The weight of the unfamiliar world pressed against Elias's ribs as he descended the narrow wooden staircase, each step groaning beneath him like the bones of an old beast. The scent of spiced bread and simmering broth curled through the air, but it did little to ease the gnawing disquiet in his gut.
His father, Orlan Veyne, sat at the heavy oak table, fingers steepled beneath his chin. A scholar's posture—calculating, patient. But the lines around his eyes were deeper than Elias remembered or had they always been that way?, and the flicker of the oil lamp painted his face in shifting shadows.
"Sit," Orlan said, not unkindly.
Elias obeyed. The chair creaked beneath him, another unfamiliar sensation in this body that was both his and not.
"You've been restless," Orlan observed, his voice low. "More than usual."
A bead of sweat traced Elias's spine. Does he know?
"Just… dreams," Elias murmured, echoing his earlier lie.
Orlan's gaze sharpened. "Dreams are rarely just dreams in Lotheris." He leaned forward, the lamplight catching the silver streaks in his dark beard. "Tell me."
Elias hesitated. How much could he say? How much should he say? The memories of his past life still coiled like smoke in his mind—fragile, half-formed. And then there was the other thing. The *Vein*. That strange, whispering presence beneath his skin.
Before he could answer, Orlan exhaled sharply and reached into his robes. A small, cloth-wrapped bundle slid across the table.
"Open it."
Elias's fingers trembled as he unfolded the fabric. Inside lay a shard of obsidian, its surface unnaturally smooth, as if polished by something other than human hands. And deep within its depths—a pulse. A glow.
His breath hitched.
"You feel it," Orlan said, watching him closely. Not a question. A confirmation.
Elias's throat tightened. "What is it?"
"A piece of the Hollowed Star." Orlan's voice dropped to a whisper. "Fallen from the sky centuries ago. They say it's the reason the Vein exists. The reason some can touch it… and others cannot."
Elias's fingers hovered over the shard. The moment his skin neared it, the pulse quickened, and something inside him answered. A resonance. A recognition.
"You are not from here", the shard seemed to whisper. "And yet, you are meant to be."
Orlan's next words cut through the haze. "The Inquisitors are searching for these shards. They've begun taking people—those who show even a hint of sensitivity to the Vein." His grip on the table tightened. "And last night, they came for the miller's boy."
Elias's blood turned to ice. "Why?"
"Because the Vein is waking," Orlan said, his voice hollow. "And when it does, it chooses its own."
That night, Elias stood in the moonlit courtyard behind their home, the obsidian shard clutched in his palm. The wind carried the scent of distant rain and something else—something metallic. Like blood on the air.
He closed his eyes and reached for the Vein. At first, nothing. Then— A pull.
It started in his chest, a slow, insistent tug, as if something beneath the earth had wrapped invisible fingers around his ribs. His breath came in short gasps as the sensation spread, threading through his veins like liquid fire.
And then, he saw it.
Not with his eyes, but with something deeper. A vast, shimmering network of light, crisscrossing beneath the soil like the roots of an ancient tree. The Vein. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, alive, aware.
You see me, it murmured. Good.
Elias's knees buckled. The connection snapped, and he collapsed onto the damp grass, his body trembling. The shard in his hand burned, its glow fading slowly.
But the Vein's voice lingered. They will come for you too. Elias didn't sleep.
Instead, he sat by his window, staring into the inky blackness beyond. The streets of Lotheris were quiet, but not empty. Shadows moved where they shouldn't. Figures lingered too long beneath flickering streetlamps.
And then—a pair of eyes.
Glowing. Just for a moment.
Elias froze.
The figure stood at the edge of the alley across from his home, cloaked in darkness. But the eyes… they were wrong. Not human. Not *natural*.
"You are being watched," the Vein whispered. "They know."
The figure tilted its head, as if hearing the unspoken words. Then, with a ripple of shadow, it was gone.
Dawn crept through the cracks in the shutters, painting the floor in pale, hesitant light. Elias sat across from his father at the worn kitchen table, the obsidian shard between them like an unspoken oath.
Orlan's voice was low, measured—the tone of a scholar who had spent too many nights deciphering truths that others feared.
