The night the Veil chose her, the city was burning.
Not from war or invasion—fires were common in the lower districts—but from something worse. Panic. People ran through the narrow stone alleys, clutching their heads, screaming about shadows whispering their names. Bells rang from the upper towers, their sound warped and hollow, as if the air itself was bending around them.
Nyra stood still.
She was carrying water back to her room when the sky split open.
It wasn't lightning.
It wasn't magic as people understood it.
The clouds peeled apart like rotten fabric, revealing a vast, colorless eye staring down at the city. No pupil. No emotion. Just awareness.
The Veil.
Everyone dropped to their knees.
Nyra didn't.
She should have. Fear clawed up her spine, screaming at her to bow, to beg, to disappear. But something inside her—cold, stubborn, exhausted—refused.
The eye moved.
It found her.
Pain struck without heat or force, blooming behind her eyes like glass shattering in slow motion. Nyra gasped, dropping the water jug as visions flooded her mind—faces she had never seen, voices speaking in languages that scraped her skull raw.
Truths.
Too many. Too fast.
She saw her neighbor poisoning his brother for a room upgrade.
She saw the guard captain selling children's names to the upper city.
She saw the Obsidian Wall not as protection—but as a cage.
Nyra screamed.
When the pain stopped, she collapsed onto the wet stones, trembling. Around her, people lay unconscious—or worse. Some laughed hysterically. Others clawed at their eyes, blood streaking their faces.
A cold voice echoed inside her head.
[Designation confirmed.]
[Anomaly detected.]
[Status: Mysterious Slave.]
"Slave."..
The word wrapped around her thoughts like iron.
"No," Nyra whispered. Her throat burned. "You're wrong."
There was no response.
The eye vanished. The sky stitched itself whole. And just like that, the Veil was gone—leaving ruin behind.
They came for her before dawn.
Men in gray armor marked with sigils she didn't recognize dragged her from her room without explanation. She didn't fight. Instinct told her resistance was pointless—and worse, unnecessary.
Because she already knew what they were thinking.
She's dangerous.
She doesn't scream enough.
She saw too much.
They brought her to the Hall of Binding, a structure carved directly into black stone. Nyra had passed it a hundred times and never once been allowed inside.
Now she knelt at its center.
The robed figures circled her slowly, their faces hidden. One stepped forward, staff tapping against the floor.
"Nyra Vale," he said. "Do you know why you're here?"
"Yes," she answered automatically.
The hall went silent.
The robed man stiffened. "We did not ask for a prediction."
Nyra swallowed. "You were going to accuse me of resisting the Veil. You were going to ask if I felt the Mark. And then you were going to decide whether to kill me."
The staff slipped from his hand and clattered against the stone.
Nyra's breath hitched. She hadn't meant to say it. The words had simply… emerged. As natural as breathing.
Another voice hissed, fearful. "She hears intent."
A third voice, colder. "Impossible. That ability belongs only to—"
"—Slaves," Nyra finished quietly.
They recoiled.
The truth slammed into her chest, heavy and final.
She understood now.
Others gained strength. Speed. Elemental gifts. Blessings shaped like weapons.
She gained clarity.
A cruel, merciless clarity.
The robed leader recovered himself. "Nyra Vale," he said carefully, "you are not bound by chains. You will not be owned by a master. You will serve by existing."
He raised his hand.
Pain lanced through her skull as a symbol burned itself behind her eyes—not on her skin, but deeper. Etched into thought itself.
[Condition applied.]
[Truth Perception: Active.]
[Restriction: Deception denied.]
Nyra gasped, clutching her head.
She tried to lie.
I'm not afraid, she thought desperately.
Agony exploded behind her eyes.
She screamed.
The robed man watched without sympathy. "You will perceive truth. You will speak it when required. And you will never escape what you know."
He leaned closer. "That is your slavery."
They left her alone in the dark chamber, curled on the floor, shaking.
Hours passed. Or minutes. Time felt thin now—transparent.
Finally, the doors creaked open again.
A single figure entered.
Not robed. Not armored.
A man dressed in black, his presence heavy, his gaze sharp enough to hurt. When he looked at her, Nyra saw too much—calculations, curiosity, and something dangerous beneath it all.
Interest.
"So," he said softly, crouching in front of her. "You're the one the Veil marked wrong."
Nyra met his eyes—and froze.
Because for the first time since the night began, her power failed.
She couldn't see his intentions.
She couldn't hear his truth.
And that terrified her more than the chains she couldn't see.
The man smiled slowly.
"Welcome," he whispered, "Mysterious Slave."