Isla's POV
The moldy scroll crumbled in my hands, and I wanted to scream.
Six months. Six months since Marcus stood in front of everyone at our engagement party and announced he was marrying my stepsister instead. Six months since my entire life fell apart. And here I was, twenty-six years old today, celebrating my birthday alone in a basement that smelled like old paper and broken dreams.
"Happy birthday to me," I whispered, brushing dust from my cheap dress.
Upstairs, music blasted through the ceiling. Laughter. Champagne glasses clinking. They were celebrating Dr. Marcus Aldridge's new book—the one written with my research, my notes, my late nights of work. The book that made him famous while I rotted down here.
My phone buzzed. A text from Lyra, my only friend: Happy birthday, Isla! Wish you were up here. Marcus is giving a speech. It's gross. He's taking credit for everything.
I typed back: I know. It's fine.
It wasn't fine. Nothing was fine. But what could I do?
The basement door slammed open. Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs. Professor Grimshaw appeared, his face red from too much wine.
"Still here, Miss Thorne?" He sneered my last name like it was a curse. "Don't you have somewhere better to be? Oh wait, you don't."
My jaw tightened. "I'm cataloging the damaged scrolls like you asked, Professor."
"Like I ordered," he corrected. "Remember, you're only here because we pity you. After your little scandal with Dr. Aldridge, any other institution would have thrown you out." He stepped closer, and I smelled alcohol on his breath. "You should be grateful we let you touch these artifacts at all. A girl like you—no family, no money, no future—you're lucky to have this job."
No family. The words stabbed deep. My parents died six years ago in a car accident. Or at least, that's what everyone said. After their funeral, my stepmother Victoria produced documents claiming the house, the money, everything belonged to her. Just like that, I had nothing.
Then Marcus came into my life. Smart, ambitious, kind—or so I thought. He said he loved me. Said we'd build a life together. I shared everything with him: my research, my theories, my dreams.
Until our engagement party, when he stood up and said, "I'm sorry, Isla. You're just not what I need. Celeste and I are together now."
My own stepsister. Smirking at me from his side, wearing the dress I'd helped her pick out.
Professor Grimshaw was still talking. "Tomorrow, I want the entire restricted section reorganized. Stay as late as you need. No overtime pay, of course." He laughed as he stumbled back upstairs.
I waited until his footsteps faded. Then I let out a shaky breath and blinked back tears.
Don't cry. You've cried enough.
I turned back to my work. The Institute would close soon. Everyone would go home to families, friends, parties. I'd go back to my tiny apartment—the one I could barely afford—and eat instant noodles in the dark.
But at least here, surrounded by ancient texts and forgotten knowledge, I felt close to my parents. They'd worked here once, respected scholars both. Sometimes I swore I could feel them near me, like they were trying to tell me something.
I picked up another scroll, this one sealed with a strange silver wax. Not on my catalog list. Weird. I set it aside and reached for the next one.
That's when I heard it.
A humming sound. Low and steady, like singing, but not quite. It came from deeper in the basement, from the locked storage room at the end of the hall.
I froze. The storage room had been locked since before I started working here. Professor Grimshaw said it held damaged artifacts too dangerous to handle. I wasn't allowed near it.
The humming grew louder. Not quite music, not quite words, but something that made my skin tingle.
I stood up slowly. "Hello?"
No answer. Just that weird humming, pulling at something inside my chest.
I should go upstairs. Should tell someone. Should definitely not investigate a creepy sound in a basement while alone.
But everyone was drunk at the party. No one would believe me anyway. They'd just mock me more.
The humming pulsed, and my feet started moving on their own. I walked down the hall toward the storage room, my heartbeat matching the strange rhythm. As I got closer, I saw something impossible.
The door was open. Just a crack, but definitely open.
It was never open. Ever.
Silver light leaked through the gap, casting weird shadows on the walls. The humming was coming from inside, and now I could almost make out words in a language I didn't know but somehow understood.
Come. Wake. Remember.
My hand reached for the door handle. My brain screamed at me to stop, to run, to do anything but open that door.
I opened it anyway.
The storage room was small, barely bigger than a closet. Shelves lined the walls, filled with boxes and crates covered in warning labels. But in the center of the room, on a stone pedestal that definitely wasn't there before, sat a scroll.
It glowed. Actually glowed, silver light pulsing like a heartbeat.
The humming came from the scroll itself.
I should leave. Right now. This was wrong on every level.
Instead, I stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind me, but I barely noticed. All I could see was the scroll, beautiful and terrifying, calling to me like it knew my name.
My fingers touched the ancient paper.
The world exploded into light.
Symbols burned across my skin—silver marks racing up my arms, across my chest, down my legs. They didn't hurt, but they felt like fire and ice at the same time. The scroll unfurled on its own, showing words that rearranged themselves as I watched:
The blood that binds the Veil awakens. The Forgotten One rises. The moon claims its daughter.
What did that mean? What was happening?
Then I heard something worse than the humming. Something that made my blood turn cold.
A ripping sound. Like the air itself was tearing apart.
I spun around. Behind me, the storage room wall split open. Not the door—the actual wall, like reality was paper being shredded. Through the gap, I saw darkness. Moving darkness. Alive darkness.
And it had teeth.
A voice came from that darkness, ancient and hungry: "The Veilweaver awakens. At last. You must be eliminated before you grow too strong."
Something reached through the tear. Black. Oily. Wrong.
I screamed and stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go.
The creature crawled through, unfolding itself into the storage room. It had too many limbs, too many joints, and a face that was all teeth and no eyes.
"Found you," it hissed, moving toward me with horrible speed.
I grabbed the scroll and ran for the door. My fingers found the handle and yanked. It wouldn't open. Locked from the outside somehow.
The creature laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "No escape. No help. Just blood and silence."
I pressed my back against the door, holding the glowing scroll like a shield. The symbols on my skin burned brighter.
The creature lunged.
And the basement lights went out.