The blood was gone.
Snow had fallen thick during the night, burying the street where she died. As if the world itself wanted to forget.
But Caelan hadn't.
He sat crouched against a half-cracked wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, staring blankly into the whitening streets of Lowtown. His mother's final scream, raw and desperate, echoed in his skull like a haunting lullaby. The scent of ash and iron still clung to his nose.
He hadn't moved for hours.
Footsteps crunching in snow made him flinch. A boy his age might've run. Caelan didn't. He watched with hollow eyes, heart taut like a bowstring.
Only a drunk, staggering past, muttering curses at the wind.
Still, Caelan remained still, shadows cloaking him like a second skin.
His stomach growled, and the burn of hunger gnawed at his ribs, but it felt distant. Unimportant. Just like the scrape on his palm, the bruises on his arms, the gash above his eyebrow—forgotten things on a dying canvas.
Something inside him had fractured.
Not broken.
Fractured.
His hand gripped the pendant still hanging from his neck. His mother's. A dull black stone wrapped in twisted copper wire, warm to the touch despite the cold.
A flash. Her fingers threading it around his neck, whispering—
"Keep it close, Cael. When everything turns dark... remember who you are."
He blinked.
The snow around him had begun to swirl unnaturally, caught in a sudden updraft that had no wind. A whisper passed through the air—no, through his mind.
And then—
‹ Eclipsed Veil ›
Status Accessed
Strength — 1
Willpower — 4
Perception — 5
Intelligence — 3
Charm — 2
Thread Control — 0
Resilience — 3
Compatibility: Ashweave – Unknown
Soul Fracture Detected: Maternal Echo The memory of her burning lives within. Grief is your anchor—and your blade.
[Veil may be accessed at will]
It faded as quickly as it came, like a breath in winter.
Caelan didn't scream. Didn't question. He just stared at the place it had been, a flicker of confusion tightening his brow.
He'd seen something like this… once.
When he was younger, half-dead from fever, muttering nonsense while his mother wept and prayed. He remembered the same black screen in his mind's eye—forgotten until now.
Now it felt… real.
But the moment passed. The grief swallowed all else.
He wandered aimlessly through the alleyways of Lowtown, his boots crunching fresh snow, clothes stiff with dried blood. Some people glanced at him. Most didn't. No one helped.
He passed the charred wall where the guards had cornered her.
"Subversion of order," they'd said.
They'd lied.
She had spoken out—against the corruption, the tithes that bled the poor dry, the soldiers who abused their power. She had raised her voice in the market square.
The Lord of the land had wanted an example.
So they charged her with sedition. Treason. Lies wrapped in official seals.
And they hanged her in front of her son.
That truth lodged in Caelan's throat like bone.
He walked on.
And then… a voice.
"You'll freeze to death, boy."
Caelan spun, fists clenched.
A hooded man leaned in the archway of a derelict temple, face shadowed beneath his cowl. He didn't move.
"I said," the man rasped again, "you'll die if you stay out here."
Caelan's eyes narrowed. "I'm not afraid of dying."
"Liar." The man chuckled, low and bitter. "You fear it more than most. You just don't know it yet."
Silence.
Then, slowly, the man turned and limped into the darkness of the temple. "If you want answers," he called over his shoulder, "follow."
Caelan hesitated.
He didn't trust him.
But he didn't trust anything anymore.
He followed.
Inside, flickering lanterns illuminated fractured idols and broken stained glass. The air stank of mildew and rusted metal. A fire crackled low in a brazier, casting twisted shadows on the cracked stone.
The man sat on a bench, face still hidden, though strands of grey hair escaped the cowl.
"I saw the Veil," Caelan said. "What is it?"
The man said nothing for a long time.
Then: "A mirror."
Caelan frowned. "That's not an answer."
"No. But it's the only one you'll understand right now."
He tossed Caelan a piece of dried meat. "Eat. You'll need strength. The world doesn't pause for grief."
Caelan didn't move. "Why are you helping me?"
The man's voice was distant. "Because I saw the sky burn black when you screamed. Because something ancient stirred the moment your mother died. Because your shadow doesn't belong to you anymore."
Caelan's heart thudded.
He remembered the darkness, how it had twisted and swirled when he collapsed in the snow. How the guards had fled. How the stones had cracked.
Ash.
He didn't remember seeing it.
But he remembered feeling it.
Like a fire that didn't burn, like sorrow forged into thread.
"Who are you?" Caelan asked.
The man finally lifted his head.
One eye was missing—only a jagged scar remained. The other, a molten gold, glinted like a dying star.
"No one important," he said. "But I knew someone like you once."
Caelan swallowed.
"What happened to them?"
The man looked at the fire.
"They chose power over peace."
He stood. "Don't make the same mistake."
Then he walked into the darkness again, vanishing like smoke.
Caelan sat there, staring at the flames until his eyes burned.
He felt it again—that pull in his chest. A thread.
Not of the world.
Of himself.
The air shimmered faintly around him. Ash danced at the edge of his fingers, not hot, but cold and slow-moving, like embers in reverse.
It faded.
He clenched his fists.
He would not die forgotten.
He would find the truth.
He would rise.
And if the Eclipse had truly chosen him… then the world would remember his name.
Caelan.
Of Lowtown.
Of ash.
Of fire.
Of the forgotten.