Every cage, no matter how golden, still remembers the wind."— The Book of the Veil, Verse 52
The storm returned at midnight.
Wind lashed at Bramblehollow's shutters; rain fell so hard it seemed to grind the world into darkness. Linda sat on the floor beside the dying hearth, the pendant clenched in her hands. Every few breaths, it pulsed faintly, as though listening to something she could not hear.
Her thoughts were a tangled skein—of the envoy's warning, of the dream, of the voice that had whispered "the Veil remembers your name." She wanted to dismiss it all as madness. Yet the marks in the forest soil had been real. The wind at the market had been real.
And so was the knock that came against her door.
Three sharp raps—too measured for a traveler, too confident for a thief.
She froze. The pendant warmed against her skin, a silent alarm. She rose, heart hammering. "Who is it?" she called.
No answer. Only the roar of the storm.
She took a step toward the door—and it burst inward.
A figure in a drenched cloak filled the doorway, sword half-drawn. "Linda Shawn," he said over the thunder. "By order of the royal envoy, you're coming with me."
It was he—the traveler, the envoy's scout. His voice was firm, but not cruel. Rain dripped from his hair onto the wooden floor. "You can come willingly, or not at all," he added. "But either way, the Council will know you exist by sunrise unless we leave now."
"Why?" she demanded. "What do they want with me?"
He hesitated just a fraction—enough for her to see the regret in his eyes. "You stirred something, girl. And some would rather kill you than find out how."
Before she could answer, lightning split the sky, flooding the cottage with white light. The pendant flared in response. The wind screamed through the open door, tearing loose the embers from the hearth and hurling them upward in a spiral of sparks.
The envoy swore and grabbed her wrist. "Now!"
Linda tried to pull free. "Let me go!"
"Not here," he snapped. "If they find you—"
Something deep within her surged.
The floorboards shuddered; the air thickened with the scent of wet earth and ozone. Outside, the storm howled louder—as if the forest itself had heard her fear and was rising in her defense. The vines around her window trembled and then burst inward, wrapping around the envoy's arm.
He cursed again, yanking free. "How're you doing that!"
"I, I, I don't know how!"
The vines coiled tighter, dragging him toward the wall. He slashed with his blade, green sap spraying like blood. "If you want to live," he shouted over the storm, "you'll stop it!"
But she couldn't. The power moved through her like a heartbeat not her own—wild, ancient, desperate. The pendant burned hot against her palm.
"Please," she whispered to the air, "don't hurt him."
The vines froze. Then, slowly, they released their grip, falling limp to the floor.
The silence that followed was heavy. The envoy sheathed his sword and looked at her with something between awe and fear. "You are what they warned us about."
Linda trembled, unable to meet his gaze. "What am I?"
He didn't answer. "Pack what you can. We ride now."
By dawn, the storm had thinned to mist. The forest loomed vast and black around them as they rode. The horse's hooves sank into mud, and the trees whispered above their heads. Linda clutched her cloak tight, shivering—not from cold, but from the strangeness humming in the air.
Once, she dared to ask, "Where are you taking me?"
"To Lockwood Citadel."
Her pulse quickened. "To the prince?"
"To the only man who might keep you alive."
He glanced sideways at her, eyes unreadable. "Pray he believes you're worth the trouble."
They rode on. Mist coiled between the trunks, thick enough to hide movement—shadows that shifted just beyond sight. The forest of Lockwood had never been still, but tonight it was different. It felt… aware.
Leaves rustled, though there was no wind.
Shapes like antlers gleamed for an instant and vanished. The envoy's horse snorted, uneasy.
"What is it?" Linda whispered.
"Old things," he said. "Best not to notice them."
But the forest noticed her. The pendant beat faster, and from the corner of her eye she saw branches bow slightly in her direction, as though paying reverence—or warning.
The road narrowed to a bridge of fallen logs. The envoy dismounted to lead the horse across. "Stay close," he said. "The river's deep."
Linda stepped carefully after him. The water below churned black, reflecting faint flashes of lightning. Halfway across, a noise rose from the depths—a low, mournful sound, like breath dragged through a flute.
Then the vines came again.
They erupted from the riverbank, thick as ropes, slick and green. They snaked toward the bridge, coiling around the envoy's legs and the horse's flank. The beast reared, screaming.
"Not again!" he shouted, hacking at them. "Control it!"
"I'm not doing this!" Linda cried.
The vines ignored her denial, lashing tighter, pulling the envoy toward the water. Panic tore through her. "Stop!" she shouted, but the power inside her answered in chaos, not obedience.
The envoy's foot slipped. The bridge groaned. He fell sideways—until Linda caught his wrist.
The moment her skin touched his, the air detonated.
Wind roared from nowhere, blasting through the trees. The vines shriveled, crumbling to ash. The river hissed as if burned by invisible fire. Then all was still again—so suddenly it felt like the world had exhaled.
