The celebration spilled from the plaza into every crooked street of Duskharrow. Vendors reopened their stalls, the smell of spiced meat and roasted chestnuts rolling through the air. Children darted between legs, chasing sparks left behind by initiates showing off their freshly Awakened Veils.
The city roared with laughter, firelight, and pride.
Corren Ashveil trailed the edge of it all.
He leaned against a splintered post, watching the swirl of color and flame. Lyra stood beside him, ribbons coiled neatly at her side, her expression unreadable. Darius was only a few steps away, but might as well have been on a stage—the crowd swarmed him, hands clapping his shoulders, voices chanting his name. The spear of flame he'd conjured during the Awakening had already become legend.
"You should be out there," Corren muttered to Lyra, keeping his crooked smile in place. "Bask a little. Soak up the adoration. I'll even clap for you. Quietly. Maybe twice."
She didn't look at him. "I don't care about their clapping."
"Course you don't. You only like applause when it's swords hitting the ground."
That earned him the faintest twitch of her mouth, almost a smile.
Then Darius' voice carried over the din. "Fragile!" he shouted. Corren felt the heads of nearby people turn. Darius grinned through his admirers. "Still standing? Thought you might've shattered already."
The crowd chuckled, some good-natured, others cruel. Corren's ears burned, but he tipped an imaginary hat. "Still in one piece," he said. "For now."
Lyra shifted, ribbons tightening at her hip. "Ignore him."
Corren exhaled through his nose. He'd been ignoring Darius for years. It hadn't made the boy vanish yet.
As the crowd thinned toward dusk, Corren slipped away from the music and laughter. The city's backstreets were quieter, damp with shadow and the faint smell of rust. Lyra followed, though she didn't say why. Darius eventually tagged along too, his entourage scattering elsewhere.
"Thought you'd be busy giving autographs," Corren said.
Darius smirked. "Thought I'd check if you'd melted into a puddle yet."
Corren didn't bother replying.
It was then that a man stumbled from the mouth of an alley. An older scribe—one of the Arbiter's assistants from the ceremony, robes marked with silver trim. His eyes locked on Corren, wide and wild.
"You," he rasped, clutching Corren's sleeve. "Your Veil… the cracks… they open doors…"
Corren froze. "What are you—"
The man jerked violently as if struck. A blade of invisible force punched clean through his chest. Blood spilled hot over Corren's hands as the man collapsed against him.
"Corren!" Lyra cried, ribbons snapping outward.
Screams erupted around them. Townsfolk fled as the man's body hit the cobblestones. Guards surged from the plaza, weapons already half-drawn.
And there Corren stood—hands drenched red, face pale, the dying man slumped at his feet.
"Arrest him!" a voice bellowed.
Corren spun, panic flooding him. Darius' face was caught in firelight, eyes narrowed. For a heartbeat he looked uncertain—then his jaw set. "I saw him holding the knife!" he shouted. "He did it!"
"I didn't!" Corren snapped. His voice cracked, desperate. "I didn't do anything!"
Lyra stepped forward, ribbons slashing into the ground between Corren and the encroaching guards. "He didn't touch him! It wasn't Corren!"
The Arbiter himself strode into the square, robes flowing like stormclouds. His voice boomed: "Enough!"
The guards froze. The Arbiter's gaze fell on Corren, hard as stone. His cracked Veil flickered weakly around him, light leaking like smoke.
"A Fragile Veil," the Arbiter said. "Unstable. Dangerous. It could lash out uncontrolled."
"No!" Lyra shouted. "You're wrong. I saw—"
"Silence," the Arbiter commanded. Even Lyra's ribbons faltered.
Corren's chest heaved. "Please," he tried. "I didn't—"
But the Arbiter raised a hand, and the order was given. "Seize him."
The guards advanced. Chains of aura snapped through the air, wings of stone unfurled, blades gleamed in the gathering dark. Corren stumbled back, panic clawing his lungs.
"Run!" Lyra hissed. Her ribbons cracked out, knocking a guard off balance. Another chain lashed toward Corren—she severed it with a snap of silver light.
Darius hung back, flame spear raised but not thrown. His eyes burned with pride, with judgment. He didn't help. He didn't stop it either.
"Lyra, stop!" Corren choked. "Don't ruin yourself for me!"
She snarled at him but held her ground.
Then the guards lunged.
Corren bolted.
The streets of Duskharrow twisted like a maze, narrow alleys spilling into elevated walkways and collapsing stairs. Corren sprinted blind, lungs burning, boots hammering stone. Behind him the guards gave chase, their Veils flaring: one soared overhead on wings of light, another hurled chains that shattered walls, another leapt rooftops with stone steps erupting beneath his feet.
Corren's Veil fluttered weakly, cracking wider with every step. Blows that should have broken bone dispersed just enough through the fractures to leave him bruised but breathing. He stumbled, slammed into a wall, pushed on.
Above, Darius' flame spear seared the sky, casting his shadow long and accusing across the roofs.
Lyra wasn't far. From the edges of the chase, her ribbons lashed out—snapping a rope bridge so pursuers fell, tangling a guard's leg just enough to buy Corren a few more seconds. She never stepped fully into the open. Not yet.
Corren knew she was there. He wanted to scream thanks. He wanted to scream at her to stop. He only had breath to run.
The old quarter swallowed him at last. Towers hunched low, walls cracked with moss. Here the air buzzed strangely—Veils flickered, dimmed, bent as though the stones themselves resisted them.
The guards closed in. Chains rattled. Wings beat.
Corren stumbled into a dead end. His chest heaved, vision swimming. His cracked Veil pulsed frantically, threads of light spilling like smoke.
"No… no, no, no…"
The guards raised their weapons.
Then his Veil broke.
Light split across his body. The cracks yawned wider, spilling brilliance into the night. For an instant, the walls of Duskharrow vanished—replaced by endless shelves, stretching into shadow. Whispers threaded through the air, voices without mouths.
Come.
Corren screamed as the ground fell away. The guards' shouts turned distant, swallowed in silence. His body was dragged forward, pulled through the fractures of his own soul.
And then—
The Library.
He crashed onto polished stone, breath stolen from his lungs. Towers of books rose into infinity around him, their spines glowing faintly in colors no mortal ink could hold. The air was heavy, still, charged with something vast and watching.
On a pedestal before him, a single book lay open. Its cover gleamed with silver letters.
Corren Ashveil.
His own name stared back at him.
And the page turned by itself.