The cellars beneath Lockwood were older than the palace itself. They had no windows, no doors—only arches half-carved from living stone and corridors that seemed to breathe. Here the wind did not move, yet candles flickered. Here, the air hummed with something that remembered pain.
Serah moved through it like a shadow that belonged. Her hands, pale in the lamplight, brushed the walls until she found the sigil burned into the rock: a spiral of roots and flame. She pressed her palm to it, whispering words the priests had called cursed.
The wall opened.
Inside, a ring of cloaked figures waited, twelve of them, faces hidden. They called themselves the Silent Court—descendants of those who had once wielded the Veil's power. Serah, their youngest, was also their most dangerous, because she had heard the voice beneath the earth and had not gone mad.
"You return late," rasped one. "Were you seen?"
Serah lowered her hood. Her eyes, usually brown, caught the torchlight and shone like molten gold. "I was in the east wing. The prince and the girl were there."
"The girl with the mark?"
Serah nodded. "Linda Shawn. She touched the root of the Veil, and it answered."
A ripple went through the circle—fear, awe, and something else: hope.
"Then the seal is weakening," murmured another. "If she bears the blood of Alenor Shawn, the Veil may choose her."
Serah's mouth tightened. "She doesn't deserve it."
Silence fell. From somewhere deep below came a soft thrumming, like a heartbeat under stone. Serah turned toward the sound, her expression unreadable.
"Do you remember the first fire?" one of the elders asked gently. "The night they burned our kin?"
Serah's answer was a whisper. "I remember the screams. I remember my mother's hands turning to ash in mine."
Her voice did not break, but the candle flames bent toward her as if drawn by grief.
"She was one of the purged," the elder said. "She died for the magic we carry. You should honor that, not despise it."
Serah looked up, her gold-lit eyes cold. "My mother died because the Veil lied. It promised protection, but it only devoured. If I hate magic, it is because I've seen what it does to those who love it." The elders shifted uneasily. The air thickened; dust rose from the floor as though stirred by invisible breath.
Then a voice—ancient, female, neither whisper nor thunder—spoke from nowhere and everywhere at once:
Serah Vale…
The Silent Court froze. Only Serah did not kneel.
You carry my flame, child. Why do you hide from me?
Serah's fists clenched. "Because your flame burns everything it touches."
"All fire destroys. But from destruction comes memory… and from memory, return."
The torches flared white. Images poured into Serah's mind—visions of the First Kingdom before the Purge, when magic flowed freely and the Veil was a river of light across the sky. She saw her mother standing beside Queen Elara, the last monarch to walk the Path of the Veil. She saw betrayal, soldiers with the astride crest, and the sealing ritual that ended an age.
She gasped and stumbled, clutching her head. The Silent Court cried out, but the voice overrode them all.
"The blood of the crown and the blood of the Veil must join once more. Only then can I awaken."
"The prince," Serah whispered. "Philip Astride."
And the girl of Shawn's line. Bring them to me. Or watch Lockwood drown in silence forever."
The light vanished. Darkness rushed back in, heavy as water. When Serah raised her eyes, the elders had fallen to their knees, trembling.
"What did she show you?" one asked.
Serah's expression was unreadable. "She showed me truth. And she showed me how to end it."
She turned away, her cloak sweeping the floor. As she reached the exit, her hand brushed the wall again, and for an instant, her reflection shimmered there—her mother's face looking back at her, smiling sadly.
Serah whispered, "Forgive me."
Then the wall sealed behind her, and the echo of her footsteps faded into silence.
Far above, in the palace corridors, Linda startled awake in her chamber, heart racing, and hand burning where the map's imprint still glowed. Somewhere, in another wing of the castle, Philip woke at the same instant, his blood humming with the same pulse that had spoken to Serah.
The Veil was no longer sleeping.
Night had fallen on Lockwood, but it was not the soft night of stars and silence.
It was a night that listened.
A faint hum threaded through the stones of the citadel, vibrating like a buried heartbeat. Windows rattled in their frames, and the silver light of the twin moons flickered as if something beneath the castle was breathing again after centuries of sleep.
Linda stood by her window, her hand still marked with the faint sigil from the sanctum. The burn no longer hurt—but it pulsed, glowing faintly with every throb of the unseen heartbeat below.
The forest beyond the walls whispered her name.
And she answered.
Grabbing her cloak, she slipped out into the corridor. The palace was strangely empty, its torches flickering blue instead of gold. Somewhere, a clock tolled midnight. Each echo drew her steps forward until she reached the Hall of Mirrors—an ancient corridor lined with glass so old the reflections wavered like water.
There, a voice cut through the hum.
"Linda?"
Philip.
He stood at the opposite end, breathless, his shirt half-buttoned, sword drawn. The runes of the Veil glowed faintly along the blade's edge—the same runes she'd seen in the sanctum below.
"You heard it too," she said softly.
He nodded, coming closer. "It's in the walls. In my blood. I dreamt of a river of light… and your face."
The air between them rippled. A thin line of luminescence traced itself along the floor, winding around their feet like a living thread.
"It's calling us," Linda whispered.
Philip reached out his hand. "Then we go together."
When her fingers touched his, the world shifted.
The mirrors flared with light—each surface showing not their reflections, but scenes of the past. The first kings of Lockwood forging treaties with the sorcerers of the Veil. The betrayal. The fires. The sealing.
Linda saw Alenor Shawn kneeling beside Queen Elara, both weeping as a rift of pure light swallowed the sky.
The glass trembled and shattered outward.
A gust of cold magic swept through the hall, scattering shards like rain. Where they fell, the floor ignited with ancient runes, weaving a pattern that glowed beneath their feet—a living map of the Veil's veins spreading through the kingdom.
Philip gasped. "The whole castle—it's alive."
"Not alive," Linda murmured. "Awakening."
The ground shook violently. From the corridors behind them came the thundering steps of the Silent Court. Cloaked figures surged into view, their torches casting jagged shadows. At their head strode Serah Vale, eyes blazing gold.
"Step away from the light!" she shouted. "You don't know what you're unleashing!"
Linda turned. "Serah, it's the Veil—it's been calling to us. Don't you feel it?"
"I feel death!" Serah's voice cracked. "That thing beneath us devoured my mother and every soul who trusted it. You're walking into its mouth!"
Philip stepped between them. "Serah, whatever you're planning—"
She raised her hand. Magic flared crimson. The Silent Court lunged.
Steel clashed. The air filled with screams and sparks. Philip parried a strike aimed for Linda's heart, but another figure struck from behind. Linda thrust out her hand instinctively—and the runes blazed brighter.
A wave of light burst from her palm, throwing every attacker backward. The blast scorched the stone and carved a glowing mark into the ceiling.
Everyone froze.
The light gathered around Linda, swirling upward in a column of silver-blue fire. It coalesced into a towering figure—vague, feminine, crowned in light. Her voice was thunder and whisper intertwined.
"I am the Breath of the Veil.''
The Silent Court fell to their knees. Serah staggered back, eyes wide with horror.
For centuries I have slept, the voice continued, bound by the silence of kings and the blood of the storm-born. Now the seal breaks, and I remember the names of my children.
The floor split open. Beneath the hall yawned an abyss filled with swirFrom it raised ghostly forms—men, women, and children made of smoke and memory. They circled the chamber, whispering names, touching the faces of their descendants.
Linda's tears shimmered. "They're… the purged."
They are what remain of the first magi. You, Linda Shawn, are their echo.
The words wrapped around her like a mantle. Power coursed through her veins, hot and cold all at once.
You are the Heir of the Storm.
Philip reached for her, but the light surged, enveloping him too. For an instant, their hands touched—and then he was gone, pulled into the blinding glow.
"Philip!" Linda screamed, but her voice was swallowed by the wind.
Serah shielded her eyes, blood trickling from her nose. The goddess-voice spoke again, softer now but filled with sorrow.
The blood of the crown is claimed. The Veil remembers.
The light imploded. The hall was plunged into darkness.
When Linda opened her eyes, the palace was still. The mirrors were gone. The runes had dimmed. And Philip Astride—the prince of Lockwood—had vanished without a trace.
All that remained was the faint scent of ozone and a single whisper that lingered in the air:
"Find me where the light first fell."
Linda knelt, trembling, as dawn's first rays bled through the shattered ceiling. Somewhere deep beneath her feet, the Veil's heartbeat quickened.
Lockwood was awake.