Linda stood panting, her hand still clutching his. The envoy stared at her, shaken.
"You just commanded the forest," he said hoarsely. "No one's done that since—"
He stopped himself, eyes narrowing. "Get on the horse. Now."
They rode in silence until dawn bled pale across the horizon. The spires of Lockwood Citadel appeared far ahead, black against the rising sun.
Linda looked at them with a mix of awe and dread. The home of kings—and the heart of the kingdom that had sworn to destroy her kind.
By the time they reached the gates of Lockwood Citadel, dawn was a pale smear over the river. Mist clung to the ramparts, turning the towers into gray ghosts. To Linda, the place looked less like a fortress and more like a slumbering beast — huge, silent, waiting for a command to breathe again.
The envoy dismounted and handed his reins to a stable-boy without a word. Guards watched them from behind the portcullis; no one asked questions. Gold always bought silence in Lockwood.
He led her through a side passage, away from the great courtyards where banners snapped in the rising wind. Their boots echoed through narrow stone corridors that smelled of iron and candle wax. Linda hugged her cloak tighter. She felt small here, as though the walls themselves knew her secret.
"Where are we going?" she whispered.
"The eastern library," the envoy said. "He'll meet you there. Don't speak unless he asks."
He.
The word hung heavy between them.
They climbed a spiral stair that opened into a long hall lined with stained glass. Sunlight tried to push through, scattering colored shards across the floor — ruby, sapphire, emerald — like the world had been broken into pieces and trapped in glass. At the far end, beneath an
Arch carved with old runes, stood a young man in a dark coat embroidered with silver threads.
Even before the envoy bowed, Linda knew who he was.
Prince Philip Astride.
He turned at the sound of their footsteps. His hair was the color of wet bronze, his eyes gray as the river stones beneath the citadel. There was nothing gentle about his gaze; it was sharp, assessing — the look of someone accustomed to finding truth before others dared to speak it.
The envoy knelt briefly. "Your Highness. I brought the girl."
Philip's eyes flicked toward Linda. "Leave us."
The envoy hesitated. "Sire, she—"
"Leave us," Philip repeated, quiet but final.
The man bowed again and withdrew. The doors closed with a sound like thunder, fading.
For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them felt too still, the silence too deep. Linda dropped her gaze to the floor.
"You were at Bramblehollow," Philip said at last. His voice was low, measured. "There was a storm."
"There's always a storm," she replied before she could stop herself. Then, realizing her tone, she added softly, "I didn't mean —"
"You frightened them," he said, stepping closer. "You frightened my envoy. That's no small feat."
"I didn't choose it," she whispered. "It just … happened."
Philip studied her. "Magic never just happens. It chooses." He moved toward a table where old books lay open, their pages brittle with age. "For two centuries, the Veil has kept this kingdom safe from what you are.
If it's breaking — why now? Why you?"
She shook her head. "I don't know."
He looked at her for a long time and then gestured toward a chair. "Sit. No one will harm you here."
It wasn't kindness in his tone — more like curiosity, tempered by something deeper. Duty, perhaps.
Linda sat, though her heart refused to settle. The walls seemed to hum faintly; on one of the shelves, she noticed a portrait half hidden by dust — a woman with dark hair and the same gray eyes as the prince. Around the woman's neck hung a stone pendant carved with the same spiral mark as Linda's.
Philip followed her gaze. "My mother," he said quietly. "She died when I was twelve."
Linda's fingers tightened around her own pendant. "She … had one too."
He turned sharply. "Where did you get that?"
"It was my mother's," she said. "And her mother's before her. I don't even know what it means."
Philip exhaled slowly. "Neither do I. But the Council forbade those symbols after the Purge. Anyone caught with one was executed." He paused, eyes distant. "My father ordered it. He said they called storms."
Outside, thunder rumbled — soft, but close enough to make the glass tremble. Both of them looked toward the window.
"You should rest," Philip said finally. "There's a chamber through that door.
No guards will enter without my word."
Linda hesitated. "Why help me?"
His answer was almost a whisper. "Because if the Veil truly stirs, I need to understand what my family tried to bury."
When the door closed behind her, Philip stayed motionless for a long time. The scent of rain clung to the air where she'd stood. He looked again at his mother's portrait.
You warned me, he thought. You said the wind would return wearing a human face.
He didn't hear the faint crackling sound until it was almost too late. The candle flames along the table had begun to tilt sideways, drawn toward the door where Linda had gone. Papers fluttered. A current of air coiled through the chamber like a living thing.
Philip moved quickly, pressing his palm against the door. The moment he touched it, a shock ran up his arm — a flash of green light and the scent of earth after rain. His breath caught.
On the other side, Linda let out a gasp. The pendant on her chest glowed once, and then dimmed. She heard footsteps outside and the prince's voice, low and unsteady.
"Whatever you are," he murmured, "you're not supposed to exist."
Then silence again — the silence before the next storm.