidden texts."
"Did she show it willingly?"
"No. I saw it only briefly, when she thought she was alone."
Philip crossed to the long table where an ancient map lay unrolled, the parchment yellowed to near fragility. Tiny marks showed where old shrines once stood—places of worship before magic was outlawed. He pointed to one symbol near the northern woods.
"Bramblehollow," he murmured. "One of the last sanctuaries before the Purge."
The envoy watched him. "What do you command, my lord?"
Philip's gaze lingered on the map. He remembered stories whispered by tutors when he was a child—stories of the Veil, the invisible barrier that had sealed away the elemental forces centuries ago. It had been the first king of Lockwood who ordered the sealing, claiming it saved the kingdom from ruin. But some texts hinted the Veil had not been meant to last forever. When it broke, the balance would demand a vessel.
"Bring her here," he said finally. "Quietly. No proclamations, no alarms. If word spreads, the Council will act before I can learn the truth."
The envoy bowed. "As you command, Your Highness."
Philip turned back to the balcony as the man left. Below, the moon rose higher, silvering the forest canopy. Somewhere out there, a girl had stirred the sleeping magic of Lockwood—and whether she meant to or not, she had set the old wheels turning again.
Far from the citadel, Linda dreamt.
In her dream she stood on the surface of a lake so still it mirrored the stars. A woman waited across the water—tall, cloaked in shadow, her, hair a cascade of dark silver. Her eyes glowed like lightning trapped in glass.
"Do you know why they fear you?" the woman asked.
Linda tried to speak, but no sound came.
"Because the Veil remembers your name," the figure whispered. "And when it breaks, you will choose what is reborn."
The lake shattered beneath her feet. She fell—into water, into darkness, into a roar that sounded like wind and fire together.
She woke gasping, her sheets twisted around her. Rain lashed the window; thunder rumbled in the distance.
The pendant on her bedside table gleamed once, faint as a heartbeat.
At that same hour, in the citadel's lower halls, Philip's adviser entered quietly, holding a sealed letter marked with the sigil of the High Council.
"My prince," he said, voice grave, "they have heard of the disturbance already. They mean to send inquisitors to Bramblehollow at dawn."
Philip's jaw tightened. "Then dawn will come too late for them to find her."
He strode from the hall, cloak flaring like a shadow. Lightning flashed through the high windows, carving his silhouette against the stone.