"The Vein does not choose randomly," he said, tracing the rim of his clay cup. "It seeks balance. For every drop of power it gives, it demands something in return."
Elias frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Orlan sighed, "that those who touch the Vein are not its masters. They are its conduits. Its sacrifices."
A chill slithered down Elias's spine.
"The miller's boy," he whispered. "Did he—?"
"He heard the Vein sing," Orlan interrupted, his gaze darkening. "And now, he is gone."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
The marketplace should have been alive with noise—hawkers shouting, children laughing, the clatter of carts over cobblestones. But today, the air was tense. Whispers slithered through the crowd like serpents.
"They took the blacksmith's apprentice last night."
"They say his eyes glowed before he vanished."
Elias kept his hood up, the shard a heavy secret in his pocket. He moved through the crowd like a ghost, unseen, unheard—until a skeletal hand grabbed his wrist.
"You reek of it," a voice rasped.
Elias turned to face a figure hunched in the shadows of an alley, their face obscured by tattered cloth. Only their eyes were visible—one a milky white, the other shimmering with unnatural violet light.
*"Of what?"* Elias demanded, trying to pull free.
The stranger's grip tightened. *"The Hollow Star. The Inquisitors will smell it on you too."*
Elias stilled. "Who are you?"
A dry, rattling laugh. "What's left of someone who listened too closely to the Vein." The figure leaned in, their breath sour with decay. "They're not hunting the touched. They're harvesting them."
"Why?"
The figure's glowing eye pulsed. "Because the Vein is hungry."
Then, with a hiss, they vanished into the gloom.
That night, Elias dreamed of a city.
Not Lotheris—this place was grander, older, its spires stretching into a sky that burned with colors he had no name for. The streets were paved with light, and the air hummed with a thousand whispering voices.
A figure stood at the city's heart, their back to him.
"You're late," they said, though their lips did not move.
Elias tried to speak, but his voice was gone.
The figure turned— and where their face should have been, there was only a void.
"They will break you," the faceless one said. "But you must not let them see."
Elias woke with a gasp, his sheets soaked in sweat.
The shard beneath his pillow was burning.
The pounding at the door came an hour before sunrise.
Elias bolted upright, his heart hammering. Downstairs, he heard his father's tense murmur, then the creak of hinges.
"Orlan Veyne." The voice was smooth, cold. "By order of the High Inquisitor, you are to surrender any artifacts of the Hollow Star."
Elias's blood turned to ice.
*"I don't know what you're talking about,"* Orlan lied.
A pause. Then—
"Liar."
Wood splintered. A scream. His mother's.
Elias was moving before he could think, the shard clutched in his fist. He stumbled down the stairs just in time to see the Inquisitor—tall, clad in silver-edged black, their face obscured by a mirrored mask—grip his father by the throat.
"Last chance," the Inquisitor purred.
Elias's vision went red. The shard screamed in his hand and the Vein answered.
Light erupted from Elias's palm. It was not the gentle glow of the shard—this was violent, searing, a whip of raw energy that lashed across the room. The Inquisitor recoiled, their mask cracking.
"Impossible," they hissed. "You're untrained!"
Elias didn't understand. Didn't care. He only knew the Vein was roaring in his ears, filling him, consuming him—
—and then the pain hit.
It started in his chest, a tearing, rending agony, as if something inside him was being ripped free. He collapsed, gasping, as black veins spiderwebbed up his arm.
The Inquisitor laughed. "Oh, little fool. You don't take from the Vein." They stepped closer, their shattered mask revealing a smile too wide, too sharp. "It takes from you."
Elias's vision blurred.
The last thing he saw before darkness took him was his father's face—horrified. Guilty.
When Elias woke, the world was wrong.
The walls breathed. The shadows pulsed. And the Vein—the Vein was singing.
"You see now," it murmured, its voice no longer beneath the earth, but inside his skull. "You are not Elias Veyne. You are not the boy from the other world. You are the gap between."
Elias tried to scream. No sound came out.
"They will try to carve you open," the Vein continued. "But you must not let them. Because if they take what you are—" A whisper. A promise. "—the world will end